Before Another Dies (14 page)

“And in March, you win the primary, then face off with whomever the Democrats put up. That election happens in November. You win there and move on to congress in January of next year. Tess's time as deputy mayor will be up—”

“And, Lord willing, you'll be on your feet ready to run for mayor.”

“Not only that, there's a good chance that I will be elected deputy mayor, which will make me acting mayor. The council will select someone to fill the fifth seat.”

“And you'll be able to run as the acting mayor's seat which might give you an edge. Is that it?”

Titus nodded. “Let's be fair. Tess is a burr under our saddle, but she has never done anything to hurt the city. Jon is clearly out for himself, Tess is at worst a self-centered annoyance.”

My mind was shuffling like a deck of cards. I tried to slow it and put everything in perspective. All they said was true. I needed to see things from Titus's perspective. I admired his confidence in the face of bone-rattling news about his cancer. There were many ramifications to consider, but the one that stuck in my throat the most was Tess. The tension between us had grown over the years until it was a wonder that we could work together at all—but we did. Since my spiritual experience, I had tried to change my attitude and tame my tongue, but it was tough going. At thirty-nine, it's hard to change one's spots.

“I know I'm asking a lot,” Titus said.

“No, you're not,” I said. “You're right. Tess and I need to get beyond our differences. But I have a question: What if I don't win the congressional seat?”

“You'll run for mayor again and win in a landslide,” Titus said. “I won't run against you. I promise you that. Tess will, of course, but I won't. I'll support you.”

I studied Titus. We had been friends for several years. I had grown to admire his determination and intelligence. Once he had even put himself in harm's way to protect me and sported the bruises for weeks to prove it.

“Okay,” I said. “On one condition.” Titus gave his head a tilt. “You get well as fast as you can. I'm gonna need backup.”

He laughed. “I promise.”

chapter 18

T
he rest of my day tumbled by. Celeste Truccoli was waiting for me when I returned to my office. Floyd had been entertaining her. Celeste laughed freely, which did my heart good. We exchanged pleasantries, and I asked about her mother and learned that she was doing well. I put her to work at Fritzy's desk.

I then placed a call to Tess's office and left a message for her. I skipped lunch and spent the afternoon working on my speech for the evening. The campaign was gearing up and I was thankful that I had trustworthy volunteers. Without them much of the work would fall on my shoulders, and I didn't need any more to think about.

At four I left the office, went home, and took a nap. I needed it and I slept soundly. One hour later, I fixed a thin, lunch-meat sandwich, which I washed down with milk. There would be plenty of food on the pier tonight, but it wouldn't do for the candidate to be shoveling chow down the hatch two fistfuls at a time. I would nibble my way through the evening.

The Santa Rita pier is a source of pride for our citizens. It is a quarter-mile long with heavy timber construction that projects out over the rolling ocean. White sand beaches stretch to either side. It's open every day and only in the worst weather is it ever empty of fishermen or couples strolling over its planks. It was built in the early sixties and had tolerated abuse from patrons and Mother Nature with dignity. About once every decade a storm comes along that proves too much for the pier—taking a pylon or two from its support structure or gobbling down a hunk of railing. Twice in its history it had to be rebuilt. This evening it looked radiant as I pulled onto the wide, black parking lot. I found a space marked off for me. It had no name, just two orange safety cones placed at the mouth of the stall. I knew it was my spot because Floyd was pacing up and down in the stall. He saw me and waved, motioning to the cones.

I pulled close and stopped. He looked puzzled. Lowering my window I leaned my head out. “The cones, Floyd.” He snatched them up.

“Sorry.”

I smiled. There is a lot of potential in Floyd. He just has yet to piece it all together. I parked and exited my SUV.

“I was getting worried,” he said. “People are arriving, and you're not here . . . weren't here.”

“I'm still fifteen minutes early, Floyd. Have you ever known me to be late?”

“No, but . . .”

“But what?” We moved from the parking lot to a concrete walk that led to the pier. I was glad I didn't have to walk across the sand in my bone-colored pumps. I was wearing a light blue, double-breasted jacket, matching trousers, and an ivory blouse, hoping to strike the balance between professional executive and I'm-still-a-woman look. Simple gold and pearl earrings dangled from my lobes, and a gold rose-shaped broach—a gift from my mother—clung to my left lapel.

“You're the guest of honor. I thought you might be here earlier.”

“It's a fund-raising gig, Floyd, and I'm the candidate. I'm not supposed to be here early. Most people expect me to arrive late.”

“I'm just nervous. I've never been to one of these things before.”

We crossed from concrete to the creosote-soaked planks. I looked down and through the spaces in the planks. I could see the sandy shore. Now the hard part began: Walking with dignity without plunging one of my heels between planks and breaking an ankle. It's hard to walk with poise while contemplating every step. I was glad I went with the midheel pumps. Anything taller in this situation and people would wonder if I had enough smarts to be a congresswoman.

“There's nothing to worry about, Floyd. It will be what it will be. Worry is like having one foot on the brake and the other pressing the gas pedal. You get lots of noise but you don't travel very far. I'm sure everything is going fine. I assume Nat has everything under control.”

“Yeah,” Floyd said. “It's amazing. She just sits there and directs people.”

“She's in a wheelchair, Floyd. Of course she just sits there.”

“That's not what I meant. I meant . . .” He caught my wink and replied with a nervous smile.

Situated in the middle of the pier is the Fish Kettle, Paul Shedd's restaurant. He was catering the fund-raiser, and I was glad for it. The former banker was great in the kitchen. I don't know what kind of banker he had been, but everyone who crossed his threshold was glad he had made the career change. I looked down again, trying my best not to appear like a teenage girl learning to dance and watching her feet so as not to step on her father's shoes. The sand had given way to churning ocean. The surf was small and rolled through the pier's columns in a gentle, leisurely pace. Beyond the pier the ocean was a dark blue and turning darker as the sun's disk crept toward the horizon; beneath me, however, the water was green with frothy white foam.

I took in the surroundings. It was a beautiful night with a gentle salt breeze, a clear sky decorated with white gulls, mottled terns, and the occasional brown pelican. A section of the pier had been cordoned off with a red, white, and blue cord in the center and extending to the guardrail at the end of the pier. The pier was public property, and my campaign had to rent it for the few hours that we would be here. It wasn't cheap, and as mayor I couldn't ask for a break. As a public venue, we couldn't close it off completely, not without accusations of favoritism. We took the end portion, which was plenty large enough. Others not associated with the fund-raiser could come and go as they pleased.

In the south corner, a small band was setting up and tuning instruments. Nat had told me that she hired a band that played all the “great pop tunes.” Knowing Nat, she had reviewed their playlist and edited it. I judged the band members, a woman and three men, to be in their late twenties, early thirties. One of them stepped to a microphone and said, “Check, check.” His voice boomed from speakers in front of the stage area. He made an adjustment on the mixer board with what looked like a thousand switches and knobs. He repeated his “check, check, check.” It sounded the same to me but apparently he could tell a difference.

“This place looks great.” I stepped through the break in the rope barricade that marked the transition from plain ol' pier to the Maddy-for-Congress fund-raiser area. Nat Sanders had pulled her wheelchair up to one of the many folding tables that would serve as the dining area. She had several folders before her, one was open. She looked up at my words.

“She's here,” Floyd said.

“I can see that,” Nat said. To me she added, “I didn't expect to see you for another half hour. It's fashionable for the candidate to be late.”

“We've done, what, five of these fund-raisers?” I bent over and gave her a quick hug. “I haven't been late yet.”

“Six,” she corrected me. “You should try it sometime. Being late affords a better entrance.”

“It's a phobia with me.”

She laughed. “No kidding.” She looked around. “What do you think?”

Balloons hovered in the air, anchored to the ends of tables and the rough wood guardrail. Each balloon had my picture and the words, “Elect Maddy.” It embarrassed me. This was the part of campaigning I hated. I've always believed that ideals should be enough to garner votes, but campaigning has a long history of tradition. Fanfare remained the pattern. To the north side were three wide barbecues. Only in California does one barbecue in January. Waves of heat rose from the grills. Paul was well under way.

“The count looks good,” Nat said. “We had a few people drop out because of illness but we also had some late RSVPs come in. Every spot is filled. The others will have to stand while they eat. I have get-well cards for you to sign.”

“That was thoughtful.”

Nat had arranged for a limited number of tables and chairs and had designated them for those who had bought the hundred-dollar-a-plate tickets. Volunteer waiters would serve those people, and I would spend most of my evening schmoozing with them. Others were welcome but had no assigned place to sit. In an innovative flash of brilliance, Nat had made campaign buttons for place markers. Instead of my name in big print there was the name of the supporter, and instead of the traditional “Vote Maddy” or similar, in bright red letters it said, “Elected by Joe Contributor.” An ingenious piece of marketing, I thought. Not only would the badges tell the people where to sit but it gave them a souvenir to remember the event and loss of at least one hundred dollars.

“You never cease to amaze me, Nat,” I said. “This is wonderful.” It was especially wonderful since I had done none of the work. Nat was brilliant and possessed a memory that was almost frightening. Not only were facts and faces logged away in her mind, but she seemed able to access them like some people access computer files. But she was far more than a repository of research; her journalism experience had taught her to think outside the box. She was brilliant, creative, and driven.

When we first met I had assumed her zeal and unending work were overcompensation for her paralysis, but I soon learned that she was that way from childhood. All the auto accident did was put her in a chair; it changed nothing else about personality or drive.

“Yeah, I am pretty incredible.” She closed the folder, but not before I saw that it was the expected guest list. She opened another file that rested on the table. By the wheel of her chair was a black-leather briefcase. “I went over your speech again. For a politician, you write pretty well. I can't find anything to change.”

“That's good. I hate last-minute alterations.”

“I do want you to do something, though. I figured you'd be here early so I spoke to Paul. He said you can hide out in the restaurant.”

“I don't want to hide out,” I protested.

“Sure you do. I want you to make an appearance. If you stand around here as people arrive you'll look too eager, maybe even desperate.”

“Nonsense, I'll just greet people and be my usual captivating self.”

“Don't make me recite our agreement again.” She narrowed her eyes so deliberately, I knew she was acting. The agreement was the only thing I regretted about our relationship. I have always been self-motivated and very involved in my campaigns. Of course, those were much smaller efforts. Running for congress was a good light-year beyond my experience. As a former political reporter and later news anchor for a major LA television station, Nat had seen more campaigns than I. It had been she who finally pushed me into candidacy. I had thought of running for congress but had put the idea off. When the sitting congressman Martin Roth leaked his retirement plans, it put me in a tight spot. Defeating an incumbent is always tough. Running for an open seat is preferable. It was now or maybe never. Nat pushed and I let her. My agreement to run came with a stipulation: Nat would be my campaign manager. She objected at first but only mildly. Not to be outdone, she had her own stipulation. I heard it then, and I've heard it several times since: “I'll run your campaign, but I run everything. On matters of policy and ethics you can overrule me, but not on anything else.” I agreed, and now she was reminding me of it.

“How often are you going to remind me of that?” I said it with a smile.

“Every day if necessary. Now mosey into the Fish Kettle, or I'll have young Mr. Grecian toss you over his shoulder.”

I looked at Floyd and watched the color slip from his face. “That's all right, Floyd. I'll save you the indignity of carting my carcass across the pier.”

“Paul has a booth set aside for you. Sip a soda or something, but go light on any food. You have to eat with your guests. I'll send Floyd to get you when it's time.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“That's better. And don't spill anything on yourself.”