Smoke and Mirrors (38 page)

She had taken the precaution of arming herself, not with a weapon, but with a dustcloth. Next she tackled the mantel and the table, looking in every vase, opening every little box and jar. A crystalline tinkle of music broke out when she lifted the lid of a porcelain casket and her guilty start of alarm almost caused her to drop the fragile thing. She recognized the tune: "Tales from the Vienna Woods." A memento of a trip to Austria, or just one of Kay's collectibles? She seemed to collect everything—porcelain, pottery, crystal; stuffed cats, wooden owls; objets d'art and just plain junk. Erin's unsteady fingers tipped over an earring holder. It was of brass, in the shape of a cat with several tails, and couldn't be damaged, but the earrings flew in every direction and she had to
crawl around before she found them all—and had to pray she had restored them to their original places.

The closet came next. She could always say she was checking to see if any garment needed mending or pressing. . . . Nothing in the pockets of coats and dresses, no betraying crackles or lumps in the linings. Nothing in the purses lined in a neat row on the shelf— navy, black, brown, white, beige—or the shoes, in a hanging holder. She got a chair and climbed on it to examine the topmost shelf. The boxes there contained hats, plus a few odds and ends of old accessories Kay seldom wore and couldn't bear to throw away.

The clock ticking on the mantel told her she had been aw*ay from her desk too long. Actually, it wasn't so much the clock as her own discomfort that urged her to complete the search or abandon it. Every quivering nerve argued for the second alternative, but she forced herself to continue. This might be her best, her only, opportunity. But the next part of the search was one she abhorred. Opening drawers seemed—was—an even greater violation of privacy than what she had done thus far.

Underwear, gloves, scarves, cosmetics. A paperback book, tucked under a pile of bras. Erin's compressed lips slipped into a half-smile at the sight of the title and the cover—an impossibly beautiful, artfully half-clothed female clasped in the ardent embrace of a handsome bare-chested hero. At least Kay's tastes were normal. This was just your average, acceptable bodice ripper. Poor prissy woman, why did she bother hiding it?

There were two more books of the same type in the drawer of the bedside table, along with three of the tiny gold boxes of candy Laurence had said were Kay's favorites. So Kay—poor Kay— hoarded chocolates as well as lurid novels. Erin flipped idly through the pages of one of the books, picturing Kay propped up in bed reveling in the passionate adventures of Raven, Countess of Woodbridge, as she munched raspberry creams. If Kay would just relax and admit her harmless weaknesses, laugh over them, enjoy them . . . There were several more of the little gold boxes, emptied of their contents, in the wastebasket.

On the top of the nightstand was an assortment of bottles— vitamins, aspirin, sedatives. The bottle labeled "Dalmane" was almost full.

Only one piece of furniture remained to be investigated—a low bookcase beneath the west window. Erin had put it off till last, almost hoping something would interrupt her search. In some ways books were more personal than souvenirs and accessories, even more personal than clothing. They were reflections, not of the body but of the mind and the heart. And the books people kept in their bedrooms were the most intimate of all—old favorites turned to for comfort when one was sick in bed with a cold, or wakeful during a long lonely night.

She recognized only a few of the titles.
Gone With the Wind. . .
. She might have expected that one, a whole generation of women must have yearned for Rhett Butler. Most of the other novels appeared to be old-fashioned historical romances; flipping quickly through the pages, she didn't see a single word that would have shocked the primmest censor. Kay had hidden the "dirty books" in her dresser drawer.

The majority of the books on the shelves were not novels. They were albums—some cheap plastic, some bound elegantly in leather. Photograph albums. And that too she might have expected.

She started with the last one and wasn't surprised to find that most of the clippings and photographs featured not Kay, but Rosemary. All of Kay's adult life had been lived vicariously, through someone else. She had no husband, no children, no life of her own.

The albums had been arranged in chronological order. Erin took out the one farthest to the left. Old family pictures, black and white originally but yellowing with age. One of the children might have been Kay, she couldn't tell. She returned it to the shelf and took out the next. School pictures, junior high and high school. The clothes had the archaic humor of past fashions not old enough to be quaint—bobby socks and saddle shoes, pleated skirts, baggy sweaters. Kay with her bike, her dog; standing in front of a narrow frame house. Erin didn't linger over these. Kay's youth was no business of hers.

She found the first pictures of Edward Marshall in the third album. Seated behind a desk, he had raised his head to smile at the camera, and the photograph was labeled in Kay's neat hand. "My new boss, Mr. Marshall, Virginia State Senator. An exciting job!"

Exclamation points proliferated thereafter. Mr. Marshall and his "sweet little bride" soon became "Edward" and "Rosemary," and family snapshots mingled with publicity pictures. "Rosemary and I making pancakes Sunday morning. Taken by Edward. We weren't very good cooks!" A coy "First pictures of the new baby" accompanied by a snapshot of Rosemary sprawled gracelessly in an easy chair; an arrow indicated her bulging maternity smock.

So by that time Kay was family friend as well as personal secretary. She had been with Marshall almost from the start of his political career. Most of the pictures were of him and Rosemary, of the baby, of the handsome mansion in Richmond, of Fairweather. Several depicted Edward with his favorite cats—holding them, stroking them, dangling ribbons for them to play with. Rosemary was also shown playing with the cats. Her antipathy—or, more accurately, her indifference—must have developed after Edward's death.

Erin hurried through the other volumes. The search not only made her uncomfortable, it had had another result she had not anticipated—a profound if unwilling pity for Kay. No wonder Kay was so fiercely devoted to Marshall's memory and Rosemary's success. They were all she had.

All at once a familiar picture caught Erin's eye. She had seen, the same one in her mother's album. It had never interested her before; now she stared intently, as if she could will the miniature faces to speak to her.

Her mother and father, Rosemary and Edward, and two other people, dressed in evening clothes and standing beside a limousine. Kay had labeled it, but the names of the third pair struck no chord of memory. On their way to a ball at the governor's mansion. . . . Her mother cherished that photograph, one of the few mementos of her participation in the social life of the state capital.

At the end of the book, tucked into a pocket in the back cover, she found a tattered business-sized envelope. Inside were a few newspaper clippings, brown and frayed with age. They were from the Richmond
Times-Dispatch
and they described a fire in an abandoned tenement. Tucked into the envelope with them was a single sheet of paper. A list of names and dates.

14

Nick called
shortly after four. He didn't have to tell her there were other people in the room with him; his formal tone and message made that clear. "Rosemary wants you to tell Sarah we'll be later than we expected—not to wait, just leave a casserole or something in the oven. "

"How did it go?" Erin asked in the same tone. She was at her desk; the others made no pretense of not listening.

"Fantastic. Watch the six-o'clock news. We're leaving shortly, but it will take us at least two hours."

He rang off, and Erin turned to her audience. "He says it was fantastic; watch the six-o'clock news. "

She went to the kitchen to pass on the message to the cook, who nodded as she tore lettuce into smaller pieces. "I figured that. My famous gourmet Chicken a la Sarah is in the fridge; I'll finish making the salad and then run along home in time for the news program. There's an apple pie too, you might want to warm it up before you serve it. Make sure Rosemary eats, mind."

Christie was just coming in the front door when Erin entered the hall. "Wooo, what a day," the tall girl groaned, running her hand over her tightly clustered curls. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

Erin passed on Nick's message. "That's great," Christie said. "Guess I'll stick around—catch the news here."

She gave Erin a sidelong look, and Erin said shortly, "You don't have to ask me—or even announce your intentions."

"My, my, aren't we touchy today. I just thought I'd be polite— seeing as how you're in loco housekeeper around here."

The hit was too close to home. Erin knew her face must have betrayed her, but Christie took guilt for resentment. "I told you we'd fight," she said.

"It takes two to fight. I'm not in the mood."

Christie laughed. "You're no fun. Want to go for a run? I need to stretch my legs. Been hunched over a desk or fighting city traffic the whole day."

"I guess not. I went out earlier."

She didn't tell Christie what had driven her out of the house— or why she had gone only a short distance before the stench of wood smoke sent her running back.

Christie sent the others home at five-thirty, though they obviously wouldn't have minded staying to watch the news. Erin went to the kitchen to check on the food situation and found, as she had expected, that Sarah had everything under control, including fresh-made coffee. She returned to the commons room to find Will adjusting the television.

"I thought you'd gone to Roanoke," she said.

"Not me. I don't make public appearances. Prefer my role as power behind the throne."

"But you weren't here—"

"Yes, I was. All day." ,

"I didn't see you."

Will lowered his voice to a sinister drone. "No one sees the Shadow. But the Shadow knows. ..."

He knelt to adjust the controls of the VCR. Christie came in, saw what he was doing and nodded approval. "Good idea, Will. What are you going to do if it's on all the stations?"

"The best I can," said Will, inserting a blank tape.

Christie went to the kitchen and came back with a beer. "I deserve this," she announced, dropping heavily into a chair. "I don't know where the hell the committee finds these people. Half of them don't know what they're supposed to do and the other half don't do it."

She went on grumbling; Will responded with polite murmurs of sympathy, and Erin only half-listened. The slip of paper in the pocket of her jeans burned against her skin. She had copied the list of names before replacing it in the envelope and returning the
album to its place. She was trying to figure out a subtle way of asking the date of Christie's birth when the news came on.

How much of the spectacle was due to Nick and how much to Mrs. O'Malley, Erin did not know, but it wasn't hard to understand why the event had rated such extensive media attention. The emotions of the crowd, most of them women and children, overwhelmed the small screen. The music was performed by massed church choirs, black and white joining in the old hymns: "Amazing Grace," "Abide with Me," "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." And Rosemary—dressed not in black, but in a soft-gray print that made her the symbol of all grieving mothers, her eyes luminous with unshed tears. She began with a message of love and sympathy, but ended with a call to arms. "The time has come—the time is long past—to end the slaughter of the innocents. I'm not going to tell you that if I'm elected I'll make this my first priority. You know I will; you know I have. What I
am
telling you is that, win or lose, in the Senate of the United States or out of it, I will continue the fight till it's won—as a woman, as a citizen, as a mother!"

The choirs burst into "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," and the cameras panned to the audience—singing, swaying, faces streaked with tears.

The screen went black; Will switched channels in time to catch the same ending on another station. Christie turned to Erin. "You're crying," she said accusingly.

"So are you."

"Am I? Jee-sus! Is she fantastic, or what?"

"She is," Will agreed calmly. "But the setup couldn't have been more ideal. Any politician could have milked it, but Rosemary does it best because she—"

"Because she's a bigger ham than the rest of them?"

They hadn't heard her come in. She had left her coat in the hall and was still wearing the soft-gray dress, a grandmotherly ruffle of lace framing her face. Deep lines bracketed her level, unsmiling mouth.

"Because she really means it," Will said.

The brackets shivered, curved, disappeared. "Thanks," Rosemary said. "Hello, Christie—Erin."

"Where are the others?" Will asked.

Kay came in, followed by Jeff, who answered the question. "They're right behind us, unless that jalopy of Nick's broke down. Did you tape it?"

"Yes. Pretty impressive."

"We knocked em dead!" That was Joe, accompanied by the usual thick cloud of cigar smoke. "Sockerino!"

He tossed his topcoat over the back of the sofa. Kay clucked and carried it to the coat rack. Nick was the last to enter. Joe turned to him, beaming. "Good job, kid. I'm glad you listened to me and held off on our commercial. I want to incorporate some of that footage. Rosie, what do you— Hey, where are you going?"

Without speaking, Rosemary left the room. Joe started after her.

"No," Will said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "Leave her alone. She's going to call Jannie." Joe stared at him, and he added, "Her daughter—remember? She always calls Jannie when she's . . . Give her a break, Joe."

"I know who Jannie is," Joe grumbled. "Oh, well. Yeah. Now, Nick, as I was saying ..."

Erin slipped out of the room and went to the kitchen. She had lit the oven and taken the casserole from the refrigerator when Nick came in.

"Need some help?"

"You can put the plates and the silver on the table. It will take twenty minutes or so to heat the casserole."

"Good. That will give Rosemary time to unwind." Nick opened the cupboard doors. "Did you see her? Was that sensational, or what?"

"Sensational," Erin said.

Nick put the stack of plates down on the counter. "Something's bugging you. What happened?"

"I searched Kay's room this afternoon."

Nick crossed the room in two long strides and clapped his hand over her mouth. "Not so loud!"