"Which is what?"
Diane carefully picked up a pen and moved it from one side of the desk to the other. "It's like this. Used to be, in the wild and woolly days when I first became detective, you could do a records search for no other reason than to satisfy your curiosity. Those days are gone. Records of inquiries are kept, and questions can be asked. Like, why are you so interested in so-and-so, Detective Woods? Is there an official reason for this inquiry? If not, why? And what prompted you to make such an inquiry if there's no official reason?"
"I see."
"Good. Because I'll do a records search for you, Lewis, if it means something important for you. But you should know that if something about Audrey Whittaker becomes public knowledge in the next week or month or something like that, some people might want to know why I was doing a records search on her, and for what reason. So, having wasted about half your Saturday morning, I just want to know this: Lewis, do you want me to do a records search on Audrey Whittaker?"
I looked back at her, and thinking of our friendship and our past and favors done and favors expected, I took a breath.
"No," I said. "I don't want you to do a records search on Audrey Whittaker."
. Her mood instantly changed, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to lighten right up. "Fine. I'm very glad to hear that. And here's a bit of advice from an old detective who's seen an awful lot. Ready?"
"Go ahead, ma'am."
"Leave Audrey Whittaker alone. She's old, she's rich, and she has a lot of time on her hands. A very dangerous combination. Focus on Annie Wynn. She's good for you, Lewis. Very good for you. And take it from someone who's an admirer of the female form and function."
"Glad we have something in common."
"More than you know. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some case folders to go through, and my better half is promising me dinner and entertainment, and since I've been lacking in the home-cooked meal and homemade entertainment departments lately, get the hell out."
I wished my old friend the best, and did as I was told.
It took some tracking on my part but by the time late Saturday afternoon rolled around, I had finally found Paula Quinn. She was at a campaign rally for Senator Nash Pomeroy of Massachusetts, and after promising at a volunteer desk that I would work my local polling station on Tuesday, bring five friends to the polls, wear a Pomeroy button on my coat and a Pomeroy bumper sticker on my car, and commit ritual suicide if he didn't win on Tuesday, I was allowed in.
The rally was at the MitchSun electronics plant in Tyler Falls, owned by an eccentric entrepreneur called Eddie Mitchell. Eddie was a firm believer in the electoral process and took a major hit in his productivity every fourth January by inviting candidates to stop by and talk to his employees. For the employees, it meant an extra long meal break --- especially for those doing time-and-a-half work on Saturday --- and for the candidates, it meant a captive audience of about a hundred potential voters.
Inside the plant's cafeteria, I found Paula at the rear, hiding a yawn with one hand, typing away on a laptop with the other. The light green tables were occupied by workers in white coats and slacks, not bothering much to hide their bored expressions, while on the far side of the room, Senator Pomeroy --- a product of prep schools, Harvard, and district attorney work in Massachusetts --- gave a talk in which he left no doubt that he'd rather be back in Washington than talking to his lessers here in --- horror of horrors ---- New Hampshire. He was standing behind a portable lectern that had a POMEROY FOR PRESIDENT sign taped to its front, and even the gaggle of cameramen and reporters off to one side looked almost as dispirited as the candidate and his audience.
I sat next to Paula and she looked over at me, and then looked over at me again with surprise and said, "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"Well, that's flattering. You need something, is that it?" There was a not-so-nice edge to her voice and I said, "Well, I was going to trade you something. Information for information. How does that sound?"
"Newsworthy?"
"Quite."
"Very newsworthy?"
"Oh, you know it."
"Newsworthy in a presidential primary sense?"
"Wouldn't waste your time otherwise."
She grinned and turned away from her laptop. "Oh, you better not be teasing me."
"Haven't teased you in months, and you know it."
"Lucky me. Okay, you go first. What do you need?"
"I need a quickie bio on Audrey Whittaker, and I already know she's rich, she's married twice, and that she's active in political events. What else can you tell me?"
Paula said, "Knowing how you operate, I'm sure you don't care much about her charitable activities."
"I'm looking for something a bit more edgy."
"Hmmm," she said. "Edgy. How come she's gotten your attention?"
"You know my methods, Paula."
That earned me another smile. "Another quest from the mysterious Mr. Cole ... how can I deny you that?"
"You've denied me before."
"On other things, my friend. All right. Audrey Whittaker and edgy. Here's the story I've been told, and you can't tell anybody else where you heard this story, because I'll deny having told you. Lord knows, I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. Or even a twenty-foot pole. Nasty stuff, it was."
I touched her hand. "I knew I could count on you."
"Ha, How sweet. Look, here's the deal. Word is, this particular event happened two, maybe three years ago. She lives in one of those so-called summer homes up in Wallis whose construction costs can support a school for a year. Nice place, of course, and across the street, there's a tiny little strip of beach. I mean really, really tiny. Most of the shoreline up there is nothing but rocks and boulders, but from what I've found out, over the years, she and her minions- --- God, I wish I had a minion on days like these ---would secretly and quite illegally improve that tiny section of beach. Nothing blatant, just a few boulders removed, year after year, and a little sand dumped in the right places. Pretty soon, Audrey had the only private beach on the oceanfront in New Hampshire."
I said, "No such thing as a private beach in New Hampshire. State law."
Paula laughed. "Look who's talking, the gentleman with his illegal No Trespassing signs outside his house."
"The signs are a suggestion, not an order. Besides, we're talking about Audrey Whittaker."
Up forward, Senator Pomeroy seemed to pause in that part of his speech that said, Pause, wait for applause, and when no applause came forth, he pressed on.
"Yes, we are, aren't we. Anyway, Audrey --- from what I was told --- loved to bundle up a picnic lunch, chair, umbrella, and thermos full of martinis, and walk out her front door, down the majestic front lawn, across Atlantic Avenue to her private little beach, and spend the better part of a day there. Pure delight, for a woman like her. Her own private beach, her little stretch of paradise, which she didn't have to share with members of the working class."
"What happened then? Someone from the state tried to kick her off?"
Paula shook her head. "Nothing so official. One day she went there and found some people on her private beach. Three families, up from Massachusetts --- Lawrence or Lowell, still a bit murky --- and they were having a grand old time partying and playing loud music, little barbecue grills, the usual stuff. Audrey told them to leave. The families told her no, in so many words. I guess they had gotten the word that there are no private beaches in New Hampshire. More words were exchanged, Audrey left, and when the families left ... well, they and their friends never came back. Not ever."
"Why?"
Paula tried to laugh, to lighten her mood, but it didn't seem to work. "Lewis, from what I hear, she went back to her house and got to work --- with her minions lending a hand, I'm sure --- and soon enough, she found out who those three families were and where they had come from. She picked one family, randomly, probably, and she destroyed them."
"Destroyed them? How?"
&nb
sp; "From what I hear, the father worked in maintenance for the Lawrence school system. His wife worked in the system as well, as a secretary. Within a week, both of them were out of work. Then they were evicted from their apartment. Their children got into trouble at school and were suspended. No matter what they did, no matter who they talked to, their lives were ruined. They even packed up from Lawrence and moved to New York. And like some curse or something, she followed them there as well. Last I heard, the parents got divorced, Dad is serving time at Concord-MCI, Mom is on welfare, and who knows what kind of future the children will have. All because they were on her beach. And didn't leave when they were asked."
Above us, Senator Pomeroy's face was turning a light shade of red, as he did his best to work the crowd into a frenzy. Near me, a woman of about thirty was looking up at the senator while she worked on her nails.
I said, "Appreciate the history lesson."
"That was the lengthy lesson," Paula said. "Here's the short lesson. Don't piss her off. She's a wealthy woman with time on her hands who can afford to see her whims, no matter how nasty they are, be fulfilled. I'd hate to see you become one of her whims."
"Point taken," I said.
The young lady next to me started working on her other hand. Paula said, "So, that's what I've got for you. What's your side of the deal, my friend?"
I thought for a moment and leaned into her and said, "Take in this scene well."
"What scene is that?"
"Of Senator Pomeroy, running for president."
She turned to me, face now serious and inquisitive. "Say that again."
"Senator Pomeroy. He won't be a candidate in a few weeks."
"He's dropping out?"
"That's what I hear."
Now her tone matched the look on her face. "Lewis ... this is Paula from the Chronicle now talking to you. This isn't Paula your bud ... got it?"
"Got it."
"All right then," she said. "What do you have for me?"
I chose my words carefully. "An informed source connected with the Nash Pomeroy campaign has confirmed that due to personal reasons, Senator Nash Pomeroy will withdraw from the presidential primary race within the next few weeks."
Her hands seemed to fly across the keyboard. "How good is this source? Not some volunteer who's upset that they've run out of bumper stickers."
"Nope, a well-paid consultant."
"Okay," she said. "The personal reasons. What do they involve?"
"Something involving the senator and events in Illinois."
"Illinois? Far from home."
"Away from your fellow scribblers and other prying eyes."
"Can you tell me what happened in Illinois?"
"No, I'm afraid I can't," I said.
"And this is good information?"
"Solid," I said.
"Real solid? I mean to put this out in the Monday paper ... and it's going to cause a hell of a crapstorrn with the Pomeroy campaign and the other news media, my little paper breaking a story like this."
"Solid as a rock."
Paula finished typing and then gently scratched one of her delightfully protruding ears. "You know, this is the kind of story that's going to need another source before going to press. No offense to you and your mysterious informant."
"No offense taken Who?"
She grinned. "My dear Mr. Spencer, that's who."
"The Tyler town counsel? Your better half?"
"The same," she said. "He has connections to the Nash Pomeroy campaign. Once I get out of this wake, I'll give him a call. Man, that's going to tick him off something awful."
"Think he'll talk?"
The smile got wider. "If he wants to continue to be lucky with me, he'd better talk, and better give it all up."
"If he's smart, he'll do just that."
Senator Pomeroy then wrapped things up by saying, " ... and I look forward to your support next Tuesday. Thank you, thank you so very much!"
Some steady applause that dribbled out after a number of seconds, and she put her mouth up to my ear and said, "Thanks, Lewis. A scoop like this ... well, it'll make all this weekend and night work this past month worth it."
"Glad to hear it," I said, standing up.
She stood up as well, gathered her laptop, and looked at Senator Pomeroy, gamely shaking the hands of those few voters who came up to him.
Paula shook her head and said, "You know, there are times, like I told you back at lunch, when I think this primary season is so special. And then I look at what we have here. The endless cattle show. The endless droning recitation of canned speeches. Candidates who hate what they're doing, and hate being here. Makes you wonder how this fair little country of ours stumbles along. Lord knows candidates like Lincoln or FDR or JFK or even Ike couldn't survive what goes on now, with the cable networks and all the background investigations. So what do we end up with? Bland candidates with bland backgrounds who try to be everything to everybody ... that's what we get."
"You know what Churchill said," I told her.
"What? About fighting on the landing fields and beaches?"
"No," I said. "Something about democracy being the worse political system ever devised, except for the rest."
"Sounds right," she said. "I just hope the people, God bless 'em, never decide to put that statement to the test and try something else. Thanks again for the tip, Lewis. Gotta get going."
"Me, too," I said,
I went out of the cafeteria and spared a quick glance back.
Senator Nash Pomeroy was navigating a crowd of reporters and news photographers, the harsh light from the television cameras making his face look puffy and red. Paula was right. It was a hell of a process.
But so far, the only one we've got.
Chapter Sixteen
At home I built a fire and checked my messages. Another baker's dozen, of which I deleted twelve. It got to the point where I knew to delete the message when I heard nothing for the first few seconds; it usually took that long for the automated message to begin its spiel, allowing me to avoid yet another heartfelt automatic plea to either vote for somebody or vote against somebody. There was also one live message, from a very real person --- Annie --- which I returned, and I was pleased that it went right through.
"Oh, Lewis, it's you," she said, and I sensed the exhaustion in her voice.
"Sounds like you're running on caffeine and energy," I said.
"Lots of caffeine, not much energy. Oh, we're getting close, my dear, so very close."
"What's going on?"
"Latest round of polling shows the damn race is still fluid," she said. "Hale still holds on to a lead, but that hold is damn slippery. All it'd take is one bit of bad news, one bit of controversy, and it could sink us ... but if we hang on till Tuesday morning, then we can make it. And then it's on to South Carolina."
"South Carolina ... with or without Annie Wynn?"
She laughed. "South Carolina ... here's your answer about that. All right if I move in with you Wednesday morning? Take a vacation?"
'Where do you want to go?"
"Mmm," she murmured. "No goddamn where, that's where. I want you to unplug the phone and your computer, and I want a fire in the fireplace all day and night, and I want all of my meals served on a tray on my lap. And the only thing I want to see on television are old movies. Cary Grant. Gregory Peck. Audrey Hepburn. Katharine Hepburn. Spencer Tracy. Think you can arrange that for me?"
"Consider it done."
Another sigh. "But I have something for you, if you'd like."
"What's that?"
"Monday night," she said. "You free?"
"Of course."
"Good. We're having an old-fashioned wingding of a political rally for Senator Hale, at the Center of New Hampshire. Free food and drinks ... music ... lights, camera, and action. One last big-ass rally before voting begins the next day. I'd love to have you there, right with me, holding hands, as the campaign wraps up in New Hampshire. Tell me you'll say yes.
"
I looked at the dancing flames, thinking, just a couple more days, that's all, just a couple more days. Then this damn primary and its problems be over.
"Yes," I said. "Of course, yes."
"Thank you, dear," she said, and I made out voices in the background, and she said, "The campaign calls. See you Monday night, 5:00 P.M. The Center of New Hampshire. Come to Room 110, all right?"
"Room 110, 5:00 P.M., Monday night. It's a date."
She chuckled. "It seems like ages since I've heard you say that. A date it is. Bye, now."
"Bye."
After I hung up, I looked at the flames again for a while, before getting up and making a simple dinner of corn beef hash, fried up in a big black cast iron skillet. Feeling particularly bachelorish, I ate from the pan to save some cleaning up. Annie would have been horrified to see me and that made me smile, to think of her face. After I ate I made a speed clean of the kitchen and decided it was time to go to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and I know it was arrogant of me to say so, but I had no doubt what I was going to do on Sunday would have an impact on who the next president of the United States would be.
Despite of all that, I slept fairly well.
Sunday morning I went over to the Lafayette House for my daily dose of newspapers, and Stephanie wasn't working that day, so I got out with my heavy load of reading without any serious conversation. I was also pleasantly surprised at seeing a familiar face while leaving the lobby; Chuck Bittner, campaign operative for General Grayson, who looked at me and pretended he didn't know who I was. The pleasant surprise, of course, was not in seeing him; it was in his ignoring me. I guess our little visit was already working. I returned the favor and walked back home.
It was a brisk morning, a faint breeze coming off the ocean, the salt smell good to notice. Out on the horizon were the lumps of rock and soil marking the Isles of Shoals; and I made out a freighter, heading north to the state's only major port, in Porter. There was a nice winter contrast to the snow and ice on the ground, the sharp darkness of the boulders, and heavy blue of the water that reminded me again of how nice it was to live here, even in the dark times of winter. Even when the quadrennial circus was in town, bringing with it all sorts of problems and headaches.
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