“Where’s the ladies’ room?” Susan asked quickly.
“Down the hall and to the left. You only have five minutes.”
Susan fled. She found the bathroom and would have been back in the studio with plenty of time to spare—if she had been able to find the studio. As it was, she arrived breathlessly as Tom Davidson was introducing himself.
“And here’s our guest now,” was the smooth transition he made as she walked into the room.
Susan blinked at the bright lights and sat down in the black leather chair that he indicated. She smiled, reminded herself to sit up straight, and tried to look relaxed.
She was terrified. Too terrified to listen to what Tom was saying, so she was stunned when he turned to her and said something like “and we’ve given Mrs. Jed Henshaw the opportunity to respond to this story. Susan?”
She took a deep breath and started to talk about Clue. Then she talked about her children growing up in Hancock. She mentioned her husband’s experiences coaching soccer. She chatted about the PTA. She probably would have mentioned the fact that she had worn a cloth coat to the studio if Tom Davidson hadn’t placed a restraining hand on her arm.
“I’m afraid that’s all we have time for during this special edition of the Hancock news. We will be covering the debate tonight from the beginning to the end. Now here’s this from the quilting lady, Mrs. Patch.”
Susan remained frozen in place until he stood up. “Isn’t someone going to tell us we’re off the air?”
“I’m telling you,” Tom said, walking across the room and flipping a switch. Normal lighting returned. They were alone.
“There’s no one here,” Susan commented idiotically.
“I told you I ran my own camera, didn’t I?”
“Oh, well … How did I do?”
He frowned. “Okay, I guess. What was all the stuff about your dog?”
“Well, everyone kept mentioning the Checkers speech.…”
“That’s right. Checkers was the name of Nixon’s dog, wasn’t it?”
Susan tried not to wonder what this younger generation was coming to. “I guess I’d better get on over to the debate. Jed will be expecting me. Are those reporters still outside?”
“Probably not. They were around to interview Cassandra Chadwick and you just sort of happened on the scene.”
“Why was Cassandra here? Did her husband invest in something like the Malloy Fund?” It was too much to expect.…
The next words out of Tom’s mouth convinced her that she was right. “She was here to appear on the knitting woman’s show. It was more interesting than I thought it would be. Did you know that Cassandra Chadwick spins and dyes her own yarns?”
“Does she raise the sheep, too?” Susan asked rather sarcastically.
“She said something about an island they own off the coast of Maine where there’s a herd of sheep to keep down the natural grasses. But they won’t have it for long. It’s being deeded to the Nature Conservancy.”
“Of course,” Susan said, putting on the cloth coat that she had neither woven nor spun.
“That’s why she called out the press. She wanted to announce the land donation. Your problem with the Malloy Fund just happened to come up.”
“Of course,” Susan repeated, reminding herself that there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing the press. And wondering why she hadn’t thought of appearing on a crafts show of some sort. She could do crafts, couldn’t she? Well, not really—maybe a cooking show, she thought, leaving the station and getting into her car.
By the time she arrived at the junior-high-school auditorium for the debate, she was imagining herself competently demonstrating her special recipe for beef bourguignonne to Julia Childs (who might, of course, recognize it as being from the original New York Times Cookbook). After the debate tonight, she would find Tom Davidson and see if there was a cooking program on the schedule down at his station. She followed the crowd walking down the hallway toward the auditorium. The walls were decorated by the art classes and Halloween had been the theme. Junior high kids being what they were, many of the posters rivaled the goriest of the horror movies now on the market and she overheard one knowing onlooker explaining that the art teacher had edited out the bloodiest ones in deference to parental sensibilities. Susan stared at a half-naked monster with blood oozing from some rather exotic piercing and mentally thanked the teacher.
“Susan!”
She turned around to see who was calling to her.
“Hi! Susan! Over here!”
Kathleen was standing on one side of the hallway, waving. “Over here,” she repeated. “Come on.” She pointed to the door marked ladies.
Susan hurried over to her friend. “I really should go get a seat near the front.”
“In here,” Kathleen insisted, pushing her friend ahead of her through the swinging door.
“Smells like cigarettes,” Susan muttered, looking around.
“You never sneaked cigarettes in the bathroom in junior high school? Never mind that now,” Kathleen continued. “Thank goodness we’re alone. Where did you put on that makeup? In the dark?”
Susan slapped her hands across her face. “I forgot! It was for TV.” She peered into the mirror. “Oh, I look like a clown.”
“Maybe you should put your hair up,” Kathleen suggested.
“I tried that. It looked even worse.” Susan was busy scrubbing the garish pink blotches from her cheeks. She spent a few minutes with the contents of her purse before turning back to her friend. “What do you think?”
“Much better,” Kathleen said. “How’s Jed holding up?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that story about the Malloy Fund …”
“I was hoping no one would see the show,” Susan muttered, trying one last time to do something with her hair. “Everyone keeps saying that they don’t watch public-access cable.”
“But everyone watches Channel three and Bradley Chadwick made a pretty powerful statement about the whole situation to that cute little redheaded reporter. I don’t remember her name.”
“And it ran on the local news tonight?”
“Top story. It was used as a local tie-in with something presidential—I actually don’t remember what, I was so stunned to hear Jed’s name like that.”
“Oh damn.” Susan leaned against the sink. “Jed must be dying. Have you seen him?”
“Not yet. Jerry drove over here right away. I called your house and no one was there and we thought Jed could use a little moral support. So Jerry left immediately and I found a sitter and came on down myself. I was actually in the hallway looking for you.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you did. Did you happen to hear anyone talking about the Malloy Fund?”
“No. Most of the chat seemed to be about Bradley’s generous donation to the Nature Conservancy.”
Susan frowned. “Probably just a tax dodge,” she muttered.
“It may be, but he sure got a lot of good publicity out of it.”
“Did you happen to see me tonight on Channel forty-six?”
“Just the beginning of the show. I had to give the sitter instructions and come on over here.”
Susan knew an evasion when she heard one. “Kath, be honest. If you don’t tell me that I was terrible, no one will,” she insisted. “Except, of course, Chad—who will never see me unless I appear on MTV.”
“I really didn’t see much of you, but I have to confess that I didn’t understand why you started out talking about Clue. It seemed a little strange.”
“Everyone told me to think about the Checkers speech—so I thought of Clue. I suppose it was pretty stupid.” She raised her eyebrows, knowing she didn’t want to hear the answer to that question.
“A little unusual,” Kathleen conceded. “You did look remarkably relaxed, though. I know I used to be a wreck when I was on television back when I was a cop.”
Susan appreciated Kathleen’s kindness. “Well, maybe no one else s
aw the show.” She dropped her makeup bag back in her purse and snapped it shut. “We’d better get going. I hope we can find good seats. I want Jed to know that I’m here.”
“Don’t worry. Jerry promised to save seats for us. He said he’d be near the front on the left side of the auditorium.”
“Good thinking.” Susan took a deep breath. “Let’s go be supportive.”
“You’re a good wife,” Kathleen said.
“If there’s an award for great wife, I think every woman whose husband is running for public office deserves to win it.”
“Even Cassandra Chadwick?” Kathleen teased, holding the door open for her friend.
“Well, let’s not get carried away.” Susan pulled back her shoulders, lifted her head up high, put what she had come to think of as her election-season smile on her face, and joined the crowd heading into the auditorium.
TWENTY-ONE
The mayoral debate itself could hardly turn out to be more acrimonious than the days of discussion over the choice of moderator had been. The first choice, a popular minister of the large Episcopalian church downtown, had excused himself on the grounds that the church and its manse had both been built before 1939 and he didn’t want to be accused of conflict of interest. The second choice, a famous anchorman who lived in Hancock, expressed his appreciation at being considered, but claimed prior commitments. One of the more gossipy travel agents in town claimed the anchorman had made reservations for Bermuda the day after this statement, but no one blamed him for not wanting to get involved. There were other nominations for the job, but they were all miraculously busy or conflicted. All three candidates finally agreed on the dynamic new head librarian, a woman who had become well liked and respected in the three years since her arrival.
Unfortunately, she was nowhere to be seen when Susan and Kathleen joined Jerry in the front row of the auditorium. “What’s going on?” Susan leaned around Kathleen to ask Jerry Gordon.
Two podiums dominated the center of the stage. A wing chair stood between the two. Seven folding chairs lined up on either side of the stage. The folding chairs were empty. The wing chair was occupied by Agatha Rickert, a woman who had been the town clerk for the past thirty years. She was smiling like a cat stuffed with cream.
“No one seems to know.” Jerry leaned closer and whispered into his wife’s ear. “The couple behind us decided that Agatha finally went nuts and killed off all the candidates.”
Kathleen chuckled and passed the message on to Susan.
Susan just continued to look worried. “But why is she even here?”
“I don’t know. Where’s—” Kathleen began. The entrance of the candidates interrupted her question.
Susan smiled up at her husband, but either he didn’t see her or he thought a response might be interpreted as frivolous. He followed Tony Martel across the stage and found his seat. When the candidates were seated and had made their first major decision of the evening—legs crossed? ankles crossed? feet flat on the floor?—Agatha Rickert stood and trotted up to the podium.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she twittered in a voice most people in town knew—and many had come to dread. “There’s been a tiny change in the program this evening. Not that there actually is a program. At least not a printed one,” she added, giggling, “but you know what I mean.” She smiled at the audience, turned to her left and to her right, and bestowed smiles on each candidate individually. “I’m afraid that the flu going around has claimed another victim and I’m going to be your moderator this evening.” She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Susan noticed that Kathleen and her husband had exchanged looks. She suspected that many of the other people in the audience were doing the same. Agatha Rickert was a lovely lady. She was born to pour tea from a silver service as the sun set over manicured green lawns every afternoon. She would have been in her element ordering meals in the morning, arranging flowers in the afternoon, and tatting edges around endless handkerchiefs in the evening by the fire. No one was sure exactly how she had ended up doing what amounted to directing traffic down at town hall. It was a job for which she was singularly unsuited.
Agatha was unfailingly cheerful, even when guiding people to the wrong office. She was always helpful, although frequently she only helped make problems bigger than they were to begin with. She was sweet and fluttery—and dealing with her had raised the blood pressure of more than one “accustomed to getting my own way with a single phone call” executive in town. Susan loved the woman. She leaned forward in her chair. This debate was going to be more interesting than she had imagined.
After a slightly difficult time finding the beginning of the sheet of paper she had been asked to read, Agatha suggested that the mayoral candidates make their opening statements.
Bradley Chadwick stood and approached the microphone.
“And don’t go over your time limit,” Agatha reminded him coyly, wagging a warning finger in his direction before resuming her seat.
Susan was happy to see Jed smiling. He had once told her being with Agatha reminded him that kindness was more important than efficiency. Then he left the rest of the family’s dealings with town hall up to his wife.
Bradley had barely begun his speech when Agatha stood up again and interrupted. “I should tell everyone that a bell will go off if either of the candidates goes over the time allowed them. Not that I think they would do it intentionally, of course. But I don’t want anyone to get a surprise.”
Bradley Chadwick smiled flatly. “Thank you, Miss Rickert. We don’t want any voters frightened by a bell either.”
She smiled pertly at him, then at the audience, and resumed her seat, dropping her notes on the floor as she did so. By the time Bradley had retrieved them for her and was back at the podium, most of the members of the audience were chuckling. Bradley was obviously working very hard not to scowl.
Susan was thinking of baking a loaf of her special raisin egg bread and taking it down to Agatha first thing tomorrow morning. The woman was making Bradley look like the pompous fool he was. She could not have been more thrilled.
But her pleasure diminished considerably as Bradley began his opening statement. When he worked off a written speech, the man was good. Very good, she realized. It was difficult not to sigh with relief when he sat down without mentioning either the Malloy Fund, dog walking, or her husband.
Agatha’s introduction of Anthony Martel was neither quick nor to the point. She worked hard to refer to him as Tony, but, giggling like a schoolgirl, gave up and reverted to Anthony midway through her speech. In the interests of fairness, she repeated her admonition about time limits and bells. This time she didn’t drop anything on her way back to her seat.
Unlike his opponent, Anthony Martel was rather long-winded and boring. Susan, who had been listening to him speak for months now, found herself thinking about Jed. He was sitting still, watching Anthony with what Susan kiddingly called his “almost Nancy Reagan” look on his face—not adoring, but interested. She wondered what he was thinking, if he was nervous, if he had heard about her version of the Checkers speech.…
The opening statements ended and the questions began. Susan wondered how they had been chosen—but just for a moment. Then she began to wonder who hated her husband.
The first question Agatha read was not, as Susan was expecting, about the Landmark Commission, but about the Malloy Fund—and Jed’s investment in it. The question was asked of Anthony Martel and challenged him to justify keeping Jed on the ticket under these circumstances. Susan took a deep breath and leaned forward to hear the answer.
Kathleen unobtrusively put a restraining hand on Susan’s arm and Susan remembered that she was the object of a certain amount of attention. She bit her bottom lip and wished she’d had the sense to sit in the back of the room where her anguish would be comparatively private. Anthony Martel was denying any intention of taking Jed off his ticket and trying to explain that Jed had acted out of ignorance rather t
han greed.
Susan, listening to this, realized the truth of what Tom Davidson had been telling her: Jed did sound like an incompetent manager of his own financial affairs, certainly a man incapable of taking on any extra civic responsibilities.
Jed seemed aware of the situation, too. He stood up and began to move closer to Anthony Martel.
But Bradley Chadwick was quicker. He was on his feet and appealing to Agatha Rickert before Jed could get a word out of his mouth. “I believe, Miss Rickert, that the plan is for the mayoral candidates to speak and then, if one of us wanted to cede some of our time to one of our running mates, to do so at the end of the debate. Am I right?”
Well, it was obvious to anyone who ever had needed a quick answer from Agatha Rickert that this was not going to go smoothly. Agatha fluttered, and twittered, and mussed around generally, shuffling through the papers on her lap, glancing off stage right and then stage left as though expecting an answer to be flashing in the wings. Finally she smiled weakly at the audience, took her place in front of the microphone, and breathed, “I honestly don’t know.” With another smile, she returned to her seat.
Meanwhile Anthony Martel and Bradley Chadwick stood at their respective podiums and glared at each other. Anthony looked furious, clenching the edge of the podium, his knuckles white. Chadwick, in contrast, seemed completely relaxed, his lips twisted into a very slight smile, his hands crossed over each other, only his eyes betraying his anger.
Susan took a deep breath. These men were ready to fight to the death. Stupidly, she had assumed that the other candidates’ feelings were more like her husband’s: they wanted to win, but it certainly wasn’t essential to their mental well-being. She glanced at her husband and changed her mind. Jed was looking pretty angry himself.
There were a few moments of silence and Susan was beginning to wonder how this situation was going to be resolved when Agatha Rickert came through, as she always did.
Agatha moved into the few feet between the two men and wagged her finger first at one and then the other. “Oh, you naughty boys. Fighting when you’re supposed to be debating. What are we going to do with you?”
Elected for Death Page 16
