She moved the contents of her purse to one big enough to hold everything.
The MARTA train stopped at the ICP Tower Plaza, but she decided that her loyalty to International Construction Products, Inc., did not extend to appearing at the office this day. She departed MARTA at the Arts Center station and walked the halls of the High Museum until noon. Too much time left. She had left home too early.
She walked along Peachtree Street, the hot wind gusting through the canyon. She stopped in front of a small antique shop south of 5th Street and peered at the treasures. He had taken a Sunday afternoon off once—a beautiful October day in 1995. They had eaten Greek salad for lunch at Patroculus and then, when he had said what she had wanted to do, she had chosen a walk through the Buckhead antiques shop. She had wanted him to see how well versed she was in decorating. She shuddered. He had been somewhere in India that weekend, shooting at some poor beast. She turned south, toward the hotel.
The Republican State Committee was meeting at 4:00 PM at the Ryder Hotel on Peachtree Street. Harding was expected to receive the Committee’s blessing with little discussion. He should appear on the street by 4:30. At 4:15 she stood across Peachtree Street from the hotel.
Harding bustled out of the hotel entrance at 4:25, waving at the waiting media people with two Nixonlike ‘Vs’.
She crossed the street, then stopped a few feet from where he was speaking with a television reporter. Such a funny looking little man.
When reporter had had departed, she approached. “Mr. Harding.”
He smiled, ready to greet yet another well wisher.
“Mr. Harding?” she repeated.
“Yes?” he said, then smiled, “But I’m Joe Earl to my friends.”
She smiled. “Mr. Harding, I’m Evonne Peterson.”
“Yes?” He was still smiling.
“I was Walter Mangrum’s secretary.”
Harding’s eyes narrowed. “A great man. A great loss.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “And yes.”
Harding cocked his head in question. “And?”
“After he—after he left—I was moving his effects to Archives.”
“Yes?” There was the beginning of concern on Harding’s face.
“I found these.” She extracted a grocery sack full of microcassettes from her purse.
“What do you have there?”
“Tape recordings of your conversations with Professor Sloan. Proof of your conspiracy to hound him to his death.”
Harding looked over his shoulder for his bodyguard. Rufus King was engaged in bringing Harding’s automobile forward.
“Had he known what was on these tapes, you wouldn’t be here today!” she screamed.
She flung the bag at him, the microcassettes spilling from the bag and bouncing off his face and shoulders.
“Rufus!” Harding yelled.
She reached into the purse again. “He was the greatest man in construction products that the world has ever known and you killed him! I had just one night of love to last me all of my life and you killed him!”
“What are you..?” Harding ceased speaking when he saw the revolver.
“This,” she screamed.
Two small bullets tore through his seersucker suit coat, red suspenders, shirt, and undershirt and then tumbled into his heart.
King reached Harding in time to catch the falling body, then looked at the woman. She handed the piston to him.
King took the gun, then looked at the man in his arms. “Mr. Harding—!”
“Should be quite dead,” she said, smiling.
“We are honored at your having joined us this evening,” Celia said.
“Free food and an opportunity to report to Joe Earl. An unbeatable combination.” Tyler glanced at his watch. “He’s due at 10:30?”
Sloan nodded.
“And the reason for his visit?” Tyler said.
“Said he’d like to see Twopenny Lane.”
When they were seated, Tyler said , “How do we stand regarding the Congressman, Thomas?”
Sloan hesitated a long moment, then said, “I’ve been trying to do some cohesive, overall thinking. I think that…”
“Trust you,” Tyler said, smiling.
Sloan ignored the comment. “I think that Joe Earl Harding is one of the most self- serving, unscrupulous, corrupt old men I’ve ever encountered.”
“Tom!” Celia exclaimed.
Sloan pointed at her. “You’ve always had second thoughts about Joe Earl, haven’t you?”
Celia nodded.
“And Woody has raised questions time and time again.”
Tyler nodded.
“Then open your minds.” He paused. “What’s he really been doing?”
“Helping Celia get her stock.”
Celia nodded.
“Has he? He’s done this for an unattractive client now thirty-three years dead and for a woman, who, at the outset, he may not have even known was alive? I don’t think so.
“I’ve done some research regarding our Svengali.”
“Let’s hear.”
“At a dinner in mid-July, he alleged that he had had a health problem one or two years before that had changed his attitude about the remainder of his life.”
Celia nodded.
“That’s not true. I had a friend of Bea’s pretend to be a reporter and call his office to ask about his health. His people were vehement in saying that he had never had any health problems of any kind—ever! No health problems means no balancing of his life’s efforts—no crusade to right old wrongs to the Morgan family.”
Both nodded.
Sloan looked at Tyler. “Two, you and Bea both reviewed his voting record. He had never wavered from his probusiness orientation until...”
“Until Cockerham.”
“Correct. Why, Cockerham, I said myself? More research by Bea. I learned that he has several times offered himself as a candidate for House management—Whip, Majority Leader, one time as Speaker. No success—the liberal wing of the Party always voted against him. He’s been unacceptable to them in a top leadership role.”
“And a vote against Cockerham was to have the effect of making him acceptable.”
“Precisely.”
“Where’s the link to ICP?”
“I think Mangrum was going to get rid him because of the Cockerham vote—direct ICP’s voting strength to a more trustworthy candidate. Joe Earl’s ambitions regarding House management suddenly became subordinate to finding a way to survive his District renomination process.”
“Not the election?” Celia said.
“Not for a Republican in the 14th District. How to be renominated was his concern.”
“OK.”
“I think his plan was to bring Walter down, then hope the fact there was a primary election in progress would be forgotten in the resulting disarray at ICP.
“OK, how could he do it? Answer: open what he thought was the Dryden note question, forcing Mangrum to preside over a lethal dilution.”
“And it appears to have worked,” Tyler said, nodding.
“Yes.”
There was a silence, then Sloan continued. “I have additional support for my accusation of venality. Interested?”
“Yes.”
Sloan began enumerating on his fingers. “Except for Joe Earl’s machinations, Walter Mangrum would be alive and doing a good job—in the eyes of the ICP Board, anyway— managing ICP.”
Tyler nodded.
“He abandoned Will, Jr. He sold out for a political job. Then he spent his life whoring for big business. When a fork in the road in our study occurred, he manipulated me into a situation that might have cost my life. When I said him if defrauding what was effectively an early investor had anything to do with financing Russian start-ups, he was adamant that looking into that subject should be part of the study.”
“Tom Sloan, puppet,” Tyler said wryly.
“Trilby.”
“In that vein,” Tyler said, “h
e put you and Celia in harm’s way twice and me once.” He hesitated. “Following that line of thought, there’s Mr. Pierce. He wouldn’t have died without Joe Earl’s maneuvers.”
“And we’ll never be sure of how William Morgan, Sr., died.”
“But” Celia said, “he did think of the press conference to protect me.”
“No accolades for that. He had to protect you until you made your claim. If you died before you made a claim, his campaign against Mangrum was over.”
They were silent at moment, then Celia said, “So, how is it that it took us until now to figure this out?”
“I’m at fault.” Sloan paused a long moment. “I wanted to believe in him. I wanted the study to be real and I wanted Celia to secure the stock.”
“Tom…,” Celia began.
“And it took me from our July dinner to now to see it all.”
Tyler looked at his watch. “11:00. I think we have a no -show, folks.” “I agree,” Sloan said.
Both men stood.
“Celia,” Tyler said, “would you mind if I checked the Brave’s score before I leave?” Celia turned on the television for the news, but it was the next day before Tyler
learned the results of the Brave’s game.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Jerry Dye and Tim Long, computer wizards and great friends.
The Dryden Note Page 25
