The Mortal Groove (26 page)

“Sure, but I don't think she really gets it. She just knows that things are different now. She has a bigger room, a pool to swim in. But you know how much Hattie loves animals. Octavia is allergic to everything, so no cats or dogs. But Hattie has a closet full of new clothes.”

“All black and pink?”

“No, Octavia put an end to her pink Goth period. For the first month, she took Hatts shopping all over London. I think she was showing her off. But she got tired of that pretty fast, handed her back to me.”

“Is Hattie happy?”

Cecily shrugged. “She seems happy enough. But I don't think she likes Octavia very much. She might even be a little scared of her. Octavia has a nasty mouth. And she's been in a terrible mood ever since the Spielberg movie fell through.”

Cordelia hadn't heard about that. “My heart weeps.”

“Doesn't it just. When Radley's around, Hattie glows, but if it's just Octavia, she can get pretty sullen. She's developed quite a little pout. She is, after all, a Thorn.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Cecily played with the button on her sweater, didn't respond.

“So tell me everything,” said Cordelia, holding up a bottle of vodka. “Martini?”

“Make it a double.” She pulled a pillow over her stomach and groaned. “I got canned because of a taped letter Hattie and I were making for you. Hattie didn't mean to, but she let the cat
out of the bag—told Octavia that she'd talked to you. Octavia demanded to know how
exactly
that had happened. Before I could explain, she found the tape recorder in my dresser drawer and threw it at a brick wall. Hattie wasn't there, thank God. Anyway, Octavia told me to pack my bags. Next thing I knew, I was in a limo headed to the airport in Newcastle. At least she paid my way back.”

“How did Hattie take it?”

Cecily glanced down. “I don't know. She was in London with Radley. I left before she got back.”

“You mean you didn't even get a chance to say good-bye?”

Cecily shook her head.

“She just sent you off? Doesn't that woman have any empathy at all? Doesn't she think Hattie has feelings? You don't just rip people out of a child's life.”

“I don't think she was thinking about Hattie.”

“What a stellar mother. If I ever get my hands on her—” “You should have seen all the pictures of her and Hattie that appeared in the papers, even some magazines. Octavia Thorn Lester and her golden child. I mean, they look so much alike. The press is in love with Octavia right now. She's a wife, a mother, an actress, a humanitarian—”

“A what?”

“She gives a lot of money to various charities. Like it's any sweat off her back. Believe me, Octavia is loving every minute of it.”

“She's evil incarnate.”

“She's not that bad,” said Cecily. “But she is a pretty crummy human being. She owed me a month's salary when I left. Said she'd put it in the mail.”

“You'll never see it.”

“I know. That's why I'm basically penniless.”

“And that's why you came here,” said Cordelia, shaking the martini as if she were trying to make butter out of whipping cream.

“I figured you owed me,” said Cecily, sitting up as Cordelia handed her the drink. “On the way here, I stopped at a Best Buy. With my last few shekels I bought another tape recorder.” She nodded to her carry-on bag. “Go head. It's in the side pocket. I've already put the batteries in. Just press it on. Octavia got the tape recorder, but in her fury to get rid of me, she forgot about the tape.”

Cordelia's eyes bugged out. She took a swig of the martini, then grabbed the bag. She studied the recorder for a few seconds to find the Play button, then pushed it on.

“Hi, Deeva,” came Hattie's wee little voice. In the background, Cordelia could hear Cecily encouraging her to talk. She closed her eyes, her heart nearly bursting.

“I miss you, Deeya. I want you to come here and then, I go home. We fry, on a pyane. Um, we have ducks. I feed them. Harry is the biggest. I yuv Harry the most. And . . . and I yuv Byance and Ucifer and . . . I miss my kitties. I have big cyouds here. Pretty cyouds. Mommy is mad at me. Sometimes. Um. Um. Do you know Radey? I . . . dance with him. And I sing songs. I, ah . . . Deeya! I want you to come. Okay? Come now. And I have a ring. It's pink and byack.”

“It's actually red,” whispered Cecily.

“And a pink room with a byack bed and byack curtains! And lots of byack shoes and socks. I need . . . I yike . . . and a furry bear I yuv so much. His name is Pinky. I named him. I put him in the pond to swim. With Harry. Mommy got mad at me and I got mad at Mommy. Um, um. I want you to read me a story.” Long
pause. “Deeya, I can't see you.” Her voice had turned to a whine. “I want to go home. I want a fuffernutter sanwich. You come, Deeva.”

Cordelia's smile faded and then died. “That's all?” The tape continued to play, but all she could hear was a weak hiss.

“She wanted to sing you a song,” said Cecily, “but we never got that far. She was getting kind of upset, so I said we'd finish it later.”

Cordelia blinked hard to keep the tears out of her eyes, then bowed her head and pressed the tape recorder to her chest. She had no words. No words.

“I'm sorry,” said Cecily. “It's the best I could do.”

“No, it's great. Just hearing her voice . . . it's great.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

“I was wondering,” said Cecily, moving to the edge of the couch. “Could I stay here with you? Just until I get back on my feet financially.”

The edges of Cordelia's mouth quivered. “Of course you'll stay. You're Hattie's nanny. She'll need you when she comes home.”

“I don't think—”

Cordelia shot her a fierce look.
“When she comes home,”
she repeated.

“Right,” said Cecily. “Right.”

 

 

E
very house had its own distinctive smell. The one Peter was in at the moment smelled like fried Spam, cigar smoke, and kitty litter. The one he'd been in yesterday morning had been a little harder to define. Miracle Whip, maybe, mixed with a hint of fish fertilizer and something sweet and herbal—some weird potpourri. He'd been on the road with his father's campaign now for four days. His general lack of enthusiasm for politics hadn't changed.

Peter thought his dad was doing a great job, giving dynamic speeches, shaking hands like a trooper, talking with small groups at private homes, generating lots of dialogue. He deserved to win the election, not just because of his endless energy, but because of his ideas. While it was fun to be along for the ride, the job Peter had been given was little more than a well-paid gopher. The house smell thing had amused him for a while, but it was getting old.

Peter missed Sigrid, missed his job as a TV cameraman, missed his old life. But the restlessness that was becoming as much a part of him as his skin came from his growing worry about Margaret. Every day he didn't hear from Nolan was a day that ratcheted up his anxiety another notch. His personal life hung by a thread and his professional life had already crashed and burned, and yet he held on to the belief that it was only a matter of time before he could present Sigrid with the greatest gift of her life—a reunion with her lost daughter.

“Get a picture of me with my son,” called Peter's dad. He was standing in front of an ornate carved-wood fireplace in Belinda and Gary Brockaway's living room. Belinda was the mayor of Gibbon, Minnesota. They'd offered their home to the campaign entourage for the night. Gibbon was a moderate-sized town in the far southwestern part of the state. Peter thought it looked pretty much like the last town they'd visited.

Ray stood sans suit coat, his tie loosened, holding a mug of morning coffee. He was the picture of relaxed confidence. The heartiness in his voice almost made Peter cringe. His father was aware that Peter wasn't having the best experience. They'd touched on the subject yesterday evening after the potluck dinner in the basement of St. John's Lutheran, but, as usual, they'd been interrupted.

“Come on, Peter,” called his dad, motioning for him to stand next to him. Ray proudly draped his arm around Peter's shoulders and they both said “cheese” for the camera.

Peter felt like he was four years old.

“Great,” said Ray, clapping Peter on the back. “Well, this has been a wonderful stay, Madam Mayor, but I'm afraid it's about time we hit the road.” While he conferred with Belinda and Del Green, Peter drifted outside to a van that was waiting to take them
to the airstrip. The Cessna would be passed up and ready by the time they arrived. Peter had already stowed his suitcase in the van, so he walked to the end of the block, then turned around to look back at the stately Victorian. It was a nice enough house, but it just didn't seem right that it should smell like Spam. Peter figured that if Cordelia were here, she'd have something deadly to say about it.

Pushing his hands into the pockets of his Dockers, he strolled slowly back to the van, watching Del Green and his dad saying their final good-byes to the mayor and her husband. His dad was so good at all this people stuff. Peter wished he'd inherited some of that competence. It wasn't that he had zero interpersonal skills, but his dad had something extra. Charisma, he supposed it was, though he'd never been entirely sure what the word meant. Whatever it was, Del Green had it, too.

Peter had stayed up way too late last night sitting on the front porch talking to Del and a couple of the mayor's aides. He should have gone to bed, but Del had such an obvious commitment to changing the face of Democratic politics that at one point, Peter had asked him why he didn't run for political office himself. It just seemed logical. Del had shaken his head, said it wasn't in the cards. Peter figured there was a story behind it, but he didn't press the point. He made a mental note to ask his father when they got a few seconds alone. Which might be next year, if this trip was any indication.

It was a humid, cloudy day. Storms were predicted for later in the afternoon. Peter had flown in plenty of rough weather when he was a cameraman, but he'd never gotten used to it.

They boarded the four-seater Cessna at 10:40 and landed at Rochester International approximately an hour and a half later. His father had radioed ahead and booked space in a hangar with Regent Aviation, just in case a storm actually hit.

As they were waiting for another van to arrive and take them to the high school, where his father was giving his afternoon stump speech, Peter's cell phone rang. He walked back into the hangar for some privacy.

“Peter Lawless,” he said, removing his dark glasses.

“It's Nolan. How fast can you get to New Jersey?”

“Why?” said Peter, coming to a full stop. He pressed a hand to his other ear.

“I found her.”

“You're kidding me,”

“Where are you?”

“Down in Rochester at the moment with my dad's campaign.”

“Okay, here's what you do. Catch a flight from there to Chicago. You might have a layover, but it shouldn't be long. I'll pick you up at Newark or LaGuardia—whichever is fastest.”

“I'll call you when I've got the flight number.”

“Good.”

“Is she okay?”

Silence.

The hesitation made Peter's stomach vanish.

“Yeah, she's okay. More or less.”

“What's that mean? Has she been adopted?”

“She's in foster care. I know you've got a lot of questions, but they don't have simple answers. Get on the plane, Lawless. I'll see you in a few hours.”

Peter stood in the hangar, staring at the cell phone. The call had finally come. It was what he wanted. So why was he feeling such a sense of dread, like maybe he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life?

“Something wrong?” asked his dad, coming up behind him.

“Wrong?” repeated Peter, turning around. “No, it's good
news.” He forced a smile. “That was, ah, a station manager in Chicago. I sent my resume there a few months ago. Never expected a call back. But the guy wants me to fly down—today if possible. They may have a job for me.”

Peter could see the disappointment in his father's eyes.

“Look, Dad, you and I both know this isn't working.” His gaze drifted to a car that had just arrived. Del was standing next to it, talking to the driver. He'd put his earpiece back in his ear, connected to a unit on his belt. He was back in his campaign manager mode.

“I'd hoped,” said his father, “that this might work into something you could get behind, but I know this trip hasn't been the best experience. That's mostly my fault.”

“No—”

“Look, if the Chicago job works out for you, that's great. But if not, I've been waiting for the right moment to tell you something. I guess I better do it now. Remember I mentioned to you that I was thinking of making a video documentary about my run for governor? Well, I've been talking to some people about actually pulling it together. Win or lose, I think it could make an interesting story. I've got a producer/director interested. A woman I know, Eva Manion, would do the writing. I'm looking for someone to handle the narration. The financing isn't a problem. And I wanted you to shoot it.”