Smoke and Mirrors (17 page)

"No. Our campaign strategy is about as subtle as a bulldozer, and as for damaging information . . . One of the things that attracted me to Rosemary is the fact that except for the unfortunate accident of birth that made her female, she's a picture-perfect candidate. Not too old, not too young; easy on the eyes but certainly not glamorous; good speaking voice, excellent debater—and clean as a whistle. There is literally nothing in her background that could hurt her. Devoted wife, mother, grandmother; honor student; she never gets drunk, never plays around, she even quit smoking a few years back. When the great marijuana issue arose a few years ago, some reporter asked her if she'd ever indulged, and
her answer was 'No; bourbon has always been good enough for
me.

"Wasn't that rather flippant?" Erin was in a mood to be critical.

"It was the way she said it." Nick's face had relaxed into a half-smile. "And the fact that she never drinks in public except for an occasional glass of wine. It reduced the whole business to nonsense. Oh, well, never mind that. What I'm getting at is that political spies aren't unheard of. The fact that Reagan had Carter's notes before their big debate, and knew in advance exactly what Carter was going to say, helped him enormously. It needn't be anything as underhanded as passing on strategically important information; a slip of the tongue could hurt, and people like Laurence are skilled at setting up traps for the unwary. I know you didn't tell him about that damned poppet; but you might have, in all innocence, without realizing it could hurt."

"How could it?"

"I can't imagine how, " Nick admitted, frowning. "It doesn't make sense, not even to Philips Laurence; his performance tonight was designed to annoy and stir up dissension and mistrust. But I didn't fall for it, Erin. Honest. Even if Rosemary hadn't 'fessed up, I wouldn't have suspected you."

"Why not? I'm the logical suspect—the outsider, the stranger in your midst. How do you know I wouldn't sell Rosemary out for cold cash?"

"My dear girl, you are talking to an experienced, hardheaded, cynical political analyst," Nick exclaimed. "Do you think I could be taken in by a pretty face, a gorgeous figure, a pair of big green eyes?"

"Could you?"

"You're damned right I could." Nick planted both elbows on the table and gazed at her soulfully. "Take me in. Please?"

"There you go again," Erin exclaimed. "Look, Nick, I don't mind you lecturing me or even correcting me; you know a lot more about this insane business of politics than I do, and I want to learn. How often do I have to repeat this? How many times do I have to tell you I only want to be treated like—"

"Now who's lecturing?"

"Me. And you had it coming. Maybe you weren't trying to be condescending, maybe you wanted to change the subject. Is that it? If you . . . Where are you going? Don't you dare walk out on me in the middle of a discussion."

"I'm just going to wash the dishes," Nick said, suiting the action to the words. "It's a dirty trick to leave them for Sarah. No, I do not want you to help me, I want you to sit tight and talk to me. What's your point?"

She much preferred this tone to his flattery. "My point is that although you may not suspect me of pulling these tricks, someone else obviously does."

"Laurence?"

"You saw it. That long, rambling lecture of his also had a point, and he drove it home when he—when he touched me in that offensive way. The disturbed adolescent, trying to cause trouble and gain attention—"

"Wait a minute. " Nick turned, his hands dripping water. "Laurence didn't say that, Jeff did. Or Will—I forget which. And you sure as hell are no adolescent. '

"But if I had done those things it would be because I was mentally disturbed," Erin argued. "Not because I was in league with the powers of evil."

Nick's eyes widened. "Hold it. I think I see what you're driving at, but if you will forgive me for saying so, your oratorical style is somewhat lacking in coherence. Nobody in his right mind could suppose—"

"That I had sold myself to the devil. That's what I said! Don't be so obtuse, Nick. Laurence isn't stupid. If there is something sinister about the fires, I am, as I pointed out, the obvious suspect. All that talk of his about black magic was just to cover up the fact that he can't think of a sensible motive. He loves showing off and sounding theatrical, he knows as well as we do that people don't . . . people ..."

Her voice faltered as she saw the look on Nick's face.

"But they do, though," he said slowly. "Don't they?"

"Yes." Erin's eyes fell. "I guess some people do. I've read about cases in the newspaper—"

"I've read about them in
The Golden Bough,
as a matter of
fact. Did you notice the way he tossed off the name, as if it were some esoteric work none of us illiterate slobs had ever heard of ? I don't know why that bastard affects me the way he does; usually I'm pretty good with a snappy comeback, but I was still trying to think of one when he pulled that stunt on you."

"You're grinding your teeth," Erin said. "And getting off the
subject."

"Ain't it the truth. Point is, it's barely conceivable that some religious fanatic or dabbler in black magic is trying to put a hex on Rosemary."

"No, that's not the point. The point is, so what? I haven't read
The Golden Bough,
but I've heard Fran talk about such people— she's into spiritualism and astrology and that sort of thing—and they are as harmless as they are crazy. They can stick pins in waxen images all they want, they aren't going to hurt anyone that way. By the way—were there any pins in that doll?"

"No. Not that I noticed." Nick placed the last of the plates in the rack to drain and dried his hands.

"Damn it, Erin, I don't even want to think about this. It's disgusting, frightening, and far-out."

"You'll have to excuse my biased viewpoint, but I find the idea of a wandering lunatic more attractive than the possibility that one of us—me, for instance—is responsible. "

"I see what you mean. What about Laurence? It would be just like him to focus suspicion on an innocent party in order to divert it from himself. I've never trusted the bastard. It's completely out of character for him to support Rosemary. He despises everything she stands for."

"Maybe he's in love with her."

"That's the accepted theory." Nick looked dubious. "As a self-appointed expert on the romantic passion, I can't see him as an infatuated lover. He was Ed Marshall's friend originally, and I suppose it's barely possible that he has a few decent feelings under that cynical facade—old loyalties, sentimental memories of boyhood days. ..."

"Why not? He can't be all bad. Nobody is."

"Bless your sweet little heart. I hope you can hang on to that idea. How about more coffee?"

"No, thanks. It's late and I'm tired. Don't you ever go home?"

"I am home. I've moved into the overseer's shack, next to Sam's quarters."

"You gave up your apartment?"

"Had to, couldn't afford it. It was no problem; the furniture was rented too. I'll be on the spot from now on, so feel free to lean out your window and scream for help if the occasion arises."

"I fondly hope no such occasion does arise." But she felt a sense of relief, all the same, to know that the isolated household of women now had an able-bodied man on the premises. Sam was too old and too deaf to be of much use in case ... In case of what? she asked herself. I sound like some feeble-witted antifeminist.

Nick hung the dishtowel neatly on the rack and came toward her. "How about a friendly good-night kiss to take the nasty taste out of my mouth and send me rejoicing to the pallet in my hovel, among the lowest and meanest of the humble servants of the mighty?"

"Not on your life." Erin ducked as he swooped upon her, arms extravagantly outstretched. "I wouldn't want to be responsible for making you break your sworn word."

"Not ready to grovel yet? Oh, well, I'll wait." He blew her a kiss from the door. "Sleep well."

Somewhat to her surprise, Erin did.

6

Contrary to
popular opinion, the Congress of the United States does not usually take four-day weekends. It is true, however, that in even-numbered years members try not to schedule important debates or roll calls on Mondays and Fridays during the autumn. One third of the Senate seats and all those of the House go up for grabs every two years, and members who aren't campaigning one time will be another. A little consideration for others makes life easier all around.

Rosemary was luckier than many of her colleagues because her home base was so close to Washington. Candidates from the West Coast spent precious hours commuting and almost as much recovering from jet lag.

By nine o'clock on Monday morning Rosemary had left the house, driven by Nick. Where they were going and what their schedule was Erin didn't know; no one had bothered to inform her. Of course she had no right to expect them to do so, but the more her involvement and expertise increased, the more she resented the routine chores she would once have accepted without question. Politics was addictive. It was also a lot less difficult to comprehend than she had supposed—complicated, maddeningly unpredictable (which only added to its fascination), but not intellectually daunting. Despite the fact that many of the processes could be reduced to charts and numbers, it was more of an art than a science—the art, some might say, of manipulating people's minds. But it wasn't that simple. The techniques of political manipulation were pretty crude, in fact, and the most consoling thing about them was that they didn't always work. Why did a candidate's populist message
bring him an overwhelming victory in one state primary, and bomb everywhere else? Why was a group of voters bewitched by a candidate who offered them nothing but platitudes and a practiced actor's smile, when they turned thumbs down on another man with precisely the same attributes?

There was another, more personal reason for her letdown feeling that morning. In the cold light of day some of the ideas she had raised the night before seemed frivolous and unreal. But Nick had raised another fear, and this one was not for herself. She cared about Rosemary. She cared about all of them, in different ways. Kay was a pain, of course, but Erin was becoming accustomed to her foibles; they bothered her far less than they had at first. Even Christie seemed to be mellowing a little. The only person she didn't know much about, the real enigma of the group, was Will. Who the devil was he, anyway, and what did he do when he wasn't wandering in and out of the house? He treated Rosemary like a casual older brother, and she teased and criticized him—and obviously depended on his advice.

During lunch break she asked Jackson about him. Jackson seemed surprised that she didn't know. "He's the research honcho. Teaches history at Charlottesville. He's kind of weird—almost like a caricature of your absentminded-professor type—but he's a nice-enough guy."

He didn't know how Will and Rosemary came to be acquainted. Nor, obviously, did he care.

As luck would have it, Erin was still in the commons room finishing her lunch when Kay came looking for her. Kay could make her feel guilty just by looking at her, and her look now was distinctly critical. Brusquely and without preamble she informed Erin that she would have to drive her to the doctor. "My appointment is at one, so if you're quite finished eating ..."

Knowing how reluctant Kay was to have anyone else driving the car, Erin wondered whether this was a signal honor or the reverse. The wink and grin Jackson gave her, behind Kay's back, made her suspect it was an honor nobody wanted.

She backed the Mercedes out of the garage with her foot quivering on the gas pedal. Kay sat rigid as a poker, tense with
anxiety. "I wouldn't have asked you," she muttered. "But the mail is picking up and you're the only one who . . . Watch out for that rut—and don't hit the cat, do you see him?"

Not only had Erin seen the cat, it was a good ten feet off the driveway, squatting in the grass. In an effort to distract Kay's attention from her driving, she said, "Rosemary seems to be very fond of cats. How many are there?"

"Fifteen or twenty, I guess. There's a tree branch down— you'd better go around it. ... It was Congressman Marshall who loved cats, actually. Rosemary doesn't really care. . . . You're a little too far to the right, Erin, you're going to scrape the fence. What was I saying?"

"I don't know,' Erin said under her breath. She got through the gate safely and negotiated the turn.

"Oh, the cats. Rosemary is fond of animals, of course, but she doesn't care about them as much as Edward—Congressman Marshall—did. Their presence is a tribute to his memory, one might say."

Like Edward Marshall's office? For some reason Erin didn't find the idea as touching as she ought to have done. It made her think of Queen Victoria's morbid obsession with the relics of her dear dead Albert—having his clothes laid out every evening, sleeping with his nightshirt clutched in her arms.

The distraction didn't serve for long; Kay was soon pointing out fallen leaves, twigs, and pebbles, and warning her to watch out for them. It was a beautiful autumn day, with a brisk breeze sending clouds scampering across the blue bowl of the sky. The road was walled with tapestries of living color—scarlet and crimson and amber, the deepening gold of maple leaves. It would have been a pleasant drive if Kay had kept quiet.

Erin made it to Middleburg without damage, except to her nerves, and stopped at the blinking light in the middle of town. Flanking the intersection were the two handsome old stone structures that housed Middleburg's most popular restaurant-inns. The one on the left boasted a terrace that ran the length of the house; tables and chairs provided al-fresco dining, but on this cool day only a few fresh-air enthusiasts lingered over coffee and dessert.

"Turn left, Erin," Kay ordered.

"Right. I mean—yes, I know. There's a car coming. "

"Park wherever you can find a space. There's one there. . . . No, it's next to a fire hydrant. The parking lot is down the street, but if you can find something closer. . . . It's a pity this town has become so ... Look at that woman, did you ever see such a sight? Why anyone with a rear end like hers would wear stretch pants . . . Oh."

Her voice changed so dramatically that Erin had to look. It was not the unfortunate woman's rump that had affected Kay, however. The cause of her surprise was not hard to find. Posed and poised, halfway down the steps that led to the terrace of the restaurant, he had obviously seen them too.

"I wonder what Philips is doing here," Kay said.

"Having lunch, I suppose." Erin turned and proceeded at a decorous crawl, looking for a place to park. "Doesn't he live around here?"

"No, he lives in Maryland—Chevy Chase. There's a spot."

It wasn't the space Erin would have chosen for her first try at parallel parking someone's cherished Mercedes, and the fact that Philips was walking toward them, watching interestedly, didn't help. It took her two tries, but she finally made it without scraping the curb. As soon as she turned off the key, Laurence opened Kay's door.

"What a pleasant surprise," he said, smiling wickedly.

Kay accepted the hand he offered with a look that was almost coquettish. It occurred to Erin that Kay was the only one of Rosemary's entourage who had never indicated dislike or disapproval of Laurence. Was it possible . . .

"Surprise, my foot," Kay said. "What are you up to, Philips?"

"Waiting for you, of course." He raised her hand to his lips.