No One Can Know

by Lucy Kerr

  Ah. “You knew this was temporary, Charlie. I can put my life on hold for a little while, but I can’t abandon it.”

  “I know that,” she snapped, “but do you have to be so eager to leave?”

  “I’m not leaving!”

  “You will, though. In three months, as you keep reminding us at every turn, you’ll be off to a new adventure. Or back to your old one, I guess. And when you go, you’ll break Riley’s heart. She worships you, Frankie. You’d have to be blind not to see it.”

  “She’ll be happy to get her room back,” I protested.

  She turned away as the door opened again. “Keep telling yourself that. In three months, you might even believe it.”

  “Morning, Charlie!” called a cheery voice, rough and reedy at the same time.

  “Hi, Uncle Marshall,” we replied in unison. A moment later, he popped into sight, wearing his newsman’s uniform: windowpane-check shirt, knit tie, brown felt porkpie hat. I’d known him my entire life, and the only time I’d seen him without that hat was at my father’s funeral.

  “Frankie too! It’s my lucky day.” His smile faded as he caught sight of our faces. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Charlie said, brimming with false cheer.

  “Don’t lie to an old man,” he chided her and turned to me. “Frankie, your mother’s wondering where you’ve gotten to.”

  Funny how being faced with my father’s oldest friend made me feel like I was ten again. Marshall Davis wasn’t technically our uncle, but he’d been a constant presence in our lives, even after my dad’s death more than twenty years ago. Now he was nearly seventy, the editor of the local paper, and happy to play the curmudgeon when it suited him.

  “I was at work,” I said.

  He raised a bushy eyebrow. “The desk clerk told your mother you’d left quite a while ago.”

  “She called them?” I buried my face in my hands. “I’m never going to live this down.”

  Charlie grinned at my mortification. No doubt she viewed it as cosmic retribution for our fight. “Slow news day, Uncle Marshall?”

  “With the Tibbs case in our backyard?” he scoffed. “Hardly. Police named their suspect, now we’ve got a manhunt on our hands. Half the town wants to tell me their crackpot theories about Josh Miller, and the other half wants me to give them the scoop. Why would I do that when they can read about it for a dollar tomorrow?”

  I managed to keep myself from pointing out that most of his readers could get the same information online. Somehow, the Stillwater Journal-Standard had managed to stay in print all these years, operating out of an office above the local dance studio. Tutus and News, Uncle Marshall called it. And even though he looked a lot older now, with his narrow build slightly stooped and blue eyes surrounded with wrinkles after a lifetime of squinting at copy, it was obvious there was nothing he’d rather do.

  “Everyone’s talking about it,” he continued and fixed me with a stern look. “Except the people I want to hear from. Word is, you were there. Worked on Kate Tibbs and Josh Miller. Talked to Steven.”

  “No comment,” I said, holding up a hand. “The hospital administration was very clear about not talking to the press.”

  “I’m family!” he protested.

  “Family with a steno pad in his coat pocket.” I gestured to the notebook peeking out. “No. Comment.”

  “Fine, fine.” He shoved the notebook away, but his eyes never left my face. “You’re as bad as the MacLean boy.”

  “Don’t badger Noah,” I ordered. “He’s got enough on his plate.”

  “I’m exercising my First Amendment rights!”

  “We were just talking about the election,” Charlie said in an attempt at distraction. “Do you think the accident will change anything?”

  “Hardly an accident,” Uncle Marshall replied. “Not from what I’m hearing.”

  “Noah didn’t tell you that,” I said.

  “I have sources other than your deputy,” he said with asperity. “Also, they just wrapped the press conference.”

  “He’s not my deputy,” I replied, but Charlie waved me off.

  “Are they close to catching the guy?” she asked.

  “They’ll find him,” Uncle Marshall replied. “When they do, we’ll know exactly what his motive was.”

  “You don’t think it’s revenge?” Open and shut, Noah had said, but some part of me continued to resist the idea.

  “Could be.” Uncle Marshall settled at the counter with a groan, cast a longing look at the coffeepot. “Interesting that they’ve been looking at the campaign, though. Makes me think not all the conspiracy theories people are nattering on about are as half-baked as they sound.”

  “Steven has an alibi,” I said. “So does his skeevy campaign manager. Noah cleared them almost immediately.”

  “True enough. But there’s more than one campaign running, isn’t there?”

  “Norris Mackie?” I said. “He was at a fundraiser that night too. What’s his story?”

  Charlie set a mug of coffee in front of Uncle Marshall, and he sipped ruminatively before saying, “Mackie’s a long-standing incumbent—he’s been in office since you two were kids. You should know your representatives, girls.” When I didn’t take the bait, he continued. “Mackie’s known as someone who toes the party line but doesn’t rock the boat. Looks after his district.”

  “So he’s popular?” I asked.

  Marshall shrugged. “As popular as a politician can be—which is to say, not particularly. This is the first time in a long while he’s had to run a real campaign, and based on what I’m hearing, it might be his last.”

  “Steven has a real shot, huh?” I tried to envision Steven in Washington, Ted Sullivan at his shoulder whispering and guiding. Steven’s name was on the ballot, but who had the real power there?

  “That’s what the polls say, though they get it wrong more often than not,” he replied. “Ask the same person the same question three different ways, you’ll get three different answers.”

  “What does your gut say?” Charlie asked with a grin. Uncle Marshall’s “gut” was legendary. As a kid, I’d scoffed, but these days I relied on my own enough to respect his.

  He removed his hat and settled it on the counter like a judge with a gavel. “Steven Tibbs will be in DC come January.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said as Charlie skirted the counter and headed toward the paint machine. “If people are happy with Mackie, how could Steven beat him?”

  “Fresh blood,” Charlie said as she measured out pigment. “Mackie’s ancient. He’s been in office forever, and people want someone fresh, someone with the energy to get stuff done.”

  Uncle Marshall bristled at the assessment but didn’t disagree. “Steven’s got that rare combination of new ideas in a familiar face. He’ll shake things up—but not too much.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t care about the election,” I said to Charlie.

  “I don’t,” she called back over the rumbling of the paint shaker. “But it’s all anyone can talk about these days—other than you.”

  “It’s hard to defeat an incumbent,” I said to Uncle Marshall, who nodded.

  “Mackie’s built up quite a war chest, but he’s out of practice,” he said. “Tibbs has more energy to visit nursing homes and kiss babies. The better his numbers look, the more his backers shell out. Television ads don’t come cheap, you know—and neither does an operative like Ted Sullivan.”

  “What’s the deal with that guy?” I asked. “If he’s such a big deal, why is he here? This is a small district in rural Illinois. I’d think he’d be working on some campaign in Chicago or New York. Someplace big.”

  “Rumor is that Steven has some donors with deep pockets, and they wanted to protect their investment. Mackie’s a tough old bird, and he’s not going down without a fight. Sullivan’s a bulldog, a bruiser. He’ll do all the dirty fighting, and Steven’s halo won’t wind up tarnished.”

  Asking the
question made me feel calculating and cold, but I did it anyway. “Will Kate’s death help Steven’s numbers?”

  “Hard to say,” Marshall replied. “He’ll gain some points out of sympathy, probably. But it’s one thing to elect a family man, and it’s another to send a grieving single father to Washington, especially if he was voted in with the idea he’d get a lot done.”

  “So he’s more electable if he has a wife to take care of the house and the baby? That’s pretty sexist,” grumbled Charlie as she started mixing the next can of paint.

  “That’s politics,” Marshall replied with a shrug.

  “Mackie couldn’t possibly say that,” I argued. “People would be horrified. They’d think he was using Kate’s death against Steven—it would totally backfire.”

  “He won’t say it himself,” Marshall said. “He’s been in the game too long to make that kind of mistake. But mark my words, there’ll be murmurs soon enough masquerading as concern. Rumors you can’t trace back to a source. If they catch on quickly, it could turn the tide—the election’s only a few weeks away, after all.”

  “Is Mackie that desperate to hang onto his seat?”

  Marshall’s eyebrows lifted. “Desperate enough to start rumors? Or kill his opponent’s pregnant wife?”

  “Everybody knows who did it,” Charlie said. “That Miller guy.”

  “In my experience, what ‘everyone knows’ is usually wrong,” Marshall retorted.

  We fell silent, mulling over his words.

  “Mackie could have hired him,” Charlie suggested, revealing a cynical streak I hadn’t realized she possessed.

  Unease stirred. Josh Miller—a not-very-bright career criminal with a sizeable grudge—would have made the perfect patsy. Noah’s open-and-shut case creaked a little wider every time I thought about it.

  “Quite a risk for Norris, even assuming Miller got away clean,” Uncle Marshall said. “Not something he’s known for.”

  Charlie, however, wasn’t giving up. “He might have figured that Steven would be so devastated he’d drop out, or maybe he’d hoped Steven would take it as a warning. Maybe he thought Steven would be in the car too. Wasn’t Kate supposed to go to the fundraiser?”

  “A double murder? That seems extreme, doesn’t it? This is Stillwater, not Chicago,” I said.

  “How could I forget?” she retorted. “It’s all you talk about. People are people, no matter where you go. I’ll bet you a milkshake that Steven Tibbs and Norris Mackie care as much about this election as any Chicago politician.”

  Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time for me to look a little more closely at the opposition.

  *

  Charlie left for the hospital, and Uncle Marshall took over the register while I went home. My temper had cooled during my visit to the store—or perhaps it had found a new target. Either way, a confrontation with my mother over her meddling could wait until after I’d slept.

  “Francesca, where have you been?” Mom called as I walked in, dropping my bag on the floor and toeing off my shoes. “Your cat has been—”

  I brushed past her and started up the stairs. She trailed after me, still complaining about the cat, all the way to the second floor and down the hallway to my room.

  “Honestly, Francesca, what on earth is the matter with you? You haven’t said two words since you got home.”

  I turned to face her, bracing my hand on the doorframe. “You want two words? Fine. Art. Gundersen.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, caught sight of my face, and closed it again.

  I nodded, shut the door, and went to bed.

  Eight

  I woke to an unexpectedly silent house. No chatter from the kitchen, no squeaking floorboards or clatter of dishes. Just sweet, sweet silence. I rolled out of bed and padded to the closet, throwing on a clean pair of jeans and a favorite flannel shirt, worn soft and thin. It smelled of the same fabric softener my mother had used when I was a kid, artificial but comforting. Rubbing the grit from my eyes, I went downstairs and hunted in the fridge for a snack, coming up with an apple when what I was really craving was something deep-fried and deeply unhealthy. A faint crackle and hum emanated from the counter, next to the phone. When I checked, I found a police radio scanner plugged in and turned down low. I rolled my eyes and switched it off. No wonder my mom was always up on the latest gossip.

  In the living room, the grandfather clock chimed, jolting me out of my skin and out the door, apple in hand. Time to pick up Riley.

  I expected the usual greeting when I got to the school—Riley, giddy with freedom, racing across the playground, arms outstretched with her backpack bouncing.

  Instead, she trudged toward me, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped.

  “Hey, kiddo. What’s wrong?”

  She shrugged, tracing an arc in the wood chips with the toe of her shoe, then held out an envelope.

  I frowned and took it from her, skimming the note inside. “You fell asleep during a social studies movie?”

  “I didn’t mean to. The room was dark, and the movie was so boring, Aunt Frankie. I couldn’t help it.” She staggered, as if the sheer weight of her boredom was toppling her.

  I’d felt the same way as a kid. Charlie had always been the conscientious one. I’d felt like I was stuck in a twelve-year prison sentence. I hated to see Riley feeling the same way—but even though school had never seemed to be her favorite, this was a new low. Combined with her sickbed routine yesterday, I was starting to suspect there was more to the story.

  “Do you have a best friend?”

  “I have two,” she said. “Jasper and Janie.”

  “Are they twins?” Instead of turning for home, we went the other direction toward the hardware store.

  “Nope,” she said as if it should be obvious. “Janie’s my soccer best friend. Jasper is my school best friend.”

  “Ah, got it.” I’d forgotten about the intricacies of school friendships and alliances, but nothing in her reply suggested that was the source of the trouble. “Did you learn more about fossils today?”

  “A little.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, I tried again, desperate enough to go with a fail-safe. “How was the soccer game last night?”

  “Okay.” She yawned, gave another shrug.

  Now I was starting to worry. Riley was a chatterbox most days, but even when she was feeling grumpy, the chance to give me the play-by-play of her soccer skills never failed to engage her.

  Except now.

  She looked wan, her eyes dull instead of their usual sparkling green. But she wasn’t flushed, and when I felt her forehead, I couldn’t detect any sign of a fever.

  “What time did you go to sleep last night?”

  “I dunno,” she said, gaze sliding away.

  Charlie kept Riley on a strict eight o’clock bedtime. As I knew only too well, however, bedtime was not the same as in bed, fast asleep. I’d mastered that nuance during my teen years; I’d hoped every day since that my mother never found out.

  “Sleep’s pretty important,” I said offhandedly, not wanting to come across as a nag. Nagging was Charlie’s job. “I took a giant nap today, and I feel a zillion percent better.”

  “I am too old for naps,” Riley said firmly.

  “We’ll revisit this conversation when you’re in college, kiddo. In the meantime, no staying up past bedtime, okay? Otherwise, you won’t have energy to do fun stuff with me.”

  She watched me for a moment, suspicion plain on her features. No doubt she was thinking of all the times she’d been promised something fun—some reward for enduring a week of school or a particularly boring visit with aged relatives or a long, dull day at the store—only to discover that her idea of fun was not the same as Charlie and Matt’s. I’d been there enough times myself, and I vowed not to disappoint.

  “First up,” I said. “Let’s talk Halloween. We should carve pumpkins, don’t you think?”

  She nodded eagerly, and I felt the tiniest bit smug. I’d
timed my distraction well—downtown Stillwater was brimming with autumn charm, every window decked out in black and orange in preparation for Halloween, jack-o’-lanterns grinning toothily.

  We stopped to inspect each one on our way to the store—we’d be late, but it seemed like a small price to pay when Riley was reverting to her usual garrulous self. She dragged me from pumpkin to pumpkin, critiquing them and planning out her own carving session. (“Zombie pumpkins, Aunt Frankie! It’ll be awesome!”) Two blocks away from Stapleton and Sons, the sign on a white brick building made me pause. Curious, I peered in the darkened window, cupping my hands around my eyes to make out what was inside.

  After my conversation with Uncle Marshall, Congressman Mackie—and his local office—were irresistible.

  With the lights off, I could barely see row after row of tables crammed with phones, binders, and office supplies. The walls were plastered with posters and maps, and along the back of the room, a long red banner proclaimed: “NORRIS MACKIE: FIGHTING FOR YOU.”

  Despite the deserted appearance, I reached for the door handle.

  “Have you been waiting long?” A young woman who couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of college raced across the street, holding up a white paper bag from the town diner. “I’m so sorry! I was just getting a late lunch.”

  “Is the office closed?”

  She beamed. “The Congressman’s door is always open to his constituents.”

  Rather than admit I wasn’t a constituent, I told Riley to check out a few more pumpkins, then followed the woman inside. Phone banks and campaign posters aside, it was decorated in generic office chic: industrial-gray carpet, air tinged with the scent of burned coffee, and the faint buzz overhead from the fluorescent lights as they flickered on.

  “Are you interested in volunteering?” Her voice was nearly breathless with delight. “Or did you need a yard sign?”

  I shifted, hitching my backpack over my shoulder. What was I doing here? The entire sheriff’s department was hunting Josh Miller. Even if there was more to it than simple revenge, and Norris Mackie was involved, it seemed unlikely that he’d leave evidence between the brochures and the bumper stickers. Like Uncle Marshall, I believed in my gut—but gut reactions were no good if you didn’t have something to react to, and I needed something more solid than town gossip or mere conjecture.