The Mortal Groove (8 page)

This made an even half dozen. “What about Cecily?” asked Jane.

Cecily Finch was Hattie's nanny. Cordelia had hired her to help out when Octavia had first dropped Hattie on Cordelia's doorstep. She'd moved to England to continue to care for the little girl.

“She's useless. I thought she was my friend, but she doesn't write, hasn't called in months.”

“Maybe Octavia told her not to.”

“Of course she did. But Cecily is sufficiently conniving. She could figure something out.”

“You think this new PI will be any better?”

“God knows. She said she had a plan, but didn't want to get my hopes up, just in case it doesn't work.” Cordelia closed the dishwasher. “Every lawyer I talk to tells me the same thing. I've got no rights when it comes to Hattie.” As she switched the dishwasher on, the doorbell rang. “You expecting visitors?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, I'm done, so I'm outta here. I need to get to the theater.”

Jane put her arms around Cordelia, gave her a hug. She wished she could say something to make it all better, but they both knew Octavia held all the cards.

On their way through the dining room, Cordelia eyed Jane with a glimmer of humor. “Think I need to change my outfit?”

“Red flannel pajamas are a good look for you.”

“What about the apron?”

“Very Martha Stewart.”

“It's not really
me,
though. I usually go for drama—for
va voom.”

“Wear your stiletto heels,” said Jane, drawing back the door.

A familiar looking woman stood outside on the front steps. One of her hands fidgeted with a cigarette, the other was hooked on to a shoulder-strap purse. She was dressed in a pin-striped navy jacket over a pair of tight black jeans, her short coffee brown hair brushed back over her ears.

“Melanie?” said Jane.

“For a minute there, I thought you might not remember me.”

“Of course I remember you.”

Melanie Gunderson and Cordelia had lived together for five years, the longest serious relationship in Cordelia's long line of daytime drama. To say that it was stormy would be an under-statement. When they first met, Cordelia had just been hired as the creative director at the Blackburn Playhouse and Melanie was working on her dissertation for her doctorate in journalism and mass communications at the University of Minnesota.

“Can I come in?” she asked, dropping the cigarette to the steps and crushing it out with her flip-flop.

“What am I thinking? Of course you can.” Jane had always been a little bit in love with Melanie. Evervone had. She was flat-out smart and flat-out sexy, an irresistible combination.

Cordelia was three-quarters of the way up the stairs when she bellowed, “My god, Gunderson? Is that
you?”

Melanie looked a little startled. “What are you doing here?” she asked, watching Cordelia rush back down the stairs.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“You look sufficiently odd,” said Melanie, her gaze dropping to the apron. “You're sure I'm not interrupting . . . something?”

“Nah,” said Cordelia. “Jane and I are just friends, you know that. I been staying here for a while. Long story.”

“Why don't we sit in the living room?” said Jane. “I assume you dropped by for a reason.”

“Thanks.” Melanie edged past Cordelia, who partially blocked her entrance but didn't seem inclined to move.

“Why'd we break up?” asked Cordelia.

“Beats me.”

“It was love at first sight.”

“Love and lust can look disgracefully identical to the untrained eye.”

“That's how you remember it? Four years of lust?”

“Five,” said Melanie.

“What?”

“We were together for five years. How flattering that you remember our time together so clearly.”

“What are you doing now?” asked Jane, trying to head off a potential disaster. She sat down in the rocker by the fireplace.

Melanie chose the couch. “I teach journalism at St. Cloud State. But I'm on sabbatical. Believe it or not, I took a job with
City Beat.
I interned at the
Star Trib
for a while after college, but what I really wanted to do was teach. Now I'm so sick of it I could puke.”

“Why
City Beat?”
asked Jane.

“Because for the last couple years I've been dying to do some real-life, hands-on investigative journalism. I broke that story last February about Arnold Hammond, one of our fine local judges who was selling crack out of the trunk of his car.”

Cordelia sat down next to Melanie and slipped her arm across the back of the couch—behind Melanie's back.

Melanie noted the arm with a nod of her head. “You haven't changed much.”

“I am the Sphinx. Waiting and watching.”

“And hustling women.”

“Not everyone. I discriminate.”

“Consider me unhustleable.”

“I'm just stretching out,” said Cordelia. “Don't take the arm personally.”

“Why'd you come by?” asked Jane.

“Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you about your dad's campaign manager.”

“Delavon Green?”

“Green, yeah, and two others. Randall Turk and his brother, Ethan.”

“Why?”

“It's part of some research I'm doing.”

“What research?” asked Cordelia, eyeing her with a kind of grim concentration.

“Well, since you're interested, a friend sent me some information recently on a cold murder case in Iowa, one that happened back in the early seventies. The name Delavon Green came up. I knew that was the name of your dad's campaign manager, Jane, but I didn't know if it was the same guy. Turns out it is. I think there's an important story there that was never told—a murder that was never solved. And if my instincts are right, it might also have some contemporary relevance.”

“Go on,” said Cordelia, arching an eyebrow.

Melanie stared at her a moment, then continued. “Well, I think most people would agree that America is involved in another Vietnam, another endless war that grinds men and women up and then spits them out, expecting them to just pick up and go on with their lives when they get home as if the brutality they witnessed never happened. I'm becoming convinced that the murder in Iowa back in ‘71 had its roots in Vietnam, and if so, it may be a cautionary tale for us today.” She removed a small notebook from her pocket. “If you don't mind talking to me, Jane, why don't we start with Randall Turk? Give me your impressions of him.”

“Well, he's a longtime friend of my dad's. He and his wife used to throw a lot of dinner parties, so I've been to their house many times. I don't know Randy all that well, but I mean, he's quiet, and I suspect he's also pretty intense. My dad thinks the world of him. He's known for his aggressiveness in the courtroom.”

“He and his wife recently split,” said Melanie.

“Really. That surprises me.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. They seemed like such a great couple.”

“Close? Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Randy ever talk to you about his tour in Vietnam? Or after he came home?”

“No, not that I remember.”

“Does he have any close friends? Other people I could talk to?”

“Sorry. Like I said, I don't know him that well. You might talk to my dad about him. Not that he has a lot of time at the moment, but I'm sure I could connect you somehow.”

“That would be terrific,” said Melanie. “Thanks. Now, what about Green? What's your impression of him?”

“I've only met him a few times. He strikes me as competent, professional, good with people.
Very
tall. My dad mentioned that he grew up in Detroit, had a rough time of it as a kid, but he's turned it to his advantage. He has a real common touch. The staff adores him.”

“How'd your dad get hooked up with Green?”

“Del had been working on Theo Ludtke's campaign. I think Randy suggested him to my father, said he'd make a great campaign manager.”

“And your dad's happy with him?”

Very.

“What about Ethan Turk, Randy's brother?”

“I like Ethan. He's a few years older than Randy. I don't know if he'd be considered developmentally disabled or what, but he knows everything there is to know about cars and trucks. I think
he could build one from the ground up. Randy helped him set up a lawn and snow business out near Stillwater. He likes being outside.”

“Did you know Ethan was on trial for murder back in the early seventies? It's the case I'm investigating.”

Jane looked up sharply.

“He was acquitted, but there are a lot of people who still believe he did it.”

“Did what?” asked Cordelia.

“A young woman, Susan Bouchard, was strangled in a field just outside Waldo, Iowa. It happened shortly after Randy got out of the army. He returned home in the spring of ‘71 with two of his army buddies—Delavon Green, and a guy named Larry Wilton. Sue was Randy's girlfriend.”

“God, I can't believe it,” said Jane. “But Ethan was acquitted. Are you saying he shouldn't have been?”

“I'm saying there was a cover-up. Of what, I'm not sure. As I said, Sue was Randy's girl, but Green had some kind of connection, too, possibly romantic. I don't know what it all means, but the situation was clearly a powder keg that went off, killing Susan.”

“What happened to the other guy—Wilton?”

“He lives in Arizona now. That's all I've been able to find out.”

“I'm sure my dad doesn't know about any of this.” Jane couldn't help but wonder what it would mean for his political future if it came out that his campaign manager had been involved in a homicide.

When Jane looked back at Melanie she could tell she'd read her mind.

“Exactly, Jane. This could blow up in a big way. And the fallout
could hurt your dad. I'm sorry about that, but as I said, I think there's an important story here, and also a major injustice. A young woman was brutally murdered and her killer has gone free all these years. It's possible I won't develop enough info to break the story until after the election, but I have to go where the story leads.”

“I understand,” said Jane.

“I don't,” said Cordelia, sitting up, full of indignation. “You may never find enough information to break the case. And if you print a bunch of innuendoes, you could ruin an incredibly fine man's chance at public office.”

“This
is why we broke up,” muttered Melanie.

“Listen to me,” said Cordelia. “It's simple. If you don't find anything the police can use to make an arrest, don't go public with it. If you find something, then sit on it until after the election next November.”

“I wouldn't smear someone for no reason,” said Melanie, pushing off the couch. “But I won't back off just because it's politically sensitive. Besides, printing something that's true, even if it doesn't lead to an arrest, is completely ethical. If Woodward and Bernstein's bosses had told them not to go public with what they were learning about the Watergate scandal, we might never haven known what Nixon and his cronies were up to. They started the ball rolling by what they printed.”

“You aren't Woodward and Bernstein,” said Cordelia, standing and glaring at her.

“I should have known better than to talk to Jane with you around.”

“We won't help you destroy Ray's chance of becoming governor.

“Fine.”

Fine.

“Traitor,” shouted Cordelia as Melanie slammed the front door on her way out.

 

 

L
ate Wednesday afternoon, Randy sat behind the desk in his home office doing some paperwork when he heard a car pull into the driveway. A few seconds later, Larry appeared in the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You shaved off your mustache,” said Randy, tossing down his pen and leaning back.

“Had to,” said Larry. “Didn't want Gunderson to be able to ID me to the police—if worst came to worst.” He took off his baseball cap and let his pony tail drop down his back.

Against his better judgment, Randy had allowed Del to talk him into giving the bribe idea a shot. He reasoned that nobody could tie them to Larry. And if Larry did get caught, he'd promised to say it was his idea, that Randy and Del had nothing to do with it. At the very least, that gave them deniability. “So? You talked to her?”

“Yup. Met her at a bar in downtown Minneapolis.”

“How'd it go?”

Larry walked over and set the attache case next to the desk. Instead of taking one of the chairs close to Randy, he chose the leather couch across the room. Stretching out, he took a drag from his cigarette. “She's smart,” he said, smoke billowing from his nostrils. “The offer got her attention, I guarantee you that. But she played it cool, tried to make me think she was insulted. It took me a minute to get the point. She wants more money.”