Still Mr. & Mrs.

by Mary McBride

  He just gazed at her without saying a word. Those warm and lovely hazel eyes of his were taking her in as if he were trying to memorize her, Angela thought. As if he hadn't already done that years ago. Just as she had memorized him.

  As if he were about to say, “Don't leave me.”

  As if she'd change her mind if he did.

  But he didn't.

  “Thanks,” he finally said, “but I need to talk to Doug, anyway.” He winced just a little as he turned and started toward the back door.

  “Bobby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What you really need to do is have your side checked out,” she said. “Sweetie, I worry—”

  “Don't” he told her.

  And then he was gone.

  Doug was leaning against the side of the trailer, scowling, smoking a cigarette with all the apparent pleasure of a blindfolded man before a firing squad.

  “Busy morning,” Bobby said.

  “You could put it that way.” The older agent picked a fleck of tobacco off his lower lip. “I'm standing out here now thinking how I love my job, especially getting reamed by the director a few minutes ago who'd just been reamed by the president, and how I'm looking forward to interrogating an eighty-year-old female this afternoon about some little snippets of paper, latex gloves, and a goddamned bottle of Elmer's glue.”

  “Can you hold off on that until I've run it past Mrs. Riordan, Doug? I want to show her a couple copies of the threatening letters so she'll start taking this situation a little more seriously.”

  “Help yourself. They're on my desk.” He turned his head away from Bobby and blew out a hard stream of smoke. “Is she serious about this marriage business, Bobby? The minute she hung up on the president, he was on the horn to Henry Materro, wanting to know just what we've dug up about Gerrard.”

  Bobby shrugged. As far as he could tell, Daisy Riordan had made her announcement about the wedding based more on supreme annoyance than any serious intention. Still, she'd announced it, and he thought he knew her well enough to know that once her pride was involved, there might not be any going back.

  Or, hell, maybe she was just damned tired of living alone. It could get pretty brutal, as well he knew. Or maybe she really loved the professor. People did a lot of crazy things for love. Some people even got tattoos.

  “Just wait a little while,” Bobby had urged her a while ago when they'd come inside the house.

  “Wait a little while? For what?” she snapped. “Next spring? June? For Gerald to drop dead of a heart attack? Or me? What would you like me to wait for, Robert?”

  “Let me do some more checking.”

  “I didn't need you people to check out my first husband,” she said. “And I don't need you now to check out number two.”

  “I think she's going to do whatever she wants,” Bobby said now, “whenever she damn well wants to do it.”

  Doug took a last drag from his cigarette, dropped it, and ground it under the heel of his boot. “I get the impression that you like old Crazy Daisy in spite of the fact that she's doing her level best to ruin your career, son.”

  “Yeah.” Bobby almost laughed. “Must be some kind of death wish, my attraction to difficult women.”

  “You and Angela get things worked out?”

  “No.”

  “Not much time. Your replacements are due to arrive in a couple hours, and you're due for a little reassessment at the faculty in Georgia starting Monday morning. After that—” Doug lifted his thick shoulders in a shrug, patted his pocket for cigarettes, then cursed softly as he apparently changed his mind. “I'll recommend they put you back on the White House detail, Bobby,” he said, “but I can't make you any promises.”

  “I appreciate that, Doug.”

  “Okay. Well, let's get you some copies of those letters, then.” Doug opened the door for him. “I've got everybody scrambling now, trying to find out more about this goddamned professor.”

  Inside the trailer, several conversations stopped cold when Bobby walked in. Everybody turned back to phones or files or monitors, including long-legged Tricia Yates. Obviously, whatever the woman had found so appealing, so irresistible, about him earlier was now tainted by the foul odor of his screwup this morning. A couple of years ago the rejection might have bothered him, but now it was only Angela's rejection that hurt.

  He followed Doug back to his office for the letters.

  “You let me know what Mrs. Riordan says about these,” Doug told him as he handed the copies across his desk. “Maybe she can give me a handle on how to approach the Rand woman. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is scare that poor little old lady to death.”

  Somehow Bobby didn't think that would be a problem. Bootsie, the poor little old lady in question, would probably have the special agent in charge back on a two-pack-a-day habit before the interrogation was halfway over.

  In Mrs. Riordan's room, Bobby put down the tray with the coffee and the egg salad sandwich that Angela had made.

  “What's that?” Mrs. Riordan asked.

  “Lunch, I guess.”

  “No,” she said, “I mean the papers in your hand. Are those the crank letters that are supposed to convince me I'm in mortal danger?”

  He held the chair for her and watched while she lifted a corner of one of Angela's crustless, triangular creations, then clucked her tongue and pushed the plate to the far side of the tray in favor of a sip of coffee.

  Bobby put the letters on the table in front of her. “I found a stack of cut-up magazines on Mrs. Rand's desk this morning, and hundreds of cutout words stashed in the drawer. Glue. Latex gloves. Paper and envelopes that I'm sure our forensics people can match to the ones received in Washington.”

  “So?” She took another sip of coffee, pointedly ignoring the letters, practically ignoring Bobby as well.

  “So,” he grumbled, “it would help no end if you'd take this seriously. These letters are the reason they sent us here in the first place, Mrs. Riordan. The president was concerned for your safety. He still is. We all are.”

  She gave him a flat stare, her mouth tightly crimped and her eyes narrowed to slits. “Do me a favor, Robert.” She pointed across the room. “Open my closet door. On the shelf, there's a white shoebox. It's on the right side, as I recall. Well, right or left, you'll see it. Take it down and bring it to me.”

  “This is no time to be trying on shoes,” he growled.

  “I realize that,” she said, pointing to the closet again and raising her voice to the level of a drill sergeant. “Now get me the confounded box.”

  Bobby did as she directed, cursing when he stretched his injured side to reach for the upper shelf.

  “What's the matter, Robert?” She sounded less like a drill sergeant now and more like Nurse Ratchett.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something is the matter. I can tell. I'd feel horrible if my little shenanigan this morning were to blame for an injury of some sort.”

  Shenanigan. Bobby gritted his teeth. “I twisted my ankle walking back to the house. That's all. It'll be fine. Is this the box you want?”

  “Yes. Should you see a doctor? I could call—”

  “No.”

  “Very well.”

  He gave her the box, then watched as she carefully pried off the lid and began riffling through the many envelopes inside. She extracted one, pulled a folded paper from it, fanned it open in the air, and handed it to him.

  “Here,” she said almost casually. “I imagine the letters you want me to look at are quite similar, if not identical, to this one.”

  Damned if they weren't. Bobby wasn't a forensics expert, but the size and set of the words looked the same to him. He lifted his gaze to the president's mother, not too surprised to find a pretty smug, self-satisfied look on her face.

  “They're from Muriel,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “She's been sending them to me for years. Which, I might add, is precisely how long I've been ignoring them.”
>
  “Wait a minute.” Bobby's brain suddenly felt like a chunk of concrete. “She's been doing this for years?”

  “Yes. At least ten years. Possibly twelve. The letters started arriving after Muriel's arthritis made it much too difficult for her to vandalize my car or pull up tomato plants in my garden or soap my windows or put nasty things in my mailbox. It's her—what do you law enforcement people call it?—her modus operandi. Almost a family tradition. I don't know what the fuss is about all of a sudden.”

  “You said she used to vandalize your car?” Bobby wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

  “Yes. Oh, I'm quite sure that was Muriel's handiwork the other evening at the theater.” She clucked her tongue in disgust. “Her arthritis must've gone into remission, or else she employed some local hooligans the way she often does.”

  “Have you filed police reports?” he asked.

  Mrs. Riordan looked sincerely shocked. “No, of course not. Why would I want to do that?”

  Bobby could think of about a dozen reasons, not the least of which was that threats of violence tend to lead to acts of violence. The agency had the statistics to prove it.

  But before he could begin to enumerate the reasons, the president's mother said, “I've never filed a complaint because, perverse as it may seem, I've rather enjoyed being a burr under Muriel's saddle all these years, watching her go through three husbands in the hope of finding one who was half as good as Charles.”

  Her gaze strayed to the photo of her husband beside her bed and lingered there a moment before she said, “On our fiftieth wedding anniversary, Muriel had somebody set fire to our gazebo. The one out there now is the replacement.”

  Bobby felt like ripping his hair out. Or hers. “Is the president aware of this?”

  “I doubt it,” she snapped. “It's none of his business, is it?”

  She paused for another sip of coffee, inspected the yellow-and-green egg salad once more, and made a soft tsk. “Have you had lunch yet, Robert? Would you care for my sandwich? I've never been fond of pickle relish in egg salad.”

  “No, ma'am.” Bobby threaded his fingers through his hair. He was going to get her to take this situation seriously if it killed him. “What I'd care for is to know why you've allowed yourself to be victimized all this time?”

  “Victimized!” Her pale blue eyes opened wide. “I'd be a victim if I acknowledged any of Muriel's little stunts.” She waved her hand in a gesture of indifference. “I simply ignore them. I always have. I'm sure it galls her even more. Besides, I always wonder what the old fool will come up with next.”

  Bobby pointed to the letters on the table. “I guess sending threats to the White House instead of directly to you was a pretty good way of escalating things.”

  She nodded in agreement. “To be quite honest, I'm relieved that her bout with cancer hasn't slowed her down. Heaven only knows how she must be thrilling to all the disruption and commotion here of late.”

  “Yeah, well, I wonder just how much she's going to be thrilled when she's interrogated by my supervisor this afternoon,” Bobby said.

  “He'll do no such thing.”

  “Pardon me?”

  She banged her fist on the table. “I said he'll do no such thing. I won't have anyone bothering Muriel about this. I don't want anyone to say a word to her. Not one word. Is that clear?”

  “Well, it's clear,” Bobby answered, “but it's also out of the question. She threatened you, and we're obliged to investigate.”

  “She threatened me,” Mrs. Riordan said. “She didn't threaten the president, so you Secret Service people aren't obliged to do anything as far as I can see. I'm a private citizen, Robert, and I have absolutely no intention of pressing charges against my friend.”

  “She's not your friend,” Bobby said.

  “Well, she's a damned fine enemy, then, and I don't want to lose her. Is that understood?”

  “I'll mention it to my supervisor, ma'am,” he said, gritting his teeth, taking a step toward the door.

  “You do that. And while you're mentioning it to him, I'll mention it to my son, the president.” She gripped the arms of her chair, pushed herself up, then brushed past him on her way to the phone. “I'm serious, Robert. I want you people to stay away from Muriel.”

  “You're making a mistake,” he said. Then, with his hand on the door knob, he added gruffly, “And, goddammit, I won't be here to help you when you finally find that out.”

  If she heard him, she didn't reply. She had turned her back on him and was already punching a series of numbers into the phone.

  Angela was licking the last of the egg salad off her fingers when Bobby stalked past her toward their bedroom. She gathered things hadn't gone so well upstairs. After she rinsed the dishes and wiped off the counter, she followed him.

  He had pushed her suitcase to the far side of the bed to make room for his open garment bag, into which he was jamming suits, shirts, ties. She groaned inwardly. No wonder he was on a first-name basis with the dry-cleaning people in every hotel in the country. While she watched from the doorway, Angela couldn't help but notice that he used his left arm as little as possible, for the most part keeping it pinned closely to his side. His heart side, she thought. Assuming he had one.

  “Do you want a ride into Springfield?” he asked when he saw her.

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Get your suitcase.”

  “Now?” She blinked. They couldn't leave yet, could they? “Don't we need to wait for our replacements to arrive?”

  He zipped the garment bag closed, nearly ripping off the little metal tab. “I'm leaving now. If you want to wait, fine. You can tell Crazy Daisy good-bye for me.” He grabbed his empty shaving kit and went into the bathroom to collect his things.

  “Why are you taking this so personally?” she asked, standing in the bathroom doorway now.

  “You mean you and me?” He tossed his wet toothbrush and crumpled tube of toothpaste into the canvas kit.

  “No, I don't mean you and me. I mean Mrs. Riordan. You've really let that woman get under your skin.”

  “Did you do something with my deodorant?” he asked, ignoring her comment. “And my razor? Where the hell's my razor, Ange? You're always moving my goddamned stuff.”

  She sighed. “Look in the medicine cabinet. If you'd just put things back in the same place where you got them, Bobby, you'd—”

  Doug's voice interrupted her from behind. “Holy mother of Floyd! Are you two going at it again?”

  “No!” they both shouted in unison.

  “Well, you could have fooled me. I just came up to let you know there's been a change in plans.”

  Angela whirled around to face their supervisor. “What now?”

  “The president's coming.”

  “Here?” Her voice rose half an octave.

  “Here,” Doug said. “Today. He's flying out and back on a military transport. The press hasn't been notified.” He glanced down, squinting at a small notebook curved in the palm of his meaty hand. “He'll touch down in Springfield at seventeen hundred, then he'll helicopter here, have a quiet little dinner with his mother and her intended, and be back in Springfield by twenty hundred for the flight back to D.C.”

  From behind her, Bobby let out a blistering string of curses while Angela simply stood there staring at Doug, almost afraid to ask the first, the obvious, the only horrible question that popped into her head. She swallowed before she opened her mouth.

  “Who's going to fix this quiet little dinner?”

  Doug didn't even have to answer. His stern, unwavering, your-leave-is-canceled look said it all. She was. She was cooking dinner for the president of the United States on a few hours’ notice.

  Angela nearly threw up right then and there.

  “I'm staying,” Bobby said, stalking Doug across the backyard.

  “No, you're not.”

  “Jesus, Doug. At least let me stay to help Ange. She can't—”

  Special Agent in Char
ge Doug Coulter stopped so abruptly that Bobby almost ran over him. The man turned and glared. “What part of no do you not understand, Agent Holland?”

  “Doug,” Bobby pleaded, “you're going to need all the help you can get with Riordan coming in a couple hours.”

  “Yes, I am. But you're no longer eligible for protective detail, and I have a hard time picturing you working the phones here in the trailer or putting up a road block so his chopper can land out there on the road.” He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, then said, “Besides, there's another reason you can't stay.”

  “What's that?”

  “The president's mother wants you out. She told the president. He told Materro. And now I'm telling you.”

  “She doesn't mean it,” Bobby said. “Hell, she's just pissed about this deal with her pal, Bootsie. She wants the whole hate mail thing to be dropped.”

  “We're dropping it,” Doug said.

  Bobby could actually feel his temperature shoot up a couple degrees. “You're what? Dropping it! What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you again? She told the president. He told Materro. And now I'm—”

  “Materro can't just agree to drop an investigation on somebody's whim,” Bobby insisted.

  “Well, why don't you just call the director and tell him that, son. You know, maybe he hasn't read the rule book yet. Or just maybe he's willing to bend the rules to get on the president's sunny side. You might want to ask about that, too, while you're at it.” Doug took in a deep drag, exhaled, then dashed the cigarette to the ground and swore harshly. “It's out of my hands, Bobby.”

  “What if I stick around anyway? On my own time?” Bobby asked.

  “You best think twice about that, son,” Doug said. “You're good at this job. You'll be right back in the White House after you put in the required time in Georgia. But if Mrs. Riordan sees you around here tonight, I can pretty much guarantee you you'll be served up as sweetbreads for this little dinner of hers.”