Smoke and Mirrors (41 page)

"Nor do I, as yet." Laurence took his gloves from his pocket
and carefully drew them on. They were of fine morocco and fit like a second skin. His face was sober, with no trace of its habitual mockery. "Rosemary said the funeral will probably be on Tuesday. You'll let me know? I'll be there, of course."

"I'm very sorry, ' Erin said. "You were old friends, I know."

Laurence sighed. "Yes, I probably knew Kay as well as anyone—except Rosemary, of course. I can't believe . . . You were the one who found her, Erin? How dreadful for you."

"It was a shock, of course. But she looked very peaceful. I'm sure she didn't suffer."

"Thank you for telling me that." He smiled at her. "Take care of her, young Nick. She's a treasure."

He got in the car and drove away.

"That's a switch," Erin remarked. "He didn't think I was a treasure last week."

"Patronizing bastard," Nick muttered.

"He did seem to be genuinely distressed about Kay. "

"Or putting on a good act. Why does he always have to call me young Nick?"

"Maybe he doesn't realize how it annoys you."

Nick made a rude noise through pursed lips. "Well, anyhow, things are back to normal," he said, as they approached the commons room and heard the voices within raised in strident argument. "You'd think Joe could keep off her back—now, of all times."

He opened the door and Joe's voice boomed out. "For once I agree with Laurence. Why the hell did you insist on an autopsy?"

Rosemary stood with her back to him. She was holding one of the knitting bags. "That's the proper procedure in a case of sudden death," she said.

"Yeah, but it wasn't . . . Doc White was perfectly willing to sign the death certificate. Heart failure."

Rosemary was dressed to go out, in a black wool jersey dress with a wide lace collar. The full skirt swung out as she turned. "Jack White is a smug snob. He wants to put me in his debt by sparing me the embarrassment of an inquiry, and a lot of media attention. He thinks Kay had too much to drink, and that she overdosed on those wretched pills."

"So maybe she did. What's wrong with a kindly cover-up? Spare her, you, her family—"

"She had no family, only distant cousins. We—I was her family. That's why I owe her, at the least, the dignity of the truth." Rosemary's makeup was heavier than usual; it gave her face the smooth matte surface of a porcelain figurine. The glaze cracked momentarily, as she said, "Kay could not have taken an accidental overdose, Joe. Her sleeping pills were the mildest-possible prescription sedative. She'd have had to swallow every capsule in that bottle to get a fatal dose, and she hated taking pills, you know how she resisted it."

"Nembutal and alcohol—"

"She didn't drink that much. And she knew the danger of mixing drugs—who better than careful Kay? No, Joe. Either her heart gave out or she took those pills deliberately. One way or the other, I have to know."

"So you can wallow in guilt—one way or the other? For failing to notice she was ill, or depressed? Haven't you paid your dues to Kay, Rosemary? I don't give a damn how devoted she was to Ed Marshall, or how much she'd done for you, you stopped owing her a long time ago."

Rosemarys lips took on an ugly shape, but it was Will, watching from his corner, who spoke.

"Shut up, Joe. What's the point of arguing? We'll know tomorrow. "

"That's right," Rosemary said. "We'll know tomorrow. I must go now, or I'll be late. Jeff. ..."

Erin hadn't seen him. Slouched in a chair by the window, he had been as motionless as a statue. He started violently when Rosemary spoke his name, and rose to his feet.

"Yes, right. I'm ready."

He picked up her coat and held it for her. Instead of slipping into it she put her hand on his cheek and forced him to look into her eyes. "My dear—you look exhausted. Joe can drive me, you stay here and rest. "

"No, it's okay. If you can do it, I can. Don't be ... don't coddle me, Rosemary."

"All right, if you say so. Come on, Joe."

They went out together. Rosemary took Jeff's arm; it was questionable as to who was supporting whom.

"So she's keeping her appointment," Erin said. "Just as if nothing had happened."

"This dinner was scheduled months ago," Will said mildly. "The governor will be there. He's a very popular man, and his active support means a lot to the campaign."

"You sound just like Joe, ' Erin muttered.

Will's gray eyes brightened, but not with amusement. "I take it that is not a compliment. Would you prefer Rosemary to lose the election, as a gesture of respect for her secretary?" Erin started to protest, but Will went on in his even, inexorable voice. "Kay was Ed's protegee and devotee. Rosemary inherited her along with a lot of other things, good and bad. Kay transferred her loyalty to Rosemary, and she has clung like a leech. Do you realize how tiring, how infuriating, that secondhand devotion can be? Always demanding perfection that can never be attained because nobody could possibly measure up to the standard of the great Edward Marshall? If Rosemary weren't the decent person she is, she'd have dumped Kay years ago. She doesn't deserve your jejune criticism. '

He had risen to his feet and looked even taller than his real height.

"I'm sorry," Erin mumbled.

Will seemed to shrink inside his shabby gray cardigan. "My fault. I didn't mean to get so heated."

"All the same," Nick said, "Jeff seems a lot more upset than Rosemary."

"Yes, " Will said. "He does, doesn't he?"

15

.I
f that day
had been mad, the next was sheer chaos. The obituary appeared in the morning
Post,
along with a short, factual story that described Kay as Rosemary's secretary and friend. Calls of genuine condolence and curiosity veiled as condolence started pouring in, and florists' vans beat a steady path to the house. Receiving one such offering—another of the twenty-dollar tasteful sympathy ensembles featured by "Flowers by Wire"— Christie was moved to plaintive protest. "The house is starting to smell like a funeral parlor. You know we'll have to acknowledge every single one of these damned bouquets."

"Who's it from?" Erin asked, watching Christie wrench the tasteful card from the flowers.

"A constituent, I suppose. Never heard of her." Christie tossed the card into the drawer in the hall table that had been designated as a temporary receptacle. "No address, of course, that wouldn't be tasteful. Her name is probably on file, one of our constant correspondents. That'll be a nice little job for someone— looking up all these names."

"Do you want me to—"

"Not today, for God's sake. I need you on the phones."

During her lunch break Erin walked to the gate to stretch her legs and see what Sam thought of it all. He had been pressed into service to screen callers, and she broke into a broad grin when she saw his arrangements. There was no doubt that Sam had taken his assignment seriously. He had set himself up with a folding lawn chair and a matching table. On the table was a thermos of coffee, a lunch pail, and a clipboard. Leaning against the chair was a
shotgun; and pinned to Sam's jacket was an enormous "Rosemary Marshall" button.

"I came to ask if you wanted some coffee or a sandwich," she
began.

"No, ma'am, I'm all set here, but I sure thank you for thinking of it." He bounded to his feet, alert as a hunting hound; a car had pulled up by the gate. "Can't you see the sign?" he shouted, making a megaphone of his withered hands. "No admittance 'cept on business."

There were two women in the car. The one on the passenger side put her head out the window. It was crowned with pink curlers; a cheap rayon scarf failed to conceal these ornaments.

"That's a helluva nice way to greet people," she yelled back. "We brought Rosemary some flowers. Came to tell her we're sorry about her friend."

"She ain't here." Sam limped to the gate. "I'll tell her. Thank you, ' he added.

"I'll get them," Erin said, unhooking the gate. She took the flowers—a brilliant if unmatched bunch of homegrown chrysanthemums—and offered effusive thanks and explanations. The women received both amiably enough, but as they left, the one in the curlers called, "Better get the grouchy old nigger off the gate, honey, he's got no more manners than a monkey."

They were gone before Erin could think of a sufficiently stinging reply. Flushed and furious, she hooked the gate after her. She couldn't look at Sam; she was suffused with the guilt decent people feel when faced with the indecency of others. She dropped the gaudy chrysanthemums on the gravel and stamped on them.

"You hadn't ought to do that," Sam said reprovingly. "What if she seen you? She's a voter, you know."

"She's a horse's ass," Erin said.

"And you hadn't ought to use words like that, neither, you been goin' around with that boy Nick too much." The old man's face creased into a hundred wrinkles. "Felt good, though, didn't it?"

"Felt great," Erin said. She planted her feet firmly on the flowers.

"Well, okay this time, but you gotta learn to be polite no
matter how you feel," Sam said firmly. "That's what politics is all about." He scratched his head and looked sheepish. "Partly my own fault. She got on my nerves, was all; I seen her around, heard her talk. . . . Then she turns up here with them flowers she yanked outta her front yard, nothing better to do than nose into other people's business, and calling Miss Rosemary by her first name like she was a friend. I won't do that again. You don't need to worry. "

"I'm not worried. You're better at it than I am." Erin grinned at him. "But don't you think the shotgun is a little excessive?"

Sam grinned back. "It ain't loaded. But it sure is a powerful moral inducement."

Later that afternoon as she sat at her desk trying to find a gracious way of ending a conversation with a caller who insisted on recounting every detail of every occasion on which she had shaken Rosemary's hand, the outer door opened and a man entered. Of medium height and lean, wiry build, he was so astonishingly handsome, Erin stopped listening altogether and gaped. He was a stranger to her, and apparently to Christie as well; the office manager bore down on him with the obvious intention of evicting him. A low-voiced conversation ensued; then Christie shrugged helplessly and after hesitating for a moment let him into Kay's office. She returned to her desk without comment, avoiding the curious stares of the others.

She didn't have to explain to Erin. The man's sleek cap of black hair and chiseled features didn't resemble even a conventional TV cop—producers have decided upon the tough, rugged, and homely stereotype—but there was something about him that shouted his profession aloud—the confidence of his carriage, the keen, watchful eyes, the way he walked.

Erin hung up on the caller. Her palms were damp; she wiped them on her skirt. For a wonder the phone didn't ring again the instant she put it down, and she got quickly to her feet. She had to find Nick.

He was in the commons room with Will. "The police are here," she announced breathlessly. "One policeman, anyway. Plainclothes."

"Is that so?" Will adjusted his glasses. "Well, well. How interesting."

"Sometimes your cool drives me crazy," Nick growled. "You act as
if
you expected this.

"I was prepared for such a contingency," Will replied sedately. "Weren't you?"

"I—uh—what contingency? Does this mean the
autopsy
was—"

Will didn't let him finish. "Let's get back to work, Nick. Philips will be along shortly, and he'll expect you to be ready for him."

"Mr. Laurence?" Erin exclaimed.

"He wants to discuss Sunday's show," Will said. "Nick, will you . . . Nick!" He nudged Nick, who was glaring off into space as if at some profoundly distasteful vision.

"What? Oh, hell, I can't concentrate on this, Will."

"We've covered most of it." Will nudged his papers into a neat stack and stood up. "I need to look up some figures. Give you time to get your wits together. Talk to him, Erin, knock some sense into him. Oh—by the way, a friend of yours called a while ago. I don't know how she got this number—"

"I do, and it wasn't from me," Erin said. "What did she want?"

"Nick talked to her. After that, at my suggestion, he took the phone off the hook. " Will's eyes widened in a look of innocent surprise. "It made the most alarming noises for a while, but finally they stopped. I trust the instrument has not been permanently disabled. If you should wish to return the call—"

"Thanks, Will, but I've no intention of calling Fran. She just wants to get in on the action, and she goes on and on, about . . . about ..."

Will took her silence as an indication that she had finished a conversation in which he had minimal interest anyway; with a genteel nod, he ambled to the door and went out.

"She is a talker," Nick agreed. "Damn it, Erin, it looks as if we were right about Kay. It's funny, but you know I never quite believed our theory, even when—"

Nick." She turned on him, caught him by the shoulders. "Nick, I just remembered. I know what it was Fran said that bugged me. Astrology. Signs. He's a Pisces, Nick, and that means—"

"Wait a minute." The emotion in her trembling voice and horrified expression made sense to him, even if her words did not. "We can't talk here, too many people around. Come outside."

The weather had turned gray and gloomy. Not a breath of wind stirred; the dismal sky sagged like a heavy blanket, trailing ragged clouds.

A rapturous chorus of barks heralded the arrival of the dogs; Nick picked up a stick and waved it threateningly at Tiny, who settled back onto his haunches and looked as if the idea of jumping up on people had never occurred to him. "Cut it out, guys. I'm not in the mood today."

The older dog was more sensitive. When they sat down on the bench he laid a graying head on Erin's lap and stared at her with melting, sympathetic eyes.

"Is it about Jeff?" Nick asked.

"Yes. Nick, where did you get those birth dates?"

"I told you. The personnel files."

"And where did the information on those files come from?"

"Why—from the people who filled out the application forms. You had to do one, didn't you? Name, address, educational and business experience . . ." Nick's jaw dropped. "Oh, shit. Oh my God. How could I have been so stupid?"

"I didn't think of it either. No one ever checked that information?"

"No, why should they? This isn't a security agency. Joe must have called Sacramento, he mentioned the raves he got from Jeff's boss. But he wouldn't ask about Jeff's birth date, any more than he'd question his height or his weight."