The Scotland Yard Exchange Series

by Stephanie Queen

  “Why’s that, little buddy?” Peter was pushing the limit with the Gilligan reference. Rick glared.

  “Because your way is inevitably the hard way, Rock Man. People don’t know how well that name suits you.” Now Rick’s look was sullen for real. Peter wasn’t concerned. It wouldn’t last.

  “The fallout from the debate has been headlines and paparazzi and personally probing questions on pregnancy, past romance and ticking biological clocks from every so-called journalist in town—and some from out of town too,” Val said to Dennis in the front seat. Madeline was only half listening because she was on the phone, but she made herself concentrate and renew her efforts at countering the onslaught.

  “No, Sister Angela, I am not pregnant and I would not have a baby out of wedlock—on purpose. I can tell you that for sure… We don’t need to cancel my speech at your parish picnic. Tell Father O’Malley.” Mad did a lot of headshaking and told the nun “yes, of course” a dozen more times before she got off the phone. Checking her watch to see it was only ten fifteen in the morning, less than twelve hours after the debate, and she’d already placated a dozen people in between a chamber of commerce breakfast and a Dunkin Donuts meet and greet. She sat in the back seat on her way to another garden club meeting. Dennis turned up the news that was always on in the background as Val tried to talk quietly to confirm the afternoon’s appointments.

  “Topping this day’s stories is the latest installment in the ‘do they or don’t they?’ debate in the race for governor. Ms. Grace denied she was pregnant with Mr. Douglas’s baby, but fell short of denying a romantic relationship with her key opponent and former heartthrob. Comparing him to chocolate…” Dennis slammed his palm on the dash, bringing the news to an abrupt end. If she could interpret that as news. All the talk of pregnancy made her think too much about it, about all the “what if” questions she’d tried hard to avoid asking herself all these years.

  Dennis looked over his shoulder at her in the back seat. They were in his car. Jon had the van with a bunch of college kids going door to door in some suburban neighborhoods. Val was riding shotgun with Clever. She stared back at him until he turned back to the road, keeping his eye on her in the rearview mirror. He was apparently taking her “emotional” temperature in response to that so-called news story. Buck up, old girl, it’s still three months till the election, she told herself.

  “What?” she finally said to Dennis. She didn’t like being watched with such suspicion by someone who was on her side.

  “We failed miserably. They’re combining your two worst habits, chocolate and PJD. The combination is turning out far worse than the sum of the parts.” Dennis was in his Irish mood.

  “You’re going to let one slick radio announcer get to you?” Mad stared back at him.

  “One slick…? You’re kidding. Once one of them comes up with something clever it snowballs. This guy probably didn’t even originate it. Wait till the evening news. I bet you lunch in the Caribbean on November fifth that they say something about PJD being as good as chocolate. I bet Rick Racer fed them the lines.”

  She wrinkled her nose. Truthfully, it did sound like Rick.

  “I guess you should know all about coming up with clever lines, Mr. Clever. But never mind that—what do the polls say?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid to make the call.”

  “Chicken-shit,” Val snorted at him. She took the phone off her ear and punched in some numbers. “I’ll find out.” She maneuvered her smartphone into submission while they all waited. Morty had developed a web-based program that automatically accessed a number of website polls three times a day and put them in a report format for their consumption. It also gathered the media reports of Gallup and other polls done by phone on a daily basis. They lived on the numbers. The reports were like food. Especially for Dennis. He smelled the numbers and then tried to herd them and the campaign in whatever direction those sacred numbers pointed. Madeline refused to pander to the audience. Any changes to her speeches were only alterations in the window dressing. So far that was tough enough to keep up with.

  Val nodded her head and looked in the rearview mirror at Mad, scrunching her nose. “You don’t want to hear this—the top question is ‘Do you think Madeline Grace should have Peter John Douglas’s baby?’ Not surprisingly, 62% of those polled said yes, with 12% undecided.”

  “Looks like they’re playing Barbie and Ken after all,” Mad half muttered.

  “What?” Val asked.

  “Want my opinion on that question?” Dennis asked.

  “No,” Val and Mad said simultaneously.

  Dennis scowled and pulled the car into a waiting space in front of the old-fashioned brick and cement building with the cement lions flanking wide steps. Unfortunately, Mad saw there were cameras waiting too. Val grabbed her face automatically to scrutinize her makeup. Giving her eyelids a quick smudge with her fingertips, Val said, “You’re going to have to hire a professional sooner than expected with this heightened coverage.”

  “No, forget that plan. This ridiculousness is turning the focus on me as glamour queen, not governor.” Mad wondered if her team was listening. She felt more like she was running for queen of the prom court with PJD as king and the prize marriage and a baby instead of running the state. It was her worst nightmare. She hoped she was getting paranoid.

  “Okay, gorgeous. Your mob of admirers awaits. Suck in your stomach. That’s where their cameras will be aimed,” Dennis quipped on his way out of the car. He was swarmed. Mad heard the buzz the second the door opened. If she could have, she would have kicked Dennis in the shins for that wiseass comment. Then she made a mental note about her increasing number of aspirations to violent behavior.

  Val’s door opened and she got out. Mad felt déjà vu tingling as if she were back at the mayor’s party. Then she felt resignation at the realization that this would be the pattern for the duration: constant media attention to everything but what she wanted them to pay attention to.

  The buzzing turned to shouts assaulting her ears the moment she stepped out of the car. Flanked immediately by Val and Clever, she walked up the steps to the local library in Peabody where the meeting was being held.

  “When’s the baby due?”

  “Are you going to marry PJD before or after the election?”

  “Will you continue to run against your lover or will you join him as lieutenant governor?”

  Waving her hand and smiling, she concentrated on keeping her pulse in check and not taking seriously the questions and comments. Breathe deep. She still had a long day ahead of her. After their meeting at the library they were heading to lunch downtown with the local chamber of commerce. Hopefully she’d lose the paparazzi by then. Surely they had something else to cover. How many photographers could there be in this town?

  She waved one hand and Dennis held her other elbow. Guiding her up the granite steps and through the large wood and glass doors, he moved them at a semi-sprint.

  “Ms. Grace is not pregnant. She’s already denied that. It was nothing more than idle speculation in the first place,” Val told the group in general as she straggled behind, not to cover the rear but probably because she couldn’t keep up.

  “There must be a price on your pretty little head,” Dennis muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  The group of smiling middle-aged-and-beyond women stood en-masse just within the doors, and the head gardener stepped forward proudly to greet her. Mad didn’t usually feel this tall, but mused there must be something about all the stooping and bending required in gardening that attracted short women.

  Hellos exchanged, they ushered her through the security bar and then swooped in behind her to effectively cut off the flow of photographers attempting to follow them.

  “Sorry, this is a private meeting,” A squat, metallic-haired woman said with a commanding voice. Bless her sturdy little heart, Mad thought. After a few more flashes, the photographers disappeared behind her and Mad appeared in a bo
ok-lined room filled with women vibrating with anticipation. She turned as Val and the metal-haired woman closed the door behind them and smiled. “Thank you so much for helping with the media and I apologize for the—”

  “Nonsense. It’s the most excitement we’ve had in years, eh girls?” They all nodded. At last, a receptive audience. They all took their seats, including Val and Sarah. Dennis waited outside. Madeline was about to begin speaking to the group when she was halted.

  “Before you start, I can’t stand the suspense any longer. We all want to know.” They all nodded in confirmation of their leader’s proclamation. Madeline gestured to go ahead and ask. They were so eager. It was going to be a pleasure speaking to this group.

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “Is it going to be a boy or a girl?”

  Madeline didn’t scream out loud. She hoped.

  She couldn’t get out of the Peabody library fast enough, but she had tried. They had all raced out of there as if the gardeners had turned into a swarm of bees after her record-breaking short talk. Madeline hadn’t needed to encourage Dennis to break the speed limit, but she had.

  The rest of the day yesterday hadn’t gone much better, but today she would start fresh. Madeline sipped her coffee, thinking they were all going to need blood pressure medication if that kind of response continued. She sprawled on the uncomfortable couch, trying to get comfortable with her notebook computer on her lap. Sarah and Val sat with her. They looked like she felt. Somewhat dispirited.

  She was aware that Sarah did not like her blue-collar attitude about the day-to-day activities of running this campaign, but she had to do this herself.

  “The most effective way to ensure the booking is for me to go in person.” At least they all agreed the night before that snagging a speaking engagement at Northeastern’s Fordham Hall would be important. It had the right serious-intellectual flavor that was absolutely necessary right now. They needed to counter the soap-opera side of the campaign soon and in a big way.

  “Do you realize Dennis turned down appearances on four daytime talk shows this week?” Val said.

  “All I know is he better call back The View people and turn them down too or I’ll do it myself,” Sarah said. Madeline contemplated The View spot. She could accept it. She could play the “forging a new role for women” angle with the ladies.

  “Sarah, you know The View is different. It’s more serious and respectable than the others,” Val said.

  Sarah frowned and crossed her arms in front of her. Mad wasn’t sure about Val’s assertion, but it was the best of the lot. She wasn’t going to tell either Dennis or Sarah that she’d already spoken with The View’s producers about a spot. Let them duke it out and come to the right conclusion on their own.

  “No wonder they’re calling her Mad Madeline and this election campaign a soap opera,” Sarah said with a frown.

  Madeline smiled. But the label bothered her. It had stuck because her nemesis Bertrand St. Cyr kept using it. It was in all the Boston newspapers, and even some of the polls were using the tag line.

  How had it ever come down to Mad Madeline versus the Rock? She sighed, thinking of the now famous and wildly popular political cartoon that had cast her in the role of David, albeit a sexy female version labeled Mad Madeline—to Peter’s Goliath, of course labeled the Rock, and her with a cupid’s bow shooting arrows with hearts instead of a slingshot with rocks. It was good—she wished it were accurate.

  She wished she could win by winning his heart. She wished she could wrap him around her finger under the influence of romantic infatuation. But she knew—and she feared Peter knew too—that it was far too likely to happen the other way around, if at all.

  Not that she was a mindless fool any more than she was a manipulative sexpot.

  The soap opera cast had to go. This speech at Fordham Hall had to start the arduous journey back to the serious issues of the election—but without alienating the goodwill of the people, the undeniable byproduct of all the romantic hoopla. Peter had gained the most from it all. He was not only now seen as more approachable, which had previously been one of his weaknesses, but he was playing the role of the leading man in this romantic comedy better than Cary Grant himself.

  And the women voters were taking notice, Madeline thought, as she glanced at the scoreboard on the latest poll of women voters.

  “He’s up another five points. Ahead of me 51 to 39% on the question isolating the two of us,” she said out loud.

  “The undecideds are probably with the other party in that poll,” Sarah said. “We need a new poll. I’m talking to Dennis. If he’s going to do this polling and scoreboard thing he may as well do it right.” Sarah thudded her coffee mug down on the table and got up at the same time.

  Madeline shook her head. “Don’t take Clever Dennis’s crazy polls too seriously—not yet anyway.” She tapped her last key and clicked the notebook closed. Val exchanged a glance with her as they watched Sarah storm out of their living room-slash-office to the adjoining office-reception area in search of Dennis. It was only 7:00 a.m. Jon walked in from the hallway door while knocking on it. Maybe it had been a mistake to get them all key cards. Maybe she should have stayed home in Marblehead. There were no more solitary moments, let alone days—and there probably wouldn’t be for a long time if she were to be governor. And no more wistful sighs either.

  “Nice knock, Jon. You’re picking up Clever’s bad habits,” Val said.

  “I have a way to go. Don’t encourage me,” Jon said. That was cause for a raise of her eyebrows and another exchanged look between her and Val.

  “Besides, I’m not that easy and he’s not that bad.”

  “Bad? You must be talking about me—at least according to the esteemed Sarah.” Dennis barged back in through the adjoining room with a gallon-sized mug of what was presumably his heart-hammering coffee and an attitude to match. “I swear the woman thinks you’re running for queen and she’s the queen mother.”

  “I see all is normal and well in the kingdom. Okay serfs, let’s go over today’s agenda.” Madeline stood and took her mark to begin her daily pacing. A girl had to stay in shape somehow and there was no time for the gym—unless…

  “Val, can you do me a favor and have Sarah set up a meet and greet at some local health and fitness club? Maybe I could do some yoga while I’m there.”

  Skeptical from Val. “I don’t know if Sarah will consider that mainstream enough—maybe a step class. We’re trying to get away from the kooky image.”

  Dennis spit a mouthful of coffee back into his cup, snorted a laugh and plopped onto the couch. “Only you Val. You guys are precious,” he said. “Take my word. Yoga is not kooky.”

  Val rolled her eyes at him. Mad continued her pacing and looked at the wall. There were only two and a half weeks left until the primary. PJD would be picking his lieutenant governor soon. Why should that give her such a sudden leap of anxiety?

  Dennis read her mind. “Seventeen days to go, then there’s no turning back,” he said. No more grin.

  Sarah walked in. “There never was,” she assured them all. Madeline snapped to attention at the imperial tone. Her friend was right. Then she stiffened her spine and expected her resolve to follow.

  Northeastern University: Setting up the serious speech

  Madeline pushed through the glass doors to the reception area of the Public Relations Office. The woman at the receptionist’s desk smiled at her politely but without recognition. She was grateful and gave back her most heartfelt smile. Then the woman glanced at the folded newspaper on her desk and back again and stood abruptly.

  “Mad Madeline—I mean Ms. Grace—I—What can I do for you? Welcome…”

  “Thank you, Ms. Silvers.” Madeline glanced at the nameplate on the desk and shook the woman’s outstretched hand. “I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment, but I would like to speak with Mr. Edwards if he has some spare time this morning.” She continued her smile in an effort to put the woman at
ease. I wish someone would put me at ease. Peter popped into her head. Wrong. That made no sense.

  “Of course. I’ll tell him right away. Please have a seat,” Ms. Silvers said.

  Madeline nodded. The woman almost ran down the hall, apparently not wanting to use the phone for this announcement. She didn’t bother taking a seat. It would only wrinkle her pale pink silk suit. Maybe she was taking Sarah’s rule about not appearing in public in the same outfit twice too seriously. She wasn’t a figurehead and didn’t want to be one. She paced around the reception area and was on her fifth lap when Ms. Silvers returned, breathless. She had a man in tow, apparently Mr. Edwards, with hand extended, giant grin and slicked down hair. A PR man through and through, however neatly pressed for academia.

  “Ms. Grace, to what do we owe this pleasure? It is so nice to meet you. Please come in to my office. I’d be happy to speak with you.”

  She followed Mr. Edwards in his darkly stylish suit and crisp white shirt—only his psychedelic tie in varying blue hues kept him from being categorized as an academic. She hoped she could count on his publicity-seeking persona to pursue the appearance of a political candidate, even though the campaign had been anything but academically serious up to this point. Her initial debate with Peter on public television seemed like it only happened in a dream, and now all she got to do was discuss the difficulties of dating as a politician. If she was real lucky she could segue into the more serious issues of single women being taken seriously in their careers while dating and having a personal life or the notion of having any personal life at all as a politician—especially as a single woman. Her sigh was only a mental one, but it felt real.

  “Please have a seat.” Mr. Edwards pointed to a beige leather, cube-shaped chair and was poised to sit opposite her. He had the obligatory corner office with a view that was very important to men of his ilk—for occasions such as this, she acknowledged—when needing to impress luminaries and make them feel comfortable or at least important. She wished she felt like a luminary. Time to act like one.