by Susan Dunlap
“Michelle’s dead.” She was still facing the stove, but her shoulders were hunched in anger.
“I’m on the right track, Vida. If I weren’t I wouldn’t have been followed last night. Whoever followed me wasn’t kidding; he wasn’t lagging behind, keeping an eye on me; he was forcing me to go down that hill at sixty miles an hour.”
“Maybe you ought to be glad you’re not injured…or dead.”
“I am. Michelle wasn’t so fortunate.”
Vida looked stunned. Then with the concentration she had given the coffee pouring, she spooned mushrooms and black olives into the eggs. Her shoulders remained hunched tight around her neck.
“Vida, let me tell you what I discovered last night before you say you’ll be satisfied to let things lie.”
With exaggerated care, she stirred the egg mixture and scooped it onto plates. Then she added the linguisa.
When we were seated at the table, I said, “Ross brought Alison up here the weekend of the Bohemian Ball. That was eight years ago. Do you remember what also happened that weekend?”
She put two pieces of sourdough bread in the toaster. “No.”
“Mr. Remson, Ross’s father, had a heart attack and died.”
Slowly, she said, “You’re right. I’d forgotten that was the same weekend.”
“Before then Ross had been the Bohemian Connection—”
“Vejay, I don’t want—”
“You said you’d listen.”
She gave a grudging nod.
“Ross had been the Bohemian Connection before that. Alison said he had done it the year before and could be contacted in San Francisco if there was anything he needed to do in the off-season. And he popped up here occasionally.”
“Yes, that’s true. I remember we’d see him walking down North Bank Road and assume he was back, and then discover he had just come back for a couple of hours.”
“So he wasn’t going to be the Connection that summer. He must have decided to cut his last tie here, and move on permanently. Alison told me he had friends in San Francisco he needed to get away from—dangerous friends.” I took a bit of eggs. “Good,” I murmured. “That weekend had to be the weekend that Ross was going to pass on the Connection job to his successor, and disappear into the back country, or up north, or wherever.”
“How do you know he’d go to that trouble? Ross would be more likely to just leave. He wasn’t famed for his responsibility.”
“The Bohemian Connection meant money. It’s unlikely he was just giving it away. He may have been selling it, or he may have been planning to pass it on to someone who would send him a share of the profits. He would need the money while he hid out. The thing is, that weekend he and Alison were here. Michelle and Craig, and Ward and Jenny: they were all here. Ross was with Alison all weekend and never mentioned the Connection. The only time he was alone was when he went to see his father. So he must have planned to pass on the Connection there. Whatever records he kept were not in San Francisco. The only other place they could have been was in his father’s house. So he must have planned to meet his successor there and give him the records.”
Vida stared, her fork held halfway between her plate and mouth. “My god! That would be enough to give old man Remson a heart attack. He never conceded that Ross was the Connection. Everyone in town knew it, but old man Remson couldn’t accept anything bad about his son. But to see Ross admitting it… To know what Ross had been and what that had been doing to his business… He cared almost as much for that business as he did for Ross. I can see him having a heart attack.”
I took a sip of coffee. “When a man has a heart attack, there’s a lot of commotion. There’s panic; there’s rushing around. The ambulance is called. Maybe the sheriff comes. Did Ross care at all about his father?”
Vida put down her fork. “Ross didn’t have much feeling for anyone, but he wasn’t totally insensitive. He wouldn’t just go on with his business transactions while his father lay dying at his feet.”
“Then picture the scene. Old man Remson is digging the hole for the new cesspool. Ross and the person who he chose to succeed him are standing nearby. Ross is holding the records, probably in a metal box or two. If they’re too bulky to hold he has them next to him. And then the old man crumbles. Everything’s in a flurry. Ross is caught up in it. Any of the others—Michelle, Craig, and certainly Ward and Jenny—would be too. The neighbors rush over. The ambulance comes. Ross doesn’t know whether the sheriff will come by or what will happen. He doesn’t want to leave the records in the house. If the old man dies, Jenny may go through the house and find them. He can’t give them to his successor because there are too many people around to have someone carting boxes down the stairs unnoticed. He’s already got the money. And what he wants is to leave right away. The last thing he can deal with is to be caught up in the business of going to the hospital and staying in town until his father recovers or dies. Ambulance runs are reported in the newspaper—in the Fire Report. If Ross’s pursuers checked, they’d know exactly where to find him.
“So Ross wants to get out. He’s not the Connection anymore. The records are no longer vital to him. The new Connection will have some problems without them but he’ll have to get by on what Ross told him. Once he’s contacted a couple of sources they’ll pass the word to the others. What’s important is to get the records out of sight. So where does Ross put them?”
Vida said nothing.
“A cesspool should last thirty years. It shouldn’t be forcing the liquid into the leach lines after eight years—not unless there’s a blockage.”
CHAPTER 19
IT WAS ALREADY ELEVEN o’clock as we came down the stairs, me hurrying, Vida lagging behind.
“Come on,” I said. “This isn’t Congressman Tisson’s only stop today. We don’t want to miss him.”
“Vejay, I still don’t know about this. Craig wouldn’t want a congressman involved in Michelle’s death.”
“He would want Congressman Tisson to get that cesspool opened if he thought it would lead to Michelle’s killer. You all want that, don’t you?”
Vida sighed. “We do and we don’t. But I don’t see what dredging up Bohemian Connection notes from eight years ago is going to tell us about Michelle’s murderer.”
“Maybe nothing. But there could be a note, a letter, something indicating Ross’s successor. If Ross’s records are in a strong box they’ll be as fresh as the day they were dropped there.”
By unspoken agreement we passed up both trucks and headed for North Bank Road on foot.
The traffic was worse than any day so far this summer. Horns honked; drivers stuck their heads out their windows, craning necks to spot the reason for the holdup. As we crossed at Zeus Lane, I said to Vida, “I wouldn’t have thought Congressman Tisson was this popular.”
She smiled. “He’s not. And he’ll be even less popular when all these people discover he’s the reason they’re stuck in traffic.”
“But if he’s not that big a draw, why would they hold him responsible?”
“Just look.”
We had made our way behind the shops and were going down the slope to the town beach. It took me a moment to realize what Vida was indicating. There were no cars parked on the beach! The entire beach parking area, from the concession stand where I had gotten my parking ticket yesterday to the line of shops that backed onto the slope we were descending, had been roped off and was filled with people sitting on blankets with their picnic coolers or standing in small groups, drink cans or ice cream cones in hand.
“That must be seventy-five parking spots gone. No wonder no one can find a place to park. No wonder all those drivers are sitting on North Bank Road with their engines idling. Everyone in town must be on the beach. I’ve never seen this place so packed.”
Vida almost laughed. “They’re not here out of civic responsibility. They’re here to see what Tisson will do.”
I recalled David Sugarbaker telling me about a congressman who�
��d come to Henderson some years back and been given a hard time. He’d said Michelle had laughed when she’d described that incident. “What do you mean, Vida, ‘What he’ll do?’ ”
“The congressional district covers four counties, so a little town like Henderson is hardly a priority. If there weren’t all the newsmen here this weekend because of the Bohemians, you can bet Tisson wouldn’t have bothered to come. We don’t see these guys often. The last one was here four years ago. And he did the same dumb thing as Tisson—took over the beach, cleared the parking lot, and caused a colossal traffic jam. When the drivers figured out why they were sitting there, they slammed out of their cars and trucks—just left them on North Bank Road—and stormed down to the beach, raising hell. They actually put some burning paper under the podium.”
“I heard they burned it down.”
“The story has grown over the years. I’ll bet most people here heard what you did. Unfortunately, Tisson wasn’t one of them or he wouldn’t have made the same mistake. But that was years ago—different congressman, different party, different advance men.”
We made our way through the narrow path left by two blankets. On them, coolers were open and beer cans were being passed around.
“The last congressman,” Vida said, “was an hour late. People were pretty tanked up by then.”
I glanced at the podium. “Well, Tisson’s already here. What do you mean about the crowd being here to see what he’ll do?”
“They’re expecting, or at least hoping for the same reaction from the drivers. Some of the local guys who know about the last incident will be caught in the traffic. You can bet they’ll lead the onslaught.”
“But Tisson’s pretty good at dealing with hecklers. He had a lot of chances when he was campaigning.
“Good entertainment for all,” Vida said, looking out over the crowd. Her tired face showed a mixture of sadness and reproach. Fleetingly, I wondered if her sons were in the crowd.
The dignitaries stand had been set up behind the concession stand. On it were four chairs. It was draped with the standard red, white, and blue crepe paper.
Grabbing Vida by the hand, I squeezed between onlookers, stepped over coolers, and around small children. As I moved toward Tisson, I recalled Michelle’s comment to Sugarbaker—after dealing with the crowd Tisson would be glad to turn his attention to something so inoffensive as her mosquito larvae.
Congressman Tisson, a short man with thinning red hair, sat in one of the middle chairs facing the speaker, our mayor. But his attention was clearly elsewhere. I wondered if he had heard anything about the possibility of a disruption. But surely if he’d heard of his predecessor’s mistake he` wouldn’t have repeated it. In front of the stand were two sheriff’s deputies. I glanced around for Wescott, but he wasn’t visible.
Michelle had planned to make the most of this moment. Following Michelle’s lead, I said to Vida, “Let’s catch Tisson before he starts speaking.”
“Vejay, he’s got plenty to think about now without you—”
Ignoring that, I pushed forward, pulling Vida along. The area in front of the stand was filled with reporters and television cameras from the networks and national papers as well as the local papers. They would provide much better coverage than Congressman Tisson’s speeches normally received. The newspeople had come for the opening of Bohemian Week. Those who remained were here in hopes of something breaking—a policy statement by one of the politicos, or better yet a scandal. They were waiting. I wondered how many of them knew about Tisson’s predecessor’s debacle.
To my right a contingent of bathers, still holding towels and ice cream cones, had pushed in close. But the north side was relatively clear. I headed there. If I could get to Tisson, trade a warning of his upcoming danger for his help in opening the cesspool… Was that what Michelle had had in mind?
Despite the loudspeaker system, the mayor’s words were muffled. They seemed to be dropping into the sand.
I was halfway around the back of the stand when a deputy grabbed my arm. “Hey, lady, you can’t go there.”
“I have to talk to the congressman.”
“You can’t do that now.”
“It’s important.”
“Doesn’t matter. No one can disturb him.”
It was Michelle’s complaint; I’d give her style a try. “He’s a public representative and I am one of his constituents and he needs to hear what I have to say.”
“Not now, lady.”
“He’ll be sorry if he doesn’t.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, of course not. It’s just—”
“Then it’ll have to keep.”
I glanced up at the podium. Congressman Tisson was still seated. To the deputy, I said, “It’ll only take a minute. It has to do with…” I considered trying to explain what was awaiting Tisson, but rejected that and said, “With a murder.”
He hesitated, assessing me, then looked at the congressman. Finally, he said, “I can’t take that responsibility. I’ll have to check…”
The rest of his sentence was smothered by applause. The congressman walked to the front of the stand. The deputy turned around briefly to watch, then, facing me, he shrugged.
“That’s okay, Jeff,” Vida said to him.
“My god, you know him?” I said.
“Of course,” she whispered. “He was in school with my oldest boy.”
“Then you talk to him. Tell him how important this is.”
“I still don’t see why we have to do this.”
The crowd applauded. Whistles of approval came from the rear.
“Because,” I said to Vida, “the killer knows those records are there. The killer knows I’m looking for him. If we don’t get those records now, they’ll be gone.”
“He’s not going to dig them up today, Vejay.”
“Maybe not, but he tried to intimidate me last night. If he suspects that I’ve told you what I know, you won’t be safe either.”
Suddenly my words seemed very loud. Congressman Tisson had stopped talking; the crowd was silent. I wondered if he had paused for applause and found none forthcoming.
On North Bank Road horns honked.
As one the audience turned toward the street.
I moved closer to the podium. Had I allowed myself to be put off too long? Had I missed the moment when I could have had some leverage with him? Tisson started speaking again, but his tempo was off.
The crowd was still facing the street.
Tisson’s voice wavered; his gaze followed theirs.
The horns stopped. From the street came metallic clunks—doors slamming? Then six men, beer cans in hands, stormed down the slope, yelling, “Clear it out, clear it out!” I assumed they were referring to the beach.
Tisson looked baffled; the crowd amused.
Groups—men and women—came down the slope from both ends of the beach. The chants degenerated into hoots and catcalls. Congressman Tisson raised his voice, but the hoots got louder. The deputy sheriff was using his walkie-talkie to call for reinforcements. The television cameras swung around. Reporters readied their microphones as the protesters moved toward the platform.
The mayor moved to the front of the stand. Taking the microphone from Tisson’s hand, he called for quiet.
But the noise increased.
“Please folks, let me…”
The hoots grew louder.
“Folks, listen…”
They didn’t. The mayor’s words only fueled their protest. Some raised beer cans as they yelled, others clapped rhythmically. The seated audience joined in with glee. For three or four minutes the mayor tried to regain control.
“In Henderson,” Vida said, “you don’t keep a man from driving his truck and get away with it.” Even she was smiling. Only Congressman Tisson and the mayor looked disturbed.
The deputy moved in front of the stand.
Had Michelle foreseen all this? Was this the moment she planned to approach Tisson? Ma
ybe. It was the last chance I would get. In another minute or two he’d either gain control of the crowd or he’d decide there was no point in staying and giving the television crews more footage of his humiliation. I walked quickly around back. “Congressman Tisson,” I called.
He didn’t move.
“Congressman Tisson!”
He glanced around.
“Congressman Tisson, you can help one of your constituents—right now. You can help with a big problem.”
He looked at the crowd in disgust, then back to me.
I stepped on a support beam and hoisted myself onto the stand. “It has to do with finding a murderer.”
His brow wrinkled. I recalled his reputation for quick saves.
At the front of the stand, the mayor was still trying to quiet the crowd.
Feeling a pang of guilt about Vida’s plea for no more publicity, I shifted closer to Tisson. I knew what he’d do with the tale of Michelle’s complaint. “I’m asking your help for a local woman, a twenty-five-year-old mother of two, who lived here in town. She was murdered this weekend. You were her representative. She planned to ask your help. She was murdered before she could do that.”
Tisson glanced at the mayor, then at the crowd, assessing them, and back to me. When he nodded, I could tell he’d made his decision. “What did she want to ask me?”
The crowd was quieter. Quickly I explained about Michelle’s death and her attempts to get action on her mosquito larvae and her neighbor’s cesspool.
When I finished he asked, “What was her name?”
“Michelle Davidson.”
The crowd was almost silent now. Congressman Tisson strode forward and took the microphone with an air of one who, rather than having caused the commotion, has been called in to rescue the day. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I just heard that one of your neighbors, right here in Henderson, was killed Thursday night. A young mother with two small children. Her body was tossed, like garbage, into a sewer construction hole.”
I turned away from where Vida was standing. I didn’t want to see her reaction to this.
“And the thing Michelle Davidson was going to do, ladies and gentlemen, was to ask my help in dealing with a bureaucracy. You’ve all had problems with bureaucracies, haven’t you?”
