Smoke and Mirrors (4 page)

"I believe she is," the other agreed. "How do you do, Ms. Hartsock? Or do you prefer Miss?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"My name is Nick McDermott. I prefer Nick." He seized her limp hand and pumped it vigorously, continuing to hold it as he started for the house. His grip was firm enough so that Erin would have had to struggle to free herself. She had no intention of doing so, it would have been undignified, but she raged inwardly as she trotted to keep up with his long strides. From his confident manner she assumed he must be someone important, someone she dare not risk offending, but she resented him all the more because he looked so cool and comfortable in his shirt-sleeves while her blouse was sticking to her perspiring body.

He led her up the stairs and across the porch, stepping over and around sprawled cats with practiced unconcern. The cats were equally unconcerned; one rolled over onto its back and stretched lazily, but none of the others stirred.

Nick opened a screened door and motioned her inside. The interior of the house was dark and shady, and cooler than the out-of-doors, but it was obviously not air-conditioned. At first, eyes blinded by the transition from bright sunlight to cool gloom, she could make out very few details. There were no windows in the vestibule; the only light came from the door behind her. Matching doors on either side were closed; a third door, straight ahead, opened onto a long hallway.

Here a ceiling fixture glowed softly, showing stairs on the left and more closed doors on the right. "Offices," Nick said, gesturing but not pausing. "We go this way. ..."

Past the stairs, straight down the hall, to another door, of heavy oak shining with varnish. He threw it open.

Light at last—floods of sunlight from wide windows on two adjoining walls. An ancient window air conditioner, clacking and
grumbling, lowered the temperature somewhat. It was a big room, high-ceilinged and paneled in dark wood; and the furnishings suggested that it served a variety of functions. Sofas, tables, and chairs formed a social "grouping" in front of a massive brick-and-marble fireplace; one end of the room contained office equipment: filing cabinets, a desk, tables covered with books and papers; the other end had been fitted up as a dining area. The long table held cups, some used, some clean; boxes of sugar and artificial sweetener; plastic stirrers; and the oversized coffee maker without which, as Erin was to learn, no political campaign could function. Built-in bookcases flanked the fireplace; the shelves were piled high, not only with books but with office supplies, magazines, and . . . knitting bags? Yes, unquestionably knitting bags; one had tipped over onto its side and spilled a tangle of bright-red yarn onto the shelf.

Erin was always nervous when she had to meet a group of strangers; she had developed a cowardly habit of focusing on some inanimate object or piece of furniture instead of meeting eyes that might be critical or curious or unwelcoming. On this occasion she found herself stupidly wondering how the yarn had got into such a tangle. Perhaps one of the cats . . .

She gave herself a mental slap and forced herself to concentrate on the people in the room. If things worked out as she hoped, these were the men and women she would be working with—or for. Her chances of getting the job weren't very good if she stood gawking like a shy teenager.

There were three of them: an older man, balding and incredibly rumpled, wearing horn-rimmed glasses that looked too small for his broad, heavy-featured face; a woman, whose graying brown hair was coiled into a heavy bun at the back of her neck; and a young black man.

The latter appeared to be about the same age as her guide, in his late twenties or early thirties, but he was taller and more slightly built. His aquiline features and precisely shaped mouth were as attractive as Nick's, but more refined. The word "patrician" came to Erin's mind; if he had worn ruffles at his throat and a sword at his side he might have posed for a portrait of a Gentleman of Aristocratic Lineage. His attire was just as formal, if more
contemporary—a well-cut three-piece suit and a carefully knotted
tie.

". . . Joe Esler, campaign manager and Grand High Monkey-Monk," Nick was saying. The older man hoisted his posterior an inch off the seat of his chair and nodded at her. "And Jeff Ross, our legal counsel. At least that's his official title; like all the rest of us, he does a little bit of everything. He's also Joe's aide, assistant, and intellectual superior."

Joe chuckled, and Jeff allowed himself a tight, brief smile. With a start of chagrin Erin realized she had missed hearing the older woman's name while she dithered about yarn. When would she ever learn . . .

"And then there's me," said a voice from the far end of the room. "Or, more properly, 'I.' Unfortunately, grammatical precision sounds pompous and incorrect, accustomed as we have become to the vulgarities of common usage."

A man rose from behind one of the desks. He was so tall, and he moved so deliberately, that it seemed to take him forever to get all the way up to his full height. It was no wonder he had blended into the furniture; he was all one color, a faded grayish buff, from his close-cropped hair to his khaki pants. His glasses had gold rims; a toothbrush mustache of the same shade as his hair blended with the bookish pallor of his face.

"Hello. I'm Will."

"Sorry," Nick exclaimed. "I didn't see you."

"People don't," Will murmured.

"It's your own fault, Will," the woman said in a brisk, no-nonsense voice. "You must learn to assert yourself if you want to be noticed. Please sit down, Erin. Rosemary will be here in a few minutes, she's on the telephone."

She was knitting as she spoke; a virtuoso performance, for the pattern was complex and she kept her eyes fixed on Erin as the wool looped unhesitatingly over and under the needles. So she was the knitter—and a fanatical one, if she had several projects underway at the same time. The afghan on which she was working was a fisherman's knit in pale-cream wool, with a complex cable pattern.

"I hope you had no difficulty following my directions?" she asked.

Erin shook her head. "No, ma'am."

It had been years since she had called anyone "ma'am." Her use of it now was unplanned and spontaneous, perhaps because this woman conjured up images of stern schoolteachers and Victorian governesses. She was big-boned and heavyset, and dressed with a sobriety that suggested a uniform: white shirtwaist blouse, brown tweed skirt, and flat-heeled walking shoes. The courtesy was well received; the woman's stiff features relaxed, and she nodded pleasantly. "That's good. I'm glad you have your own car."

"It isn't mine, actually," Erin admitted. "My roommate lent me hers."

"Oh, really? Dear me. That presents a difficulty. There is no way of getting here by public transportation, you know. And you must understand that we really can't afford to hire additional staff. We depend to a large extent on volunteers. Running a political campaign is very expensive, especially when—"

"For God's sake, Kay, Rosemary is the one who makes the decisions about hiring," Joe growled. "Get off the girl's back. Relax, kid, you aren't on trial. How about a drink?"

Kay didn't bother to conceal her annoyance; she frowned at Joe, and Nick, glancing from one to the other, burst into rapid speech. "Good idea. What'll it be, Erin? Sherry, Chablis, beer, gin, bourbon? Normally we're a sober lot, but Saturday is supposed to be our day off."

"Just a soft drink, if you have it," Erin said cautiously.

Kay nodded approvingly. "Very sensible. Nick is joking, of course. During this stage of the campaign we work seven days a week. And although some people claim they are not affected by alcohol, I am convinced it lowers one's efficiency."

The criticism was obviously aimed at Joe, whose glass was filled to the brim with a dark amber liquid. Erin would have been willing to bet it wasn't sherry.

Joe's only response was to raise the glass to his lips and take a long swallow. Kay continued to glower, Jeff stared at his own glass, which appeared to contain tonic or mineral water, and Nick whistled loudly and tunelessly as he rummaged through a miscellaneous collection of bottles in a cabinet behind the table. Erin could feel the tension in the air. It was only to be expected,
she supposed. These people were the inner circle, those responsible for the day-by-day running of the campaign; to a large extent success or failure depended on their efforts. The older woman__Kay—must be Rosemary's personal secretary, or perhaps her aide. Not only was there tension between them, there was a measurable degree of jealousy as they jockeyed for position and influence.

Nick handed her a glass. "Behold the Star Chamber," he said. For a startled moment Erin wondered if she had spoken aloud, his comment matched her thoughts so closely. "The powers behind the throne, the Cardinals Richelieu, the
eminences grises.
Except me. I'm nobody. They let me hang around because I do the chores nobody else wants to do. Polish shoes, de-flea dogs, scrub floors—"

"Wrong," said Joe, with a rumble of laughter. "We let him hang around because he's so goddamned handsome. Gives the girls a thrill. Right, Kay?"

"Don't tease the boy, Joe," Kay said gravely. "Nick is one of our dedicated volunteers, Erin. He acts as media consultant, speech writer—"

"And court jester." Jeff spoke for the first time. He may have meant it as a joke, but he didn't smile, and the look Nick gave him was visibly devoid of amusement.

"He keeps our spirits up," Kay said, with another of her decisive little nods. "That's very important."

Nick did find this amusing; he rolled his eyes and grinned at Erin. She couldn't decide whether Kay was unaware of the nuances, or determined to pretend they did not exist.

The door behind her opened. Erin didn't have to turn to know who had entered; Rosemary Marshall's presence was mirrored on the faces of the men who faced her, in very different but equally visible ways. A heightened awareness, a stiffening of pose—and something more, a kind of reflected glow.

Erin turned in time to see her hostess lunge forward. "Goddamn it! Catch him, Joe, Nick—somebody—"

"He" was a cat, though at first Erin saw only a mottled blur, heading at full speed for the nearest place of
concealment
—the sofa. After being flushed out from under it he ricocheted around the
room, from the mantel to the back of Joe's chair, to the table, and then beneath it. She joined in the chase—the peremptory voice had been as compelling as a direct order—and it was she who fished the cat out from under the tablecloth. As soon as he realized he was fairly caught he melted, hanging limp from her hands and giving her a look of pained reproach. He appeared to be a tabby of indeterminate age and considerable bulk. Opening massive jaws and displaying a set of sharp white fangs, he emitted a small soprano mew of protest.

"Give him to me," said Nick, red-faced with exercise and laughter. "He's shedding on you. He does it on purpose. '

Deliberately or not, the cat had left fuzzy souvenirs all over her palms and fingers. Erin dusted them off as Nick cradled the animal in his arms.

"Out." Rosemary gestured vigorously. "Get him out, Nick. Damn the creature, he lurks like Dracula. I didn't see him until he was on his way through the door. "

The ice had definitely been broken. Rosemary was laughing and even Jeff's austere face had softened into a half-smile.

The first thing that struck Erin was the distinguished congresswoman's size. Somehow she had gotten the impression that Marshall was much taller. In the flesh she appeared almost diminutive, a scant inch over five feet tall, and her informal clothes made her look even tinier. She wore faded, baggy jeans, a man's shirt that flapped loosely over generous hips, and a pair of dirty sneakers. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, and a smudge of ink marked her chin.

Erin knew she was staring, rudely and openly. She couldn't help it. The contrast between the sophisticated candidate and this sloppy specimen, dressed like a street person and swearing like a farmhand, was too much for her. Rosemary was quite accustomed to being stared at. She smiled—the practiced candidate's smile Erin had seen on the tube—and said, "You're Erin, of course. You look so much like your mother."

Erin began, "People say I look more like—"

"Not the way she is now; the way she looked in college. Oh, Lord. I don't know whether that makes me feel eighteen again, or a hundred and eighteen."

For a moment she appeared to be about to embrace Erin, but
she changed her mind and stepped back. "You'll want to wash your hands. God knows what rubbish bin that damned animal has been rooting in."

"I'll show her." Kay put her knitting aside. "And Rosemary— please watch your language. Someday one of those words will slip out during a speech or a debate—"

"A little 'damn' never hurt anybody," Rosemary said defiantly. "Oh, well, I suppose you're right. You always are."

A door near the long table opened onto a passageway that led to a butler's pantry and kitchen, with a half-bath next to the latter. Erin emerged from the bathroom in time to meet Kay coming from the kitchen with a large cut-glass bowl of shrimp salad. She asked if she could help.

"Thank you, but I have everything under control. We wait on ourselves weekends; Rosemary prefers it that way. You go and sit down. "