Shadow Notes

by Laurel S. Peterson

  How had someone snuck into the house? What had he wanted, other than leaving the dolls? What did they mean? Was it really as obvious as it seemed, that I was next on his list? If I was, why hadn’t he taken his chance? What advantage did I have to him alive? I remembered the whispering blood on my cheek, and shivered.

  The caffeine or my heightened anxiety or both made me suddenly aware of the house’s noises. Every creak from the cold startled me. Birds fluttered at the feeder just outside the kitchen window, and tree branches cracked in the December breeze. Each sounded like a footstep or a door opening. I slid a knife from the countertop block and sat with my back to the kitchen wall, as the questions kept coming.

  How could he know I would be sleeping? Was it a he? Was it a she? Were the dolls meant for me or Mother? Or—had the dolls been there all along and I’d been so exhausted I hadn’t seen them? No, someone had snuck in, I was sure of it. Had he—or she—left anything, maybe something to incriminate Mother? I realized I had to search before the police arrived.

  Back upstairs, I started with her closet, which held only Chanel and Lagerfeld, jewelry, cash, and my father’s gun in a wall safe. She’d told me about the safe years ago—“just in case.”

  Whatever that meant.

  I panned the room, knife in hand. Nothing on the tables, the bed, the windowsill, the carpet. Nothing except the dolls. The books snagged my eye again, and I wondered why she would have them.

  I skimmed the top one, Silencing the Self, and noticed she had underlined and made notes in the margins. One highlighted section read, Identifying with the male gaze is a gender-specific form of what psychoanalytic writers have called ‘identification with the aggressor,’ and this phenomenon explains the fundamental aggression against the self—the acts of self-alteration and hostile self-judgment—described by depressed women. Incomprehensible to anyone who hadn’t majored in self-help.

  Other passages talked about the “immobility response,” like the rabbit stilling itself so the fox won’t notice, or “stuck energy” or “rebuilding connection” or “setting limits and boundaries.” Mother was queen at that last one—and she hadn’t learned it from a book. Had she experienced some kind of trauma? But what? And when?

  Maybe Paul was right that I wasn’t ready for what I would find in Hugh’s shadow notes. She’d never talked about anything happening…not that she would have. It explained all the therapy with Hugh, but everyone was in therapy with Hugh. They compared neuroses over martinis at the club.

  I flipped open the cover of Waking the Tiger. A small envelope taped inside contained a key. Nothing indicated what it opened. I checked the other books, and one had a lightly penciled address which seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t a very promising lead. I dropped the books, just as the doorbell rang.

  Chief DuPont did not look pleased. “What happened?”

  I hadn’t expected him to come, and something about his demeanor made me feel I’d overreacted until I took him upstairs and showed him.

  “Did you touch these?” He indicated the dolls.

  “No.”

  “They weren’t there when you fell asleep?”

  “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

  “Did you arm your security system?”

  “No.”

  “That kind of idiot. Do you ever listen to anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  His exasperated look said he didn’t believe me.

  “I listened, but I was so angry…. I won’t do it again. That picture of me—that’s from this trip. I mean, it’s been taken since I got home.”

  He pulled his radio out and called for his detective. “Did you touch anything else in the room?”

  “I’ve been looking through my mother’s things for the last couple of days trying to figure out….yes, my fingerprints will be everywhere.”

  He sighed. “We’ll need to take them for elimination.”

  Downstairs, he examined the doors for scratches. “Who else has house keys?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “I’ve only been home two weeks.”

  “Guess.”

  “Mother and me, obviously; the maid, maybe some service people? I really don’t know. Why would someone do this?”

  We moved to the kitchen, and he turned down an espresso. I made another one for myself. Probably not the best idea.

  “Who has it out for you and your family, Miz Montague?” We were back to formal address.

  “The only enemies I know about are the Winters, and that’s just a society thing, some slight from school that Mary Ellen and my mother have never let die.”

  “You think the Winters did this?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then who? Who doesn’t like you?”

  I didn’t want to suspect the people around me. I had so few friends left as it was.

  “You heard Hetty the other night.” I shrugged. “She’s obviously angry with me. Mother’s lawyer, Bailey Womack, used to be a friend, but I’m not sure any more. Paul Love is a friend, but he’s not happy with me at the moment. But I can’t imagine any of them being this…sadistic.”

  He studied me with a bemused expression. “Do you have any remaining friends that you could stay with for a while?”

  “I’m not letting someone drive me from my home! Anyway, at least it’s clear now that my mother didn’t kill Hugh, so you can let her out. She couldn’t have snuck into the house today, nor would she make voodoo dolls.”

  “You sound just like her.”

  Did a sense of humor lurk under that expensive suit?

  “However,” he continued, “that doesn’t mean that you’re right. We will release your mother when we are satisfied there is no further reason to hold her. We will investigate the dolls’ possible relationship to Dr. Woodward’s death. In the meantime, we would prefer you didn’t do anything rash.”

  If only he weren’t so damn good-looking.

  The next morning, I called Bailey. I was the one writing the checks until Mother got out, which might buy me some answers. Plus, I could figure out if any of my friends were trying to scare me half to death.

  But Bailey had a different agenda.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Winters campaign offices?”

  Shoot. I’d forgotten. “I’m going to be late.”

  “Get your butt over here. I’m supposed to show you the ropes, and I have to be in court in an hour.”

  In town, the streets were filling with an assault of early shoppers. Stores strove to outdo each other with festive displays, their red, green and gold spilling into vaguely menacing elf and Santa statues on the sidewalk. The hat on one had slipped down over his eye, turning him into a Santa cat burglar.

  The headquarters consisted of two ugly, mint-green rooms on the second floor of a brick office building across from the train station. Nowhere in this town qualified as “the other side of the tracks,” even the other side of the tracks, which was filled with chic coffeehouses, done-in-a-day dry cleaners, shoe repair, and gourmet take-out for New York commuters.

  When I pulled the door open, the office was in full swing—or at least as in full swing as four people can be. Maybe more were hiding out “in the field,” like spies. Mary Ellen, wearing a black suit and cream silk blouse so lustrous it glowed from across the room, was talking on her cell phone. So much for Uggs. Jennifer Winters, Andrew’s wife, in jeans and a red L.L. Bean sweater, stood at the copier. Andrew himself talked into the office phone, while a young woman of about twenty-two hovered next to him holding a stack of file folders. No one paid me any attention.

  “Sometime today are you going to move into the room and do something?”

  I turned.

  Bailey Womack flipped her briefcase onto the closest desk and gestured to a chair. “It’s about time. How’d you fall into this nest of vipers anyway?”
She grinned.

  “Nice way to talk about your boss.”

  “All political campaigns are nests of vipers. Winters might make a good congressman, even if he’s somewhat, uh, personally distasteful. Besides, my firm assigned me, and I’m oh-so-close to making partner.” She pinched two fingers together. “Then, no more scut work, like babysitting the campaign while the election law partner skis for two weeks in Vail.”

  “Convincing. I hope you’re not making fundraising phone calls.” I sat down.

  She looked as if she were gauging my sincerity, then burst out laughing. “Damn, Clara. I forgot how much I missed you.”

  It was hard to imagine her sneaking into my house with voodoo dolls. “How about a drink after work tonight to catch up?”

  “We do have some history to review,” she said, “like your stealing Ethan Olsen from me sophomore year.”

  “You’re not still pining after Ethan, are you? Well, then, I owe you a drink for sure.” Maybe she’d know if someone else in town held a grudge.

  She hesitated. “It’ll depend on work, Clara. I’ll let you know at the end of the day?”

  It seemed like an excuse, but I couldn’t force her. “What do you do here, anyway?”

  “Make sure they file everything by deadline and play by the rules, blah, blah.” She waved her hand, dismissing the work as inconsequential. “The most important thing a candidate has to do is raise money. Andrew wants you to arrange a bunch of fundraisers. You have event-planning experience?”

  I nodded.

  “I thought you grew up to be a gardener like your dad and Ernie.”

  “Some of that, too.”

  She swung her skinny hip onto a corner of the desk and lowered her voice. “You probably should have stayed with that. You don’t want to associate with this side of town, you know what I mean?”

  “I thought he was a popular candidate.”

  “That doesn’t mean people like him. Why are you here anyway?”

  She leaned in and I felt myself pull back. “I needed something to do.”

  “Last I knew, you weren’t a Republican.”

  “Still true.”

  “So…”

  “Is there a problem?” Why was she giving me the third degree? Was she trying to help me or scare me off?

  “Are you the best fit for this campaign, given your circumstances?”

  “I should stay home?”

  “You could tell them your situation demands more time than you anticipated.”

  “Having a mother in jail is the reason I’m here.” I kept my voice low to match hers. Maybe she would get the message behind my words. While she appeared completely relaxed, something underneath was coiled. I reached out to touch her, to reassure her, but as I did, I got a jolt, and tasted blood at the back of my throat. I felt a sudden frisson of fear. Where had that come from?

  Bailey said, “You will not interfere with either this campaign or the ­investigation into Hugh’s murder. You don’t know this family, Clara, so stay out of it, okay?” She paused. “Please.”

  I set my bag on the desk. “I have to do whatever I can to help Mother.”

  “Suit yourself.” She raised her voice. “So Mary Ellen and Andrew thought an auction—art, bachelors, whatever—and another concert and dinner event. Both would appeal to the local demographic, and maybe even draw in younger people. What do you think?”

  “I think training me seems more appropriate to a campaign aide than a lawyer.”

  “And you would be right.”

  I held my hands up in surrender.

  “Great. Let’s get started.” She showed me the donor files, suggesting I familiarize myself with my audience, as if I didn’t know this town. Big money donors, she reminded me, earned the right to big name entertainment and luxurious venues. The common man mingled with the candidate over hot dogs at the beach. “You can find their income and contribution levels in the database,” she said.

  She showed me the files of caterers, musicians, event locations, florists, rental companies and gift shops. She named the dates already set aside for fundraisers. I tried not to hyperventilate or to wonder how I would find time to talk to mother’s friends about her past if I did this much actual work, never mind that it would help the wrong candidate. Somehow, I had conceived of this as a lark—chatting on the phone, maybe, or talking up donors at a party while slipping in my own questions, but Bailey set me up at a desk with a phone, then stalked off to court, promising me that we would have it out later. I hoped that meant over drinks.

  I still wasn’t sure if she was friend or foe.

  I sighed and started calling venues while reviewing the files for the appropriate people to invite to each event. Each contained the name, address, phone number, email address, and rough net worth of the donor. I wondered which of Andrew’s friends had provided that information or if it was a guesstimate based on a lifetime of acquaintance. In addition, files listed the number, frequency, and amount of donations to the campaign, as well as favored foods, wines, and restaurants; schools they and their children had attended; club memberships; employers (and if they did matching donations); number of cars and makes; spouse’s and children’s names and occupations, if any, with notations to check separate files if they, too, had become donors; and any specialized interests, like golf or rock collecting. The notations varied in handwriting and pen color. A real long-term approach to winning friends and influencing people.

  About halfway through the stack, I stumbled across Winken’s file. She and her husband had contributed the maximum amounts to both the campaign and several PACs for at least ten years. They owned a modest home in a less expensive neighborhood and they both drove Hondas; his was seven years old; hers, six. Strangely, her two children had attended public schools and the University of Connecticut. I expected expensive private schools. If money was tight, why the huge donations? Maybe they were so passionate about politics that they sacrificed?

  I slogged through several more calls to venues and caterers for quotes, and surveyed about ten more donor files before I hit lunch hour. By this time, the room had cleared. The twenty-two-year-old hadn’t stopped hovering over Andrew all morning. He’d probably taken her for lunch, to give her some insight into the workings of Great Political Minds. I wished her luck and freedom from straying hands.

  Through all the phoning, my mind kept straying back to the files. I trawled through several others but didn’t find the same discrepancies, as in Winken’s. However, some files had a notation in tiny letters on the lower right of the last page. Winken’s read BSA. Boy Scouts of America? Her husband’s read BRE. Bare? Bore? Broke? None of my guesses made any sense.

  And none of it was useful for me, or Mother.

  I ordered a crab salad sandwich at the deli across the street and grabbed a seat to eat and think. I’d come home because my dreams said Mother was in trouble. How did Hugh’s murder, Mother’s performance at Hugh’s funeral, and the dolls on my pillow fit together? Was my meddling making things better or worse? Was I the one actually putting Mother into danger? Why the hell was I working for Andrew Winters? How would I face Mother when she found out?

  Funny about that anger: She never locked me in my room or cut off ­privileges. She didn’t isolate me from my friends, or tell me I couldn’t talk to them. But if I did the wrong thing, forget it.

  Mother dreamed like I did; I knew it, even if she wouldn’t admit it. That meant she understood something about me, something primal and scary and outside normal human interaction. If I lost my connection to her, I would be alone in the world, especially given the rate at which I seemed to be alienating my old friends.

  I felt myself tear up. Great. Crying in the local deli. As I dug a tissue from my purse, I mused that Winken, who was close to my mother’s age, might know a lot about her past. If I could get Winken talking, at the very least, she might kn
ow why my mother and Mary Ellen hated each other, giving me some leverage with Mary Ellen.

  I dumped the remainder of my sandwich, and trudged back to the campaign to make more phone calls and surreptitious notes. At five o’clock, when Bailey rang to say she could meet for drinks after all, I nearly danced a jig. Could I ask her what the notations in Mother’s books meant? Would she have heard gossip—would she know what had traumatized Mother?

  I stuffed a rubber-banded packet of discarded envelopes with notes on them into a pocket in my purse. Bailey came upstairs to fetch me, and I followed her silver-blue Porsche through the glimmery early evening cold. Down by the water, where rows of pretty little shops offered useless imported goods to people with excess cash and space to display them, we snagged parking spots and went into a bistro with a bar strung across its right wall. Terra-cotta colored walls, low lights, and cream and brass fixtures signaled the high prices. Bailey ordered us martinis and slid onto a bar stool, shrugging off her cashmere coat.

  “So, Clara. What have you been up to for the past fifteen years?”

  The bartender flipped down cocktail napkins. Neutral and cool, Bailey adjusted hers a millimeter to the right.

  I aimed for a light tone. “Mmm. A husband, six jobs, huge stretches of boredom. You?”

  She laughed. “No husbands, lots of school and two jobs. Huge stretches of boredom. Not so dissimilar.”

  “Two?”

  “I did a stint with the DA, then switched sides to criminal law. How’d we lose touch, anyway?”

  “This morning you claimed Ethan Olsen broke us up.”

  “Oh, poor Ethan.”

  I shook my head, not sure why I disagreed with her assessment. “I can’t remember why we both wanted him. Was he smart? Good-looking? Or did I just want him because you wanted him, and you wanted him because I did?”

  “I really did want him. He had that scruffy musician charm, you know? Didn’t his band play at one of the school dances?”