Shadow Notes

by Laurel S. Peterson

  “When we got around behind the bush, where no one could see us, I realized I didn’t have a plan. What was I going to do if she didn’t want to kiss me? What if she screamed and ran?” He smiled. “People would still remember it and be asking me, ‘Nat, what were you doing with that girl in the bushes! Lucky for me, your mother had a plan. We got into that dark, cool corner—there was even a little bench—and she sat me down, took my face in her hands, and kissed me smack on the mouth. Then she sat back and looked at me with those green eyes. I told her I loved her, and she said she knew, and then she kissed me again. I thought I was going to die right there. I’d closed my eyes, and by the time I opened them again, she was gone.”

  I laughed. “That’s a great story, Nat.”

  “Yeah, she always knew exactly what she wanted, even if she didn’t get it.”

  “Didn’t get it?”

  “We’ve been friends a long time.” He wiped his hand over his bald spot again. “Your mother’s a good woman, Clara, but her actions don’t always come across the way she wants them to. I know you feel she abandoned you, left you to figure out how to grow up on your own because she was in emotional cold storage. She’s told me you feel that way. But she did the best she could.”

  He was the second person to tell me that. It would have been nicer if she’d told me. “You know a lot.”

  He nodded. “I know more than I should. My wife’s been pretty tolerant all these years. Knew that I loved her first and foremost, but that I had a responsibility to Constance she couldn’t stand in the way of.”

  “Responsibility?”

  “I should have stopped what happened. I offered to stay with her that afternoon, and she waved me off.”

  “What afternoon, Nat? What’s the trauma?” Now. He would tell me now, and I would know why my mother had shut me out all those years. I hunched forward, waiting.

  He crashed the front wheels of the chair to the floor and abruptly stood. “I’m sorry, Clara, I can’t. When you see Constance, you tell her I said it was time. She’s creating a monster for all of us if she doesn’t set the record straight.”

  Chapter 11

  Frustrated, I stood on the street outside Nat’s office in the late afternoon darkness. Why wouldn’t anyone talk to me? At least I had confirmation of a trauma, but what did it have to do with Hugh’s murder? I was getting blocked at every turn, and I had to find out fast, because the minute Mr. Black Leather or his employer found out I was asking questions again, they would come back. And Mother was still in jail.

  Nat was right. Everyone was right. Going to Mother would be the easiest, most direct route, but every time I asked for answers, she suggested I meditate. I didn’t have time for that. While I was meditating, someone out there was plotting to kill me and lock her away for twenty-five-to-life.

  Cars moved slowly through the icy air, navigating the clutter of Christmas shoppers and traffic. I stepped under the streetlight and rummaged through my bag, extricating the envelopes with the notes on Andrew’s campaign donors. I flipped through them like a pack of cards, wondering who could be useful. Mother had lived in this town all her life. Someone here had to know what had happened to her.

  My eye caught on a name. Maybe Winken, who’d had a meltdown at the memorial service and knew me from the Women’s League, would talk. Something in that file indicated she had a secret—the penciled notations, the financial oddities. All I had to do was find her.

  I hurried back to the campaign office. The second security guard, the one who came on at three o’clock, sat at the desk. A lanky black man with cropped hair, he’d told me he commuted in from the next town—the one where they had housing projects—and supported his aging mother and young son. This gig was his second job. His first was as a breakfast cook in one of Stamford’s fancy hotels.

  “Hey, Horatio. I’ve left some papers in the office. Is anyone still up there?”

  He shook his head. “They’ve all gone.”

  “Oh shoot. I really need them tonight. Could you let me in?” I wasn’t supposed to be there during off-hours, unless the candidate authorized it. Campaign strategy was all very hush-hush.

  “Sure, Ms. Montague.” He reached into his desk for a ring of keys, then led the way up the stairs. “You want me to wait?”

  “That would be fine,” I said. “I’ll only be a moment.” Enough light came from the streetlights that I could grab the file without turning on the overheads. I would return it in the morning, with no one the wiser. I stuffed it in my purse and walked back to the door, which Horatio locked up behind me.

  “You’re a real member of the team now,” he said. “They should get you your own key.”

  “It’s early days,” I said. “You never know how people are going to work out, and even though I’m trying my best”—I was laying it on thick here—“it just might not be the right fit with Mr. Winters.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Winters will see your good work. He’s a good man.”

  “Do you think so?” I asked, interested in how he perceived the candidate.

  “He always thanks me at the end of the day for the good work I’m doing, and tells me if anything unusual happens, like, for example, you coming back to the office tonight, I should let him know and he’ll take care of me. I did that last month when I noticed that lamb farmer girl.”

  “Hetty Gardner?”

  “Yes, ma’am, her, she came by at ten o’clock to drop off an envelope, and he gave me a hundred dollar bonus.”

  I panicked. Winters would prosecute me if he found out I was “borrowing” campaign files. Getting locked up wouldn’t help Mother. “That is really nice of him, Horatio, but you won’t mention my little visit, will you? I was supposed to be further along on this project than I am, and I’ll get into trouble if he realizes I’m not finished yet.”

  “It’s okay, miss. We new people have to stick together. I won’t mention it.” He winked. I wondered if Horatio saw me, a white woman working for a white politician, as someone with potential power, someone to cultivate. He’d seen how the old-boys-network functioned, and I’d always felt the disenfranchised knew more about the powerful than the powerful knew about themselves. Maybe he figured he was better off with me in his debt. My town, despite its liberal bias, put relatively few of those liberal ideals into action.

  When I reached the car, I turned on the heater and took a few minutes to peruse Gary Hankin’s file. Winken’s doctor husband had started his women’s health practice when my mother was about twelve or thirteen. Four years later, he’d moved into New York City, where he’d formed a larger practice affiliated with Columbia University.

  It looked as though he was the principal in this practice, which had grown to ten doctors. Past traditional retirement age, he appeared to be mostly teaching and seeing a few select patients. He had made a lot of money over the years, not only through his practice and teaching, but through specialized obstetrical surgery, and some invention related to it.

  Strangely, he lived in a modest part of town. I scanned the list of his favorite hangouts. They were all in the city with one exception: the local country club.

  Of course. He needed the golf course.

  I sighed, wondering if Mother had kept up her membership.

  A half-hour and a shower later, in a pair of tight black pants I should have thrown out one size ago and a bright pink cashmere sweater with a deep V-neck, I arrived at the club. At the front entrance, a butler asked my name. I gave it to him, explained that the membership was my mother’s. He made a mark in his book and took my coat with an only slightly disapproving look at the pants. Mother would never have shown up dressed like this.

  I headed for the bar. It was done up in brothel-red velvet and dark wood paneling, the original gentleman’s club décor. It was six-thirty; the commuters had just arrived from their daily grind, ready to let off steam. The wives, who’d left the ch
ildren with the nanny, dribbled in wearing appropriately fitting black pants and high heeled boots.

  Everyone seemed to have a martini. I ordered chardonnay, needing a clear head. A better idea would be to stop drinking, because I kept waking up with a hangover. But the wine kept the nightmares in check, and that was a very large advantage.

  The country club, a fishbowl, was filled with gossips. That gossip was sure to quickly reach the ears of whoever didn’t want me poking around. I had to make what I found out count, and then act on it fast. I surveyed the room. As the only single woman, I was getting more dagger looks during my first two sips of wine than I had in the past ten years. I needed to make friends, so I started with the bartender. Bartenders were good for information, and they made you feel wanted.

  “Everything okay with your wine?” he asked when I smiled at his combination of blue eyes, blond hair and broad shoulders.

  “What’s the label?”

  He told me.

  “Ah. That explains its little edge.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, I can’t talk my boss into stocking good wines by the glass. He’s too worried about roof leaks and stuff.”

  “I bet it costs a lot to keep this place up. How old is the building?”

  “1891. Built by the last son of a shipbuilding family, who imported all the stone from France.”

  And I would really love to be in Paris right now. “Been working here long?”

  “About three months. I took a year off school that turned into four years of bumming around the world. This job is pretty boring and,” he leaned over the bar, “waiting on rich married women is even more boring. They’re too easy.” He grinned, conspiratorial. “It’s time to go back to college.”

  Good. I’d gotten him on my side. “Have you applied?”

  “Got accepted at Gettysburg last spring—deferred it, since I had to earn enough money to get home from Thailand. I start in September.”

  “Good school. What will you study?”

  “International business, I thought, but looking at these guys, I don’t know. I was thinking maybe wood science or philosophy.” He said it with a straight face.

  “Wood science, huh? Gettysburg got a big program in that?”

  “They’ve got a good philosophy program. Anyway, it’s all about learning to think like the plants, right? I figure I’m golden.”

  “Good thinking.” I raised my glass to him. “May your future open to you like a spring full of flowers.”

  He snickered, but straightened quickly when a man with a bristly red mustache beckoned imperiously from the other end of the bar. “Be right back,” he muttered. It gave me a minute to check out how the composition of the room had changed. More of the wives had arrived, creating a sea of blonde hair interspersed with little bald-head boats, and fewer were shooting me daggers, since I was obviously flirting with the bartender. I still didn’t see Winken.

  The bartender returned. “Find who you’re looking for?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bret.”

  Of course it was. “I’m Clara. Do you know the Hankins?”

  “Oh sure! Dr. Hankin is great. They’re around the corner.” He pointed.

  “Think I’ll go say ‘hi.’”

  “Don’t forget to say goodbye before you go.” Bret winked, which was very good for my confidence.

  I crossed the room thinking about how Hugh’s murder, Mother’s public confession, my dreams, the claustrophobic feeling of this town, and the unwillingness of its residents to talk to me had convinced me that someone wanted Mother behind bars—or worse. Chief DuPont’s attitude hadn’t calmed me down either. What could Mother know that would hurt someone? And what did Hugh have to do with anything? All of it made me feel rather protective of Mother. Sure, we hadn’t gotten along. Ever. Sure, we didn’t really know each other. But we were blood, and no one would harm her if I could help it, especially since I had questions I needed to ask her first. Snatches of conversation started to register. “…Constance’s daughter…in jail, you know…a little strange…fifteen?…gone a long time…” I ignored them. I’d located my quarry.

  “Wendy!” I’d almost called her Winken.

  She was decked out like a Christmas tree in head-to-toe Burberry. “The bartender told me you were over here. Do you mind?” I pulled out a chair and sat. She grimaced polite acquiescence, although obviously she wanted nothing to do with me.

  “How are you, Clara? You remember my husband Gary?”

  The man sitting catty-corner to her at the table was pushing seventy, but looked ten years younger, even with a full head of silver hair. A heavy tan seemed to be his only affectation. He wore a simple, well-cut suit, its jacket tossed over the back of the chair next to him, a gold Rolex, and his wedding ring. I vaguely remembered him from Hugh’s memorial service.

  I reached across the table to shake his hand, maneuvering around their forest of martini glasses. They’d already gone two rounds and were working on their third. The waitress appeared at my elbow.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  I held up my wine. “Good for the moment. Thanks.”

  She nodded and disappeared.

  “I was just telling the bartender about the great Women’s League projects we’re doing. That’s how your name came up.” Winken looked a little glazed. “What do you do, Gary?” Always ask what you already know. Lawyer trick. Socialite trick.

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “Do you practice here in town? I’m newly back and looking for a good one.”

  “Uh, no.” He appeared somewhat alarmed. “I practice in the city, and, ­actually, my practice isn’t taking any new patients.”

  Tiny frown lines formed between Winken’s eyebrows. She didn’t say anything, just smiled vacantly and picked up her glass. It was empty, so she fished out the olive and started to suck on it, somewhat noisily. Gary’s “my dear” could have iced over a California wildfire. Winken quieted immediately, like a well-disciplined child.

  I asked, “Did you ever practice here in town?”

  Winken started, rattling the table.

  “Early in my career.” He covered for her smoothly. “I soon realized, though, that the city offered more. I got a great opportunity and took it. I’ve never looked back.”

  “When did you move?”

  “Over thirty years ago,” he said with pride.

  That made the timing about right.

  “Did you ever see my mother as a patient? When she was growing up?” I left it vague, hoping to provoke him. I wanted to ask about finances and the BRK notations in the files, but I couldn’t with all these people around.

  “I don’t recall. It’s been quite a long time.” Winken got paler and paler. I wondered if she would pass out. Gary patted Winken’s hand. “Are you okay, my dear? You look a bit unwell. Maybe we should head into dinner.”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Clara, it has been lovely speaking with you. I’m sure we will see you here occasionally. Do give your mother our best in these difficult times. If there’s anything we can do to help…” He let it drift off.

  “Actually, there is something,” I said.

  He paused while shrugging his jacket straight. Winken remained seated. Maybe she was nailed to her chair. Maybe she was hammered.

  “I came across a medical report among my mother’s things. Could you review it, confidentially of course, and tell me what it means, before I turn it over to our lawyer?”

  “Your mother’s doctor and lawyer should handle this, if it’s germane to the case.”

  “She’s given me power of attorney to handle her affairs while she’s unavailable,” I lied. “I’m trying to sort out what’s important. Anyway, it’s from some time ago.”

  He went still for a fraction of a second, then recovered so quickly that I wondere
d if I’d imagined it. “Make an appointment with my secretary.” He extracted a card from his wallet and handed it to me.

  “Darling?” He extended his hand to his wife. She grabbed at it and pulled herself up, knocking the table again and making an orchestra of the glasses one last time.

  People turned to look, and she went from pale to bright red. She started to breathe in short, panicky breaths. I grabbed her arm to steady her, but she pulled back. “Get away,” she hissed. “Get away.”

  Gary shook his head. “She’ll be all right. I’ll just take her home. Too many martinis after a long, empty day.” He smiled sadly. “Come along, dear.”

  I watched him navigate her through the room and out toward the lobby. It seemed kind and loving, except for his iron grip on her arm and the fierceness with which he kept her on course. I wondered if she would have bruises tomorrow. I wondered why he was suddenly so tight and controlled, and why Winken was so frightened. What had I said?

  I collected my wine and headed back to the bar to confer with Bret. The Red Sea parted for me all the way across the room, and, shortly after that, Bret and I had the place to ourselves as they all made their way into dinner.

  “You’re as good as the threat of the anthrax virus,” he said. “You’d better be a really good tipper to make up for it.”

  “You don’t get tips at the club.”

  He leaned over the bar, bringing his grinning face close to mine. “I don’t turn them down, either.”

  I left a really big tip.

  I only had a half-hour before I had to meet Pete Samuels. I didn’t even have time to process the Hankins’ reactions. Had something I’d said frightened Winken? Was her husband abusive and controlling or was gripping her arm like that how he showed his fear? Was it simply that they thought it unseemly to talk about Mother while she was in jail?