by Nancy Warren
“Motion not carried,” said Patrick in a clipped tone. There was little more to say, and in minutes the meeting was adjourned.
Briana felt as if somebody had kicked her in the stomach. She’d worked all day preparing the irrefutable evidence that there was an acute funding shortage in the city, and Patrick had argued passionately and eloquently on behalf of the very people who risked their lives day after day to keep Courage Bay safe.
How could they have failed?
Maybe Uncle Cecil would have voted against the proposal no matter who was mayor, but she couldn’t get out of her mind the possibility that her uncle had let personal feelings interfere with his better judgment.
She left as soon as she could. As she glanced back, she saw that Patrick was talking with the two councilors who’d supported him. Her uncle and his two supporters left chambers together. Her uncle glanced her way and, when no one was looking, winked at her. She smiled slightly, but couldn’t rid herself of the weight of disappointment that pressed on her chest.
She knew Uncle Cecil was a fiscal conservative, and she respected his views. She only wished he could be a little more open to the fact that this current funding crisis wasn’t a little blip. Courage Bay was practically fighting for its life. In the past months the city had faced drought, severe storms, forest fires, earthquakes, mud slides and a rare viral outbreak. Now it seemed their latest crisis would be a monetary one.
She would have liked to exchange a word with Patrick, just to let him know how sorry she was his motion hadn’t passed, but he was busy chatting with Fred Glazeman when she left.
In no mood to go straight home, in spite of a sleepless night followed by a marathon day at work, she headed for Uncle Cecil and Aunt Irene’s place. Maybe she could do more good for this city if she could reconcile her uncle to Patrick’s proposal. If she could get Cecil Thomson onside, she knew he’d sway those who’d voted with him. She smiled wryly. She’d gone from undercover spy to lobbyist in one day.
Not that she was much of a spy. Her only piece of evidence was missing. At lunchtime she’d checked her car thoroughly, and even casually asked Bert if he’d found anything in the elevator. He’d handed her a paper clip and made some joke about recycling office supplies. Hah, hah.
She’d even phoned Shannon O’Shea to see if the firefighters had picked up anything, though common sense told her they’d have handed the tape recorder over right away if they had found it.
“What have you lost?” Shannon asked.
“Just an earring. It wasn’t valuable, but it has sentimental value.”
“Did you ask Patrick?” Shannon queried, an edge to her voice, and Briana wished she hadn’t bothered phoning. The tape and recorder must be at home somewhere.
Her aunt was delighted to see her. Irene Thomson was a very attractive woman who always looked elegant. Even her white slacks and sky-blue blouse were dressed up with an expensive leather belt and loafers. She’d let her hair go gray and it was a gorgeous pewter color, stunning against her porcelain complexion and deep blue eyes.
After wrapping her niece in a scented embrace, she insisted on warming up some leftover dinner. “If I know you, you’ve been too busy to eat properly. I know Cecil will be hungry when he gets home.”
So Briana found herself sipping sparkling water and putting a bowl of salad on the already set table when her uncle walked in. He broke into a big smile when he saw her and, after he’d kissed his wife hello, wrapped his niece in a bear hug. “So, you came for dinner after all,” he said lightly.
“I didn’t plan to eat, but Aunt Irene loves to feed me.”
He chuckled. “That she does.”
Over dinner they chatted about the family and reminisced about a holiday the three of them had taken in France and Italy as a present to Briana when she’d graduated from college. By the time they’d finished dinner, they were laughing heartily.
“It was all right for you two, but I had an awful time fighting off the men who went wild over Briana,” her uncle complained.
“I think it was my blond hair,” Briana said, wrinkling her nose.
“Nonsense. You’re too beautiful for your own good. You take after your mother that way.”
“Oh, that was such a good trip. Why don’t I get out the photo albums?” Aunt Irene suggested.
“I was really hoping to talk to Uncle Cecil for a few minutes about a work thing,” Briana said.
“Oh, of course, dear. I’m sure you’ve got lots to discuss.” Her aunt didn’t take an active role in Briana’s deception, but Briana knew Irene felt no compunction about hurting the man who’d hurt her husband. Briana understood that kind of loyalty. She had it herself. The trouble was, as loyal as she was to her uncle, she was fast developing an equally strong loyalty to her boss.
Uncle Cecil took her into his study. The room’s decor was inspired by a traditional men’s club. Burgundy walls, a British India rug, an oversize mahogany desk, leather chairs and even hunting prints on the walls.
She almost expected to be offered a cigar and brandy when she sat down.
“Uncle Cecil,” she said, “I’ve been working for Patrick O’Shea for two months now and he’s never done anything remotely illegal or unethical.”
Her uncle’s eyes hardened and his mouth firmed. “What about inappropriate overtures to his assistant?”
Forcing herself not to blush, she shook her head. It was the truth, after all. She was the one who’d made the overtures in the elevator.
“I see. Well, he’s been busy.” Cecil blew out a breath. “We’ve all been busy with this wretched trouble.”
“I know. I’m just wondering. Uncle Cecil, could it have been someone else who sent that false evidence to the Sentinel?”
“Of course not. Who else would bother?”
“I know it sounds strange, but maybe someone who supported his campaign?”
Uncle Cecil leaned back in his chair and regarded the ceiling, his habit when he was thinking deeply. “You’re suggesting Zirinsky could have acted on his own?”
Max Zirinsky was a good man. It was difficult to imagine him doing something so underhanded. “I’m only saying that it might not have been Patrick O’Shea. And if it wasn’t him,” she hurried on, “then maybe you two could bury the hatchet and try working together for the good of Courage Bay.”
Her uncle turned to look at her, and she saw the hurt in his eyes. “Do you think I don’t care about this city? I’ve lived here most of my life. I know these people. I’ve served them both as a banker and as a councilor. It’s my duty to stop some young hothead with dubious ethics and his own agenda from spending us into bankruptcy. I won’t let him destroy this city, Briana. I won’t.”
“Are you sure this isn’t personal?” she asked softly.
“Of course, it’s personal. He ruined my chances of ever being mayor, he ruined my loving wife’s peace of mind for weeks. Now it looks like your precious mayor is trying to ruin my relationship with my niece!”
“I just want to do the right thing,” she said, rising from her chair.
“Then do it. Make that bastard pay for hurting your family.”
“OKAY, PATRICK, we’ll be live in five, four, three, two, one and-” The light on the camera blinked and Patrick looked directly into the camera. He didn’t need any speaking notes or other aids from his communications advisor. He was appearing live on KSEA TV station at the time of day when most of Courage Bay was tuned in. The local news was finished and the station had preempted some programming to give him a chance to talk directly to the city’s citizens. Patrick knew exactly what he wanted to say.
He’d explained to the head of the station earlier in the day what he wanted to do, and Timeright Communications, the station’s owner, had been more than willing to provide him this public forum. After the day’s regular news, Patrick was on a live broadcast to take his message straight to the people. This would be followed by a live phone-in segment with KSEA’s news coanchor, Andrew Hayden.
/> “People of Courage Bay,” Patrick began, speaking from his heart to the people he’d seen at yesterday’s ribbon-cutting, to the families who’d lost relatives in the crises of the past few months, and to his neighbors, friends and voters.
“For more than one hundred and fifty years, the people of Courage Bay have been known for their selfless and valiant sacrifices in coming to the aid of their fellow citizens in times of disaster. In more recent months, we’ve seen our own times of crisis. We’ve lost neighbors, friends and loved ones. We’ve seen our police officers, our paramedics, firefighters and ambulance drivers risking their lives to avert disaster and save lives. Our hospital staff have worked countless hours of overtime to treat victims of fires, earthquakes, rare viruses, droughts and mud slides.
“Our emergency services teams are stretched to the limits of their endurance. I’ve repeatedly asked city council for more funding to hire additional emergency personnel and to support the strain on the city’s infrastructure and resources.
“As you may be aware, there is a Courage Bay Emergency Fund with several million dollars in it. That fund was set up almost two decades ago to help pay for any unforeseen, extraordinary expenses that might crop up.
“I believe that we need to tap that fund now in order to hire more emergency service workers, keep our emergency equipment in top shape and shorten emergency response times.
“In order to access the emergency fund, we need a one hundred percent yes vote from city council. If you care about your city, your safety and your future, contact your member of city council and demand their support to free up this fund.
“Last night in an emergency meeting, only two of five councilors voted to release much-needed money. It’s time for your voices to be heard.
“Your city council was elected by you to serve you, the people of Courage Bay. I urge you to make your feelings known. I’ll be standing by for the next hour, taking your phone calls. Please feel free to ask me anything. As your mayor, I’ll do my best to answer what I can, and if I don’t know the answer, I’ll make sure and get it to you within twenty-four hours.”
He paused for a sip of water, reminding himself to keep his voice slow and steady. He thought about his mom and about Mrs. Simpson and pretended he was talking to the two of them. By speaking directly to two women he cared for, and who were caretakers themselves, he felt a sense of calm.
“Too much precious time and energy has been wasted. It’s time to support your emergency crews. Call now.”
The camera switched to Anchorman Hayden, who said, “Thank you, Mayor O’Shea. Our telephone lines are open. The station number is at the bottom of your screen. At the end of the program, we’ll also post phone numbers, fax, e-mail and snail mail addresses of all the members of city council. Exercise your right to be heard.” Behind the cameraman, the producer held two thumbs up.
“MAYOR’S OFFICE.” Briana answered the phone on her desk without glancing away from the television screen in Patrick’s office. He was facing the camera, talking sincerely and powerfully, taking his message straight to the people.
As sorry as she was that he’d taken this step without council’s knowledge or approval, she couldn’t find it in her heart to blame him.
She shifted her attention from the TV screen to listen to her caller. “Is my daddy there?” a young voice asked.
“Is this Dylan?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Dylan. Your daddy is at the television station right now. He’s on TV. If you turn on your set, you’ll see him.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. Then, “When will he be home?”
“Maybe another hour or two. Is everything okay?”
“I guess. I was hoping he’d be home now.”
Her heart went out to Dylan. He was obviously upset about something and wanted his dad. Maybe there was something she could do to help, Briana thought.
“Did something go wrong at school today?”
“No.”
Well, something must have happened. Had the baby-sitter punished him? Mrs. Simpson had seemed like a decent, caring woman the one time Briana had met her when she brought the kids by to see their dad, but Dylan struck her as a sensitive boy who could be easily hurt. Briana had a feeling that, even though she was younger, Fiona was the tougher one emotionally. Of course, she’d been younger when they lost their mother. Briana was guessing it had hit Dylan hardest.
“Did something happen with Mrs. Simpson?”
While she spoke with Dylan, she kept an eye on the television. Patrick was as appealing on television as he was in person. She had a feeling Dylan would grow up to look similar. Both had the black hair and blue eyes.
“I think maybe it did. She’s not here.”
Her gaze immediately snapped from the TV screen to the phone as though she could see through it. “What do you mean she’s not there?”
“When we were dropped off at home by the car pool, Mrs. Simpson wasn’t home and the door was locked. I had to use the secret hidden key.” His voice held a touch of pride.
Briana would be smiling at how cute he was if her heart weren’t pounding so fast.
“Did the car-pool mom drive away before you and your sister were in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Are you alone? You and your sister?” Alarm spiked through her, but she kept it from her tone. They were awfully young to be alone, and she imagined Patrick would have a fit if he knew.
“Yes. I told you. Mrs. Simpson wasn’t here when we came in the house. I don’t know where she is. She didn’t leave a note.”
Cursing the woman for abandoning her young charges, Briana grabbed her purse and pulled on her navy linen suit jacket. She could try calling Patrick’s mother, or the children’s aunt Shannon, but that would only waste time and she suspected she was geographically closest to the children. She couldn’t stand to think of those kids alone. “I’m going to come over and sit with you until your dad gets back. Would you like that?”
“I guess.”
He tried to sound tough but she heard the relief in his voice.
“I’m leaving the office right now and I should get to your house in about fifteen minutes. Can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Make sure the doors are locked. Do you remember what I look like?”
“Yes.”
“Good. What’s Fiona doing right now?”
“She’s in the den watching SpongeBob SquarePants.”
“That’s great. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t open the door until you know it’s me. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Normally, Briana wasn’t one to speed, but today she couldn’t get to Patrick’s children fast enough. Her heart pounded and her stomach was in a knot. Maybe she was overreacting, but a nine-year-old and a five-year-old seemed way too young to be on their own. And the poor kid had sounded as if he felt that way, too.
As she neared Patrick’s house she noted that some of the stoplights were out, so she was forced to slow down and take the intersections with care. Finally, after what seemed like an hour and was in fact twelve minutes, she pulled up in front of Patrick’s house.
She went to the front door, figuring Dylan would be on the watch for her and would already have spied her through a window. She knocked.
“Who is it?”
Smart kid.
“It’s Briana Bliss.”
The door opened. Her first instinct was to hug Dylan, but she squelched it. He wasn’t hers to hug, and she suspected nine-year-old boys weren’t big on hugs.
They locked the door behind them and he took her into the den, where his sister was watching a sitcom rerun that didn’t look very age appropriate.
“Hey, do you guys want to watch your dad on TV?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
PATRICK WHISTLED as he drove home. He wasn’t normally a big one for whistling, but the occasion seemed to demand it. The phone-in TV program had been a bigger success t
han he’d dreamed possible. It seemed that almost every citizen of Courage Bay had called. The phone lines had stayed jammed and the station had to end the broadcast without having a chance to hear from everyone with something to say.
Regular citizens had phoned in, guys who pumped gas and packed groceries, teachers from the local schools, a cook from the Courage Bay Bar and Grill, homemakers and office workers, retail clerks and business owners. More than ninety percent had supported him in his plea to get that money released. There were some sad phone calls and some downright tragic ones, including a distraught call from Lee Harper, whose wife, Francine, had been killed in the convenience store collapse.
People who’d lost loved ones phoned to plead for the money so others might be saved in the future. Four firefighters called in, some nurses, a doctor or two, an ambulance driver.
The two councilmen who had supported him in last night’s meeting both phoned in to make their positions clear.
Councilman Cecil Thomson didn’t call and neither did his two cronies. Patrick didn’t believe for a second that they hadn’t sat glued to their TVs as they faced public humiliation. He was sorry the funding crisis couldn’t have been resolved in a less public way, but damn, he was glad to be finally getting somewhere. The message to the three hold-out councilmen from their constituents had been loud and clear: Release the money or face a citizens’ uproar.
So Patrick whistled. He had the windows open in the car, and he sure hoped no one could hear him, since his whistling was totally off-key-but he had to do something to celebrate.
He pulled in to his garage and cut the engine. He didn’t cut the whistling, though. He kept that up as he entered the house, pleased to note that he hadn’t missed a chance to see the kids before they went to bed. In fact, if Mrs. Simpson had been watching him on TV with the kids, he probably hadn’t even missed dinner.
SURE ENOUGH, something smelled good when he walked in. His mouth watered. It didn’t smell a lot like Mrs. Simpson’s usual cooking, which tended to include a lot of casseroles that relied heavily on cans of soup tossed over some kind of meat with crushed potato chips on top.
