Smoke and Mirrors (33 page)

"I don't know. I wasn't much interested back then. And it's no
fun alone."

"You poor abandoned child. Take a good look then, while
we're here."

Erin squinted at the stately white building. "What does the inscription read? 'Equal justice . . . under law.' Nice sentiment."

"That's what this is all about." Nick gestured grandly. "At least that's what it's supposed to be about. Now this structure on your left, with the squatty green cupola, is the original Library of Congress, conveniently situated near the Capitol to make it easier for the legislators to improve their teeny little minds. That's the old building, named after Thomas Jefferson. There are two others— the Adams, over that way, and the newest, the Madison, where we're headed. You have to see the inside of the Jefferson, it's impressive as hell—long red curtains at the windows, paintings and marble floors and all that jazz. Maybe next time ..."

The architecture of the Madison building was in striking contrast to that of its ornately adorned elder sibling. A stark cube of pale-gray marble, polished till it glistened, its entrance was lined with square unadorned columns of the same material. A number of redwood picnic tables added a pleasantly homely touch. Many were already occupied by students and tourists enjoying the fall weather.

Nick had obviously been there before. Without hesitation or questions, he led her past the guard and along a bare white corridor to a door labeled "Newspaper Room." After filling out a request form and handing it in at the Circulation Desk, they found a pair of empty places and sat down to wait for the microfilm to be delivered.

You know how to operate these gizmos, don't you?" Nick spoke in a low voice, out of deference to the researchers occupying the other desks.

"Yes, I think so. Why did you ask for the Richmond newspaper?"

"Do I have to explain everything?"

"If you want my cooperation, you do. The main thrust of this
enterprise is of course clear to me, but I cherished a forlorn hope that you had concocted some sensible way of carrying it out."

Nick gave her a pained look. "You had better pray we find what we're looking for in the Richmond paper, because if we don't, there are dozens of local rags we'll have to check. And the Washington
Post,
which covers the Virginia suburbs." Erin groaned and Nick went on, "The Richmond paper is the best bet for a couple of reasons. First, it's the biggest one in the state. Second, the Marshalls lived in Richmond for ten years, while Ed Marshall was in the state legislature. His mother still lives there, in the family home."

"His mother?"

"Most people have mothers. "

"Hard to be born without one," Erin agreed. "I didn't know she was still alive."

"She and Rosemary don't get along. She thought Eddie Boy married beneath him. Point is, the Marshalls have Richmond connections. It seemed a logical place to start. So, if you have no further objections ..."

She had a number of them, but the arrival of the microfilm put an end to the discussion. The sheer number of boxes was daunting; Erin watched despondently as Nick divided them into two stacks and shoved one at her.

He hadn't explained what she was to look for, and in a way she was flattered by his assumption that she had sense enough to figure it out for herself. The dates on the film she had been given began with January 1, 1956, and ended with 1969. Nick had taken the lions-share; his presumably began where hers left off, and went up to the present. The beginning date was not as arbitrary as it might seem. In 1956, Rosemary had been newly married. Nothing that had happened to her before then would have much bearing on her career, which was closely connected with that of her husband.

Erin sighed and extracted the first spool of film from the box. It went faster than she had expected, once she got the hang of it. Skip the sports section, the classified, the pages devoted to entertainment and style, look for the key words: "Fire, Blaze." They occurred only too often. "Two Children Killed in Fire." "Blaze
Destroys Warehouse." "Arson Suspected in Downtown Blaze." She had to read each of these stories carefully, looking for anything that might connect them with Rosemary, even indirectly. As she plowed doggedly on, a pattern emerged, but not the one for which they were searching. Most of the fires had occurred in low-rent districts, and in winter. "Defective Space Heater Blamed for Blaze in Apartment Building." "Police Suspect Child Playing with Matches Started Tenement Fire."

She had to stop every now and then to rest her eyes and change the film. The third of these interludes coincided with one of Nick's. They stared gloomily at one another over the scattered boxes. "How far have you gotten?" Nick asked.

"Fifty-nine."

"That's pretty good."

"No, it's not. At that rate, it will take all day to finish this lot, and how do we know we've even got the right time period? Or the right paper, or the right slant? Maybe the fires have an entirely different meaning."

"I know." Nick knuckled his eyes. "It's so damned depressing. Did you notice how many kids are killed in fires?"

"That appears to be one of the hazards of poverty." Erin's lips twisted. "There was no such thing as decent, cheap day care—there still isn't—so single parents had the choice of going on welfare or leaving the kids alone in the apartment. I can't stand—"

She broke off. Nick said awkwardly, "Try not to let it get to you. Can you stand a little more of it?"

"What? Oh, sure. It's okay."

The stories had affected her painfully, but that was not why her breath had caught and her voice had stopped. After Nick returned to his reader she sat staring at the lighted screen in front of her, wondering why she had been so slow to make the connection. Children, that was the catalytic word. Children killed in fires. . . . Kay's list of names, Mr. Brown's list. Three children, three identical dates. And the poppet—the doll. A child's toy.

She sorted through the boxes looking for the date. It was an easy one to remember: July 4, 1967.

There was only one fire mentioned in the newspaper of that date. Carelessly handled fireworks had started a small blaze in a
field, no harm done, no injury to man or beast. Erin was about to relax when she realized an incident later in the day might not have made that edition. She went on to July 5.

And there it was. Front page.

The name Marshall was not mentioned, but she knew she had found what they were looking for. The names had rooted themselves in her subconscious; they were instantly familiar. Raymond, the eldest; Mary Sue, Allen, Alice, Linda. And their mother, Josephine Wilson, age twenty-seven.

The police had gotten the names from the boy, Raymond. There was no other record; the family had been squatters, illegal residents of a building that had been condemned and was due to be demolished. The boy had tried to get back inside. . . .

Erin pulled back from the reader. "I found it," she said.

"What? Where? Let me see." They exchanged places. After he had read the story, Nick looked up with a puzzled frown. "There's nothing about Rosemary in this."

"It's the one, " Erin insisted. "It has to be. I'll explain in a minute. See if there's a follow-up. They said police were investigating. ..."

Nick gave her a curious look, but did as she asked. After an interval he said, "Yeah, here it is. There was another body found—that of a man. Downstairs, in the room under the one where the family was staying. They think he was a bum, a wino, who passed out and let a cigarette fall into a pile of old newspapers. The weather was hot and dry, it hadn't rained for days. . . . Statement by an official of the company that owned the building. . . . Blah, blah, sad tragedy, blah, blah, said Mr. Roy—Roy. ..." His voice trailed off.

"Well?" Erin said impatiently. "Roy what? Marshall?"

Nick raised his head and looked at her. His face was that of a stranger. "Not Marshall. Hartsock. Roy Hartsock, attorney-at-law. Your father?"

12

Erin had only
the vaguest recollection of the succeeding half hour. She sat in a stupor while Nick finished the job with silent, tight-lipped efficiency. After he had collected the copies of the articles, he had to lift her bodily from the chair and lead her out.

It was not until they left the building and the fresh air brushed her hot face that she fully recovered her senses. One of the picnic tables had just been vacated; she dropped onto the bench with a thud that made her whole body vibrate.

"I didn't know," she mumbled. "I didn't. I really didn't."

Nick sat down beside her. He couldn't take his eyes off the pages he held—or else he was reluctant to look her in the eye.

"Then how did you know this was the right story?" he asked reasonably.

"I'll tell you. I was going to tell you. Just listen. ..."

Her narrative was not a model of coherence but Nick had no trouble following it. "Brown," he repeated. "He didn't say who he was?"

"No. But it's obvious, isn't it? Kay hired him to find that information. Birth and death dates. He must be a private detective."

"So Kay knows about this."

"But I don't. I didn't. Nick, you've got to believe me!" She grabbed his lapels and tried to shake him. Nick sat like a rock, his eyes moving slowly over her face, feature by feature. Then he took her head between his hands and pressed his lips to hers.

When he raised his head she saw he was smiling. "Sure, I believe you. Whoops, there go the papers—grab them. ..."

Erin let him chase the papers; she was so weak with relief she felt giddy. "Do you really, Nick? Not just because I kiss so well?"

"That doesn't hurt." Nick sat down again. "No, but seriously, as someone once said—you should have seen your face. If you were faking that wide-eyed horror you ought to try out for Arena Stage. And besides, if you had known about your fathers involvement, you wouldn't have shown me the story."

"I can't believe it. I had no idea—"

"You're repeating yourself, love." Nick pushed a lock of hair away from his face; the breeze had stiffened. "I'm feeling somewhat bewildered myself. To be honest with you, and myself, I never really expected to find anything. The odds were so against it. It's like stumbling over a genuine dead body when you're playing cops and robbers. Why didn't you tell me about that phone call?"

"I didn't make the connection till now. There are so many underhanded, undercover things going on—I assumed it had to do with the campaign."

"Fair enough." Nick's eyes returned to the copies. "So what have we got? A tenement fire in which several members of a family were killed. They were there illegally. The building was owned by a corporation whose nominal head was your father. But we know the Marshalls were involved—"

"No, we don't. Not yet. Has it occurred to you, Nick, that this business might be aimed, not at Rosemary, but ..." She swallowed. "At me? Unless there are earlier incidents of which I am unaware, the first fire happened the day I came to Middleburg for my job interview."

"Jesus, I never thought of that." He thought about it, and Erin was guiltily pleased to observe that the possibility of a threat against her distressed him more than danger to Rosemary. Then his face cleared and he shook his head.

"I admit some of the incidents are ambiguous, like the one involving Kay's car; but except for you getting mauled at the fundraiser—which I still believe was unrelated to the other things—nothing has been directed at you. Whereas the fire in the graveyard was a direct hit at the Marshalls—specifically Ed Marshall. I think he was the owner of that building. Your dad was just the owner of record, or whatever the term is."

"Why should Marshall want to conceal the fact?"

Nick shrugged. "I don't know anything about corporate law, or finance, or any of that stuff. If I did, I'd be a rich entrepreneur instead of an impoverished journalist. There may not have been anything fishy about the corporation itself, but I can think of a lot of reasons why Marshall might not want his name on record. Tax evasion, maybe. And don't forget he was running for office. 'Slumlord' isn't a name politicians enjoy."

"That's not good enough, Nick. I only read the first story; it said the police were investigating. What did they find?"

"The police always investigate fires," Nick began. Erin reached for the papers; he gave in with a sigh. "Okay, don't bother reading it, I'll tell you. The police found no sign of arson. They concluded the poor drunk downstairs started the fire. But it happened at a very convenient time for the owners of the building. It was heavily mortgaged and due to be demolished. It was also heavily insured."

"I see."

"Erin, honey, there's no evidence that your father had anything to do with that fire. He says in one of the stories that the corporation plans to set up a trust fund for the surviving children, even though there was no legal liability. They had ignored the 'Condemned' signs, broken through boarded-up windows, and sneaked in."

"That sounds like a guilty conscience," Erin said dully.

"Any decent person would feel terrible about a thing like that, even if he hadn't been responsible."

"It was the year after the fire that Dad broke connections with the Marshalls and moved to Indianapolis," Erin said. "He never saw them again, never had anything to do with them, except for an occasional letter or card—and that was Mother's doing. ..."

"Well, doesn't that suggest that if there was something fishy about the fire, your father didn't know about it beforehand? Maybe it was disgust and abhorrence that prompted him to break relations. Maybe it was just the way his career ball happened to bounce. Either way he's in the clear."

"Isn't there something called accessory after the fact?"