The Plot (8 page)

"Miss Hart, they've found the vehicle that killed your father. A couple of fishermen discovered it in a small lake in Virginia."

"
In
a lake?"

"Yes, it was under about seven feet of water. There was a young Asian man inside. Shot to death. They've tentatively identified him as Philip Sinclair."

The sudden crashing of dishes pulled their attention toward the dining room. Standing at the open kitchen door was the maid, wide-eyed and shaking violently above a shattered tray of coffee cups and cake.

"May Lee! What is it?” Cassie cried as she and Max rushed toward her.

She looked at them through glazed eyes, weaved slightly, and dropped to the floor before Max could catch her. Glass from a broken cup pressed against her smooth cheek, and blood oozed down her face.

"Oh, May Lee,” Cassie murmured as Max picked the woman up and carried her to the couch.

"She'll be okay,” he said. “She's just fainted. Do you have some smelling salts? Or ammonia? Bring a clean towel, too."

Cassie dashed to the kitchen, rummaged around for the ammonia and a clean dish towel, then hurried back to the living room to see Max bending over the maid and dabbing the cut on her face with a handkerchief. May Lee's eyes were open, and she was speaking softly.

"Is she all right?” Cassie asked, setting the ammonia aside and handing him the towel.

"She'll be fine,” he replied, pressing the clean towel against the woman's still-bleeding cheek. “She overheard us talking, and the shock of hearing that Philip might be, uh,” he paused, looking into May Lee's eyes, “dead, hit her very hard."

"Is that right, May Lee?” Cassie asked, surprised. May Lee had never seemed to care much for the handyman's son. In fact, when Philip had been a regular visitor to the house, May Lee had either scolded him or acted like she hardly knew he was there.

"I'm okay, Miss Cassie. Don't worry. I was just startled. Philip was such a sweet boy ... like a member of my own family.” She locked eyes with Max, not even looking in Cassie's direction.

Cassie watched from the porch while the investigator escorted May Lee down the front steps toward his car. The tiny woman walked unsteadily, and the bandage on her cheek made her look even more fragile. Cassie frowned, wondering why May Lee had reacted so strongly to the news of Philip's death. Maybe it was the
way
he died. She shook her head. So much sorrow in so short a time. It was even getting to May Lee, who had proved her resilience time and again.

The mailman turned into the driveway as the housekeeper drove away with the investigator, and Cassie waited on the porch, thinking he must have a package too large to fit in the white mailbox by the gate.

He climbed from the jeep-like vehicle and smiled when he approached. “Miss Hart? I've got a certified letter for you.” He held an envelope and ballpoint pen out toward her. “Sign where I've marked the ‘X’ on both receipts."

Cassie took the pen and did as he asked, then returned it to him. He tore the green receipt from the back of the envelope and handed the letter back to her along with the rest of the mail. “I was mighty sorry to hear about your father,” he said, his eyes avoiding hers. “He was a fine man.
Generous
."

Daddy gave big tips to the postal workers and garbage collectors every Christmas, and the mailman obviously hoped she would continue the tradition. “Thank you. Daddy always appreciated your efforts."

"Well, we try,” he replied, color rising to his cheeks. “Anyway, have a nice day.” He turned and retreated down the wide steps toward his waiting vehicle.

"You, too,” she answered, studying the envelope as she went back into the house. It was addressed to her, but there was no return address-just a postmark from some place in Florida named “Chattahoochee.” She was certain that she didn't know anyone who lived there. Opening it, she found herself looking at a picture of her father and turned the foyer light on to see more clearly. He was standing in front of an ornately painted sign on a white wooden gate. On either side of the gate were lanky, red-berried shrubs espaliered against a high red brick wall. The sign read simply “Firethorne.” She turned the photo over and pursed her lips at the scrawled message-
With my compliments. Joshua.
The same message that was on the back of the torn photo. A second, smaller photo lay inside the envelope, and taking it out, Cassie felt doubly puzzled. It showed what, at first, appeared to be a single-story, white stucco house, but on closer look, she could just make out a sign by the door: “Independence Bank of Tallahassee."

The telephone rang, and Cassie dropped the mail onto the foyer table. It was probably Uncle Hamilton again. She went into the study to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Cassie, it's Sue."

She breathed a sigh a relief. “Oh, hi, Sue. How's it going?"

"That's what I called to ask
you
. We postponed your article until you could finish it, but I can't keep putting fillers in its place. Of course, I understand that you've been through quite an ordeal, but, you know, life does go on."

Sue seems gruff, but she's a good egg, Daddy had said. He was right. She does seem gruff. “I know, Sue, and I appreciate it."

"So? When are you coming back to work?"

"I'm not sure,” she replied, enunciating each word. “A lot has happened since I spoke with you last. Things I haven't expected. I doubt I'll be able to come in before next Friday."

"Next Friday? Cassie, that's way too long to be out. We've got a magazine to publish, you know.” The woman gave no quarter.

"I know, but even next Friday may be too soon.” Cassie wouldn't give any quarter either.

Sue grew unusually quiet, and Cassie pictured her thin lips drawn into a tight frown. She'd probably taken off her horn-rimmed glasses, too. At last, she spoke. “Well, see if you can get the article finished in time for Tuesday's deadline and e-mail it to me. Things change pretty fast, you know, and if the article's not here by Tuesday, it'll be too outdated to print.” She hung up without giving Cassie a chance to reply.

Bitch
, Cassie thought, staring at the telephone in her hand. “Yeah, right. Tuesday. Well,
Mizz
Sue Barker, don't hold your breath. There's a lot more going on in the world than
you
know about. A
lot
. And I'm going to ferret it out, even if you fire me. She was tempted to call her boss back, tell her she had more important things to work on than an article about the new Speaker of the House. Instead, she placed the receiver back in its cradle and sat down at the desk.

Minutes later, Cassie had booted her father's computer, accessed Lexis-Nexis, typed in the search instructions, and watched as ten titles appeared on the monitor. Four were from AP reports, one was from
The New York Times
, another from
Newsweek
, and the others were from
Home and Garden
and
Arts Today
. She pulled up the one from the
Times
, which had been written by her father just a few months ago. The headline, “Philanthropist Hosts Presidential Hopeful,” was followed by a subhead, “Vice President travels to Florida for campaign strategy session."

CHATTAHOOCHEE-The small north Florida town of Chattahoochee, known primarily for being the home of the state mental institution, is gearing up for the arrival of the Vice President on Wednesday. Billed as a ‘working holiday,’ the Vice President will be the guest of millionaire philanthropist, J. Harold Otis, at his ten thousand acre plantation and game preserve, “Firethorne,” located about ten miles outside of this quiet little town. She will be joined later in the week by the Secretary of State and several members of Congress.

According to the Vice President's press secretary, the visit to Otis's retreat will offer some much needed time for recreation and relief from life inside the Washington Beltway. The Vice President is looking forward to being surrounded by nature, doing some hiking and horseback riding along the banks of the Apalachicola River, and watching a private performance of the Chinese Ballet, which is in residence at the plantation in preparation for their tour of the United States. Toward the end of the week, campaign strategists will join the Vice President to plan the upcoming Presidential campaign. Anonymous sources report that high-ranking foreign officials have also been invited to join the campaign strategy sessions.

Residents of Chattahoochee have mixed feelings about the Vice President's visit. Norma Rae McCall, who operates Bob's Fish Camp with her husband, is pleased about the publicity. “We have great fishing here, both on Lake Seminole and in the Apalachicola River, and the Vice President's visit will let more folks know about it.” James Simon, retired truck driver, has a different attitude. “Chattahoochee's a nice, quiet, God-fearing town, and we don't need any hell-raising Yankees coming in here and messing things up. Let them stay in Washington where they belong and leave us alone.” Others, like Jenny and Logan Taylor don't see what all the “fuss” is about. “Our lives are going to go on no matter what politicians do or where they do it,” Taylor said, speaking for both himself and his wife.

Sources within the campaign disagree with Taylor. “People like Mr. and Mrs. Taylor are just the kind of voters we hope to attract with our education, health care, and trade proposals. When the Vice President assumes this nation's top office, people from all walks of life-both at home and abroad-are going to experience an America unlike they've ever known before."

Cassie scrolled down the article, past the description of Firethorne and its owner, looking for some hint of what linked Firethorne with her father. She found it lurking at the very end.

When asked to comment on the statement from the campaign staffer, an aide to a powerful conservative Senator said, “An America unlike we've ever known before’ is an understatement. It won't be America at all."

Cassie sat back in the chair and stared at the last sentence. Now that was something, which would
definitely
interest her father. “I wonder what the other articles have to say,” she murmured and began pulling them up one by one.

Max was eager to see what Sheila had dug up about Jonathon Sinclair. More specifically, his son, Philip. His conversation with May Lee had left him with even more questions than he started out with, but the telephone rang just as he walked into his office. It was the Chief's secretary.

"Max, Chief Baldwin wants to see you.” She spoke in a soft Virginia drawl.

"What's it about?” he asked, taking the holstered pistol from his belt and stowing it in his desk drawer.

"I don't know. But he's got a mighty serious look on his face."

"You can't even give me a hint? I sure hate walking into the lion's den without some idea about how hungry the lion is."

"All I know is that some FBI agent was in his office for a long time, and when he left, the Chief was acting pretty surly."

"I'll be right there.” Max made a face at no one in particular as he strode out the door and across the hall to the elevator.

"Taking the easy way up, Henshaw?” It was Barney Smith, a disgruntled officer who'd been on the force for almost ten years without a promotion. When Max had first joined the Department, they'd been friends. But that was before Max was appointed Chief Investigator. Now the paunchy officer never failed to make some pointed remark when they crossed paths.

"Yep. How ‘bout you? Down?” Two could play that game.

Barney glared at him and started to say something, then turned and ambled toward the stairs.

Max grinned.
The walk will do you good, Barney old pal. Get some of that blubber off your gut.

Andrea, the Chief's secretary, grimaced meaningfully at Max when he entered and passed her desk. He raised his eyebrows in response and walked into the Chief's office, shutting the door behind him.

"You wanted to see me, Chief?"

"Sit down, Henshaw,” said the gray-haired, square-faced man with the ruddy complexion, motioning him to the chair in front of the desk.

Max obeyed, wondering if the seat was still warm from the FBI agent's butt.

The Chief leaned back and looked directly into the investigator's eyes. “Max, I'll get right to the point."

Uh, oh. He called me by my first name.
Max sat up straighter.

"I've got to take you off the Hart investigation."

"
What
?” Max felt like he'd been slapped. “Why?"

The older man placed his elbows on the big steel desk and leaned forward, knitting his fingers as he spoke. “It's one of the hazards of working in D.C., Max. Cross-jurisdiction between the Feds and us.” He paused, clearing his throat. “An agent from the FBI came in here about an hour ago and took up a lot of my precious time explaining that Madison Hart's death carries serious national implications. I tried to explain that it also has some serious
local
implications, but he gave me a letter from the
Attorney General
, for Chrissakes, ordering us off the case and to turn over...” He paused to read from the official Department of Justice stationery in front of him, “any and all information concerning the death of Madison Hart immediately.” He leaned back in his chair when he finished reading.

"Son of a bitch.” Max slammed his fist against the arm of the chair. “Son of a
bitch
. Well, I won't do it. Those incompetent bastards will just foul it up-
if
they ever even get around to really working it."

"Sorry, Max. You don't have any choice. Neither do I."

Max looked at him long and hard. “What about the burglary? Do I still have that?"

"Nope."

"How about the body they found in the car-Philip Sinclair? Can I can keep that?"

The Chief grinned. “Yep. I don't think they even know about that one yet. And that occurred in Virginia, where they have less say in police matters. And, since he was a resident of D.C., the folks over there won't deny our participation."