Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 11/01/12

by Dell Magazines

I get it. Reston Boyle joined the campaign and started talking. I don’t blame him. He got his hand slapped, learning the hard way not to chase fast rabbits down long holes.

  “Every agent has clients file borderline claims,” I say. “Insurance companies always cry fraud. Why wouldn’t they? They don’t want to pay any more than they have to. So there was this company investigator, aggressive guy, wants to be a state prosecutor. He thinks he sees a pattern and comes after me. That’s all.”

  Larry raises his eyebrows. “All?”

  “All except he’s working on this campaign,” I say. “Reston Boyle.”

  Larry chuckles and does his nod thing. “You okay with that?”

  “Why not? He came after me and got nothing but a scolding from the commission. If there’s any raw skin it’s his, not mine. We talked. I bought him lunch.”

  Larry looks at me over the tops of his glasses and asks, “Why’d the commission stiff him?”

  I lean back and say, “He didn’t have a case.”

  “You had help,” Larry says.

  “So I made a few calls,” I say. “I didn’t need to. They didn’t have a case.”

  “You had help,” Larry says again. “Let me tell you what I’ve got in mind.”

  As he talks I think about Bax Rogers becoming a permanent member of the staff of Senator Jonathan Tewell: Bax Rogers, a former small-time insurance agent who dedicated himself to the campaign of a candidate he believed in, then to public service, then to the woman whose love he never gave up on, the woman who just needed to see what he could do. How will they make the announcement? Press release? Maybe a press conference? Either way, Ellen will be impressed.

  It turns out, five weeks later, to be a press conference.

  “Don’t miss it,” Larry said before he disappeared. It’s been two days now, and nobody’s seen or heard from him. His mobile phone’s gone dead. But the campaign’s humming like a boomtown bank, especially the advertising blitz. TV spots show Tewell with his family, Tewell speaking about individual liberty, Tewell standing on the steps of the Capitol lecturing reporters about free enterprise. The other campaign can’t keep up. A few of the skankier newspapers have run stories about sightings of a boozy Victor Angleton in clubs without his wife—but so far no disclosures about extramarital dalliance. Tewell’s been giving five speeches a day and sounding better than ever. Larry’s the reason everything’s going so well, and now he’s just disappeared. I guess he figures his work’s done.

  I can’t sweat about Larry. My future’s set. A few days ago Larry told me this would be it, the biggest announcement of my life, details secret until the press conference. What’s important now is that when I stand after the senator makes the announcement and nod once, frowning like this kind of thing happens every day of my life, then quickly sit, I’ll know I earned it.

  Only two questions remain: what my title will be and whether Ellen shows up.

  I’m in a folding metal chair with a dozen other campaign hustlers on a platform of tear-down risers inside a shopping mall near headquarters. Know-it-all reporters huddle close with their notepads and recorders. Four cops perform unnecessary crowd control with bored looks and tough-guy postures. The crowd of thirty, maybe forty, is big enough. But it doesn’t include Ellen.

  “Politicians all seem so—I don’t know—ambitious,” she said when I called two nights ago to invite her to the press conference.

  “Big announcement,” I said. “I think you’ll like it.”

  “Don calls them schemers,” Ellen said, stressing “Don” like the name is supposed to mean something special. She was playing the jealousy game—a good sign.

  “Not Jonathan Tewell,” I said.

  “Don says they’re all crooked.”

  Acting irritated, I asked, “What’s a used-car salesman doing calling anybody crooked?”

  She got huffy. I imagined her jerking her shoulders back and tilting her head, eyes in blister mode. “He owns the dealership.”

  I softened my voice like a father. “It’s a used-car lot. I checked.”

  She went quiet for a couple of seconds. “Well, he doesn’t have anybody investigating him for fraud,” she said.

  I was ready. “Then he’s not trying hard enough.” And before she could respond I told her where and when the press conference would be.

  The conversation went so well that I’m surprised she’s not here at the shopping-mall press conference. She hadn’t hung up on me. She hadn’t lectured me about playing loose with rules. She hadn’t complained about how much worry I caused her while Reston Boyle wasted time investigating nothing. She had stayed on the line and even said she might be here.

  And with that she confirmed what I’d always believed: She can’t live without me.

  My watch says it’s time for the press conference to start, but I know Ellen has another five minutes. A delayed start lets the senator make a hurried entrance with his handlers, looking like he’s swooping in between more important engagements. But a start more than five minutes behind schedule makes reporters cranky. I learned this and a lot more from Larry.

  Reston Boyle cruises the crowd, looking casual, almost invisible, but alert, I know, watching everything—the cops, the crowd, the inattentive shoppers streaming by in the mall. Part of Reston’s job is security. The other part, Larry told me, is investigations. So I know how those stories about Angleton drunk without his wife turned up. Reston’s good. It must peeve him not to have found any bimbos yet. The polls are still even.

  Reston and I are getting along. Larry brought him into meetings about my financial work. Security was important, he said.

  The work was easy. Under the name of my agency I set up savings accounts at six banks with initial deposits of five to eight thousand dollars each—cash. Then I built up the accounts with deposits of similar amounts. The money came to me in metal briefcases in the trunks of rental cars to which keys would be delivered by courier to my apartment along with notes saying where the cars had been parked. I’d make the deposits and return the rental cars, six times a day for a while. Then I made a dozen or so transfers between the accounts, then to outside accounts specified by Larry in amounts he directed. I had to make sure, with internal transfers, that the accounts had enough funds to cover the outbound transfers. The accounting and cash-hustling filled my days for a couple weeks—and they demonstrated my financial skill.

  “A political campaign’s like kayaking down one of those haul-ass rivers out West,” Larry had told me in that meeting when we talked about my opportunity. “You keep your eye on the smooth water at the bottom of the rapids and your ass away from the big rocks. Contribution limits are little rocks. Nobody cares. This is just about being careful. Happens all the time.”

  Besides, I wondered, who got hurt? To anybody with any brains, Tewell was the right candidate, the only candidate. When Larry was recruiting me to the volunteer staff, Tewell had visited, in person, the little office in the crummy part of town where I, an insurance agent nobody ever heard of, met customers and did paperwork and paid rent on time most months, and invited me to join his campaign. He walked right in with a handshake ready and his silver hair looking more distinguished even than on television, and his eyes were dark and firm and warm, wrinkled just enough. He sat down in front of my desk and talked straight, man-to-man, a candidate to somebody in whom he saw potential, somebody who could learn to tell the big rocks from the little rocks, somebody who could become not just an important part of an important election campaign but also, I knew, an important member his permanent staff. At that moment, I knew I’d do anything to help this man be reelected. And I knew I’d get Ellen back.

  And now, five minutes late and right on time, from behind the makeshift stage, Jonathan Tewell scurries amid sundry aides toward the podium, blue suit fitted to his gym-trim frame, red tie aglow against a shirt supernaturally white. He’s my candidate. He will win. I will be a member of his staff.

  I watch the senator escape his coterie and posi
tion himself behind the podium, notes in hand. Then I return my gaze to the crowd and see her, Ellen, standing with her arms folded across her narrow belly to my right, nodding when I catch her gaze. As always, she makes ordinary clothes—in this instance white shorts and a white and green–striped top with no sleeves—dazzle.

  This is perfect.

  The senator begins to speak, acknowledging the tough race his opponent has run, thanking his campaign staff.

  This is my moment, and Ellen is here to witness it.

  The senator warms up with fuzzy words about the importance of sacrifice and its relationship to higher values. It’s too philosophical, if you ask me.

  I watch the senator, but I’m thinking about Ellen, glancing at her, knowing she’s wondering how she’ll dump Don, the used-car guy.

  “Sacrifice in service to value,” the senator says and pauses. It’s a Larry West line if I ever heard one, and it works. The spectators applaud. Reporters nod and scribble. The senator bows slightly.

  Ellen is shifting her weight from one beautiful leg to the other, getting bored. Maybe now the senator will get down to business.

  Instead he veers into something about “transparency” and “accountability,” and I glance at Reston Boyle, who’s standing left of the shallow stage, looking more confident than he’s looked lately, like maybe he finally turned up something solid about Victor Angleton’s past.

  The senator wins more applause with babble about the importance not just of disclosure but also of action, and I’m thinking that since he’s in a philosophical mood maybe a few words about tireless toil would nicely introduce the announcement about the new member of his permanent staff. Ellen’s sighing now, and I’m afraid she’ll get bored and leave. I glance at Boyle. He’s smiling, unaware how off-message the senator is straying. If Larry West were here he’d be standing behind the crowd, spinning a forefinger in a speed-it-up gesture only the senator would notice.

  Now my candidate, my soon-to-be boss, launches into even more boring philosophizing about aggressive enforcement of campaign finance laws, and I get a panicky feeling he’ll lose the attention of his audience, most tragically of Ellen, before he finally gets around to talking about me.

  Copyright © 2012 Bob Tippee

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  FICTION

  CONFESSIONS

  I. J. PARKER

  Art by Linda Weatherly

  Art by Linda Weatherly

  Heian-Kyo: The Nineteenth Day of the Twelfth Month, 1026.

  A stifled sob.

  Akitada was not quite dozing. Rather his mind drifted on the waves of the chanting. He felt light, disembodied, immaterial. Candlelight flickered on the gold leaf of the statue of Kannon, the merciful, and on the beads of gold cascading across its chest. Was this Kannon male or female? Probably neither and both, as the priests taught. Behind the statue stood hell screens depicting the torments of the sinners, their colors shifting from brilliant red to obscure darkness.

  Incense clouds hung above the rows of nobles, each in his black court robe and lacquer-stiffened black hat, each no doubt as dazed as he after hours of sitting stiffly through the official On-Butsumyo, the annual confession service celebrated in the Shishin-den, the main hall in the imperial palace.

  The chanting of the priests and monks was beautiful. The leader’s voice was deep and resonant, and the younger monks’ as light and musical as songs sung by dancing maidens. This particular segment had lasted a very long time already, and yet they chanted on, apparently without breathing. Surely a man could not hold his breath for such a length of time? Ah, the bell was struck. And now they began the recitation of the Buddha’s names, dull and sleep-inducing stuff, except for the beauty of the sound.

  He should feel pain after sitting still for hours, but the service had made him forget his own concerns. He had put aside thoughts of his own sins a while ago, and now simply sat in a pleasant dreamlike state.

  Then the small sound intruded again.

  It took an act of will for Akitada to turn his head. Nearby sat another courtier. He was the one weeping, perhaps had been weeping for a long time. His face glistened in the candlelight. He sat slumped over, and his shoulders shook. The hands resting on his knees trembled.

  Why such grief?

  What had this man done to cause such a public display of sorrow? And at such a formal official gathering?

  Thoroughly awake by now, Akitada fished a tissue from his sash and surreptitiously slid it across. After a moment, the other man reached for it and dried his face. He looked ill, and Akitada felt a surge of pity for the stranger.

  When the service concluded, the attendants got stiffly to their feet, arranged robes and trains, and found their places in the procession from the palace.

  Akitada was among the last to emerge into a blindingly bright winter day. New snow had fallen overnight, and the sun shone. The world around him was brilliant. The intense blue of the sky met the white earth, and only the scarlet lacquer of columns and railings and the black figures of the officials broke the uniformity.

  After hours in the dimly lit hall, Akitada blinked and took a deep breath of brisk winter air. His head cleared amazingly as he walked towards the palace gates. Outside the Kenrei-mon, the procession broke up, and someone touched his arm. It was the stranger who had wept during the service.

  “You’re Sugawara, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Seen more clearly, he was tall and thin almost to emaciation. Deeply tanned features with feverish eyes, hair that had turned white at the temples, and red-rimmed eyes all suggested that he was not only deeply moved, but also in very poor health.

  “Yes, I am,” Akitada said with a bow, “but I’m afraid I don’t know your name. Have we met?” The rank ribbon on the stranger’s court hat made him upper fourth, well above Akitada’s station.

  The other man looked at him fixedly as if he were weighing his character. “We haven’t met, but I know who you are. Kosehira is my nephew.”

  Kosehira was Akitada’s best friend. Akitada tried to recall Kosehira’s relatives and failed to place this man.

  The stranger said, “I’m Masatsune—not that anyone remembers me. Forgive me, but could you spare me a little of your time?”

  “Now?” Akitada looked around at the snow-covered roofs of the Daidairi. The lines of officials had dispersed across the grounds, eager to return to their homes or offices.

  “Yes. Could we walk a little? It feels good to be out in the fresh air again. I’m no longer used to court rituals with all that incense.” Masatsune walked with a limp. He really did not look well. Akitada was curious, but he had an ominous feeling about this mysterious uncle of Kosehira.

  They passed out of the Daidairi and stood waiting to cross Nijo Avenue. Masatsune said, “I only returned yesterday. I’m afraid, during the Confessions service, I was overcome with memories. And grief.”

  Akitada made a sympathetic comment, then asked, “Have you returned from service in the provinces?”

  Masatsune shot him a glance. “I returned from exile.”

  Akitada missed a step in his surprise, and Masatsune turned his head again. “Pardoned after twenty years,” he said, as if that explained anything.

  They walked on. Akitada did not ask questions, but he wondered. A man of Masatsune’s rank condemned to exile for such a length of time? What could he have done? Treason was the most likely offense. Perhaps he had supported the wrong man in a political power play. But Akitada could not remember anything like that involving Kosehira’s family. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “Kosehira didn’t mention it.”

  “Kosehira didn’t know. I simply vanished.”

  “You vanished?”

  “Yes. And now I’m here again. It’s very strange, I’m sure. Shall we go to the Spring Garden. It shouldn’t be crowded now, and I have a great desire to see the lake again. We could have a cup of warm wine in
the pavilion if it still exists.”

  The Spring Garden was a city block laid out as a strolling garden with a lake, fishing pavilions, and small islands one could row a boat to. The court frequently held gatherings here. Sometimes, the emperor brought his ladies, and music and entertainments lasted deep into the night. But never in the middle of winter.

  “It still exists but it may not be open.”

  “It used to be when I was young. For snow-viewing. It’s indescribably beautiful this time of year.”

  Masatsune had sounded so wistful that Akitada submitted.

  To his surprise, the gates stood open, the paths had been swept, and the scene was indeed magical. Snow softened the stark outlines of pines and made a crystal filigree of the bare branches of willows. Below, shrubs and stones formed a white landscape of soft hillocks and valleys. The lake was a sheet of polished silver reflecting pavilions, trees, and sky like a mirror.

  They were the only visitors in the small, elegant pavilion on the edge of the lake. A waiter materialized, an old man with hair as white as the snow. He brought hot spiced wine, then disappeared again. They sat on reed mats, sipped, and looked out over the lake.

  “I met her here, you know.” Masatsune’s voice was warm though his teeth chattered. “She was exquisite, but that was not what I loved about her. I fell in love with her kindness.” He turned feverish eyes on Akitada. “The great ladies of His Majesty’s household are rarely kind to pages, you know. They are haughty, or they tease, or they’re so withdrawn you cannot talk to them. She was not like that. She was as cheerful as a child, innocent and loving, and full of laughter. And later, when we became lovers, she was filled with a tender happiness.” He fell silent and sighed. “Forgive me. I have brought you here to finish my confession properly. Finding you beside me during the ceremony was like an omen.”

  Akitada eyed him with concern. This frigid lakeside was no place for a sick man reminiscing about a past romance. “Are you feeling well? Shouldn’t we go somewhere warmer?”