Smoke and Mirrors (14 page)

Nick leapt out of the car and ran around to the opposite side in a noble but futile effort to interpose himself between Rosemary and the camera. After only the briefest of pauses she had let herself out; a candidate couldn't enjoy the luxury of avoiding cameras, even when she had no idea of what was happening. Erin didn't
know either, but she hurried to join Rosemary. Something about the atmosphere—the looks on the faces of the spectators, the agitated bleats of the tall, stooped man who appeared to be the minister—made her suspect that Rosemary was going to need all the support she could get.

"What's the idea, Paul?" Nick demanded.

The cameraman was the TV reporter Erin had met at the football game, back on his regular straight news beat. He twisted agilely around Nick and pointed the camera at Rosemary. "Mrs. Marshall, have you heard—"

The minister pushed him aside. "Oh, Mrs. Marshall, I am so very sorry! I wouldn't for the world have allowed—"

Cameraman, pastor, and Nick gyrated in a bizarre dance, babbling in counterpoint, until Rosemary said crisply, "It's all right, Nick—Mr. Jones. Young man, I'll be happy to answer questions later, but you'll have to wait until after the service. This is a church, not a political rally."

"Yes, ma'am, sorry, ma'am, but I guess you don't know." His voice took on its professional tone. "This is Paul Dubermann for Channel 22. Mrs. Marshall, the cemetery here was vandalized last night, and your husband's grave was the main target. Would you mind telling our viewers ..."

For a moment no one moved. Then Nick lunged at camera and cameraman.

"Nick!" Rosemary's voice stopped him as if he had run into a wall. She held out an imperious hand. "Give me your arm, please. Mr. Jones?"

With Nick on one side and the pastor on the other, she walked toward the cemetery. It made an effective tableau—the small woman between her two tall escorts—but Erin felt sure Rosemary was restraining Nick, not leaning on him for support. The cameraman trotted alongside; the watchers, murmuring sympathetically, fell back to let them through.

It wasn't until Erin started to follow that she realized Kay stood frozen, her face as gray and rigid as the granite markers in the grassy graveyard. She touched the older woman's arm. "Are you all right?"

"What?" Kay turned a ghastly face to her. "Oh my God. . . . Did he say—desecrated?"

"Why don't you get back in the car, Kay? There's no need for
you to see—'

"No. No. Rosemary will need me."

Erin made no further attempt to dissuade her, but she wished Kay weren't so determined to be helpful. It wouldn't help Rosemary if she collapsed or had hysterics—a distinct
possibility
if the images conjured up by the word Kay had repeated turned out to be accurate. Coffins dragged out of the earth, broken bodies, scattered bones. . . . She felt her stomach twist at the idea, and it would be much worse for Kay than for her. Kay had clearly idolized Edward Marshall. . . .

To move from the side of the church toward the brick wall behind the graveyard was to move forward in time—from the worn marble slabs of the late eighteenth century to the ornate monuments of the mid-nineteenth, and finally to the simple granite markers of the recent past. The place was beautifully tended; the grass was trimmed, the flowers fresh. None of the stones was tilted or fallen. The black blotch on one grave stood out like blasphemy made visible.

Only blackened cinders and charred sticks remained of what had been burned. Smoke had stained the pale-gray stone, like dark fingers clawing at the name of Edward Marshall; a deformed, palm-shaped blotch covered the modest epitaph that described him as beloved husband, devoted father, and loyal servant of Virginia.

Kay's breath caught in a harsh hiss when she saw the grave, but Erin sensed her relief. Bad as it was, this was not the horror she had feared.

As they joined the others, Erin heard Mr. Jones say, ". . . no idea, until this—this—this person arrived a few minutes ago. Had I but known, I would certainly have warned you—"

"Yes, that's quite all right," Rosemary said. "Please don't distress yourself, Mr. Jones. No permanent damage appears to have been made."

The cameraman edged cautiously closer to Rosemary. "Would you care to make a statement?"

There is very little one can say." Rosemary faced the camera. "Except to express pity for the person who could do such a terrible
thing. I hope the police find him and give him the help he obviously needs."

She started to turn away, but the tireless tracker of news was not ready to give up. "Do you think there is a political motive behind this?"

"Certainly not," Rosemary said sharply. "The perpetrator is obviously mentally ill."

"What do you think—"

"You'll have to excuse me," Rosemary interrupted. She raised a gloved hand to hide her eyes. "This has been—this has come as quite a shock, surely you understand. . . . I've already kept the other worshipers waiting too long. Mr. Jones, may I. ..."

The pastor moved to her side; as his body hid her, briefly, from the camera, she turned a dry-eyed, furious glare on Nick and whispered, "Cool it, Nick. Why don't you take Kay home and come back for me?"

"I'm staying," Kay said quietly.

Rosemary's lips shaped a word she dared not utter. "Erin," she said, with a meaningful look at Nick.

"Yes, ma'am," said Erin.

The two older women moved toward the church, escorted by the pastor. The cameraman's attempt to follow them was thwarted by Nick, who placed a large, heavy hand over the camera lens.

"Go right ahead," said the prospective victim, baring his teeth. "A little violence always films well."

"Son of a . . . gun," said Nick. "Okay, Erin, unhand me, I'm not going to do anything either of us would regret. Where'd you get this, Paul?"

"Get what?"

"You know what I mean. You must have gotten a tip from someone. Who, when, how? Come on, pal," he added with a smile that convinced neither of his listeners. "Fair exchange. I don't break your nose, you tell me what I want to know."

"You guessed it," the other admitted. Rosemary had disappeared; he lowered the camera from his shoulder. "Anonymous phone call, about half an hour ago."

"This isn't big enough for the nets, of course." Clearly Nick didn't believe that himself.

The other man grinned. "You've got to be kidding." "Yeah. Who called—man or woman?"

Dubermann hesitated, and Nick abandoned threats for reasoned argument. "Come on, old buddy, you've got the story. Man
or woman?"

Dubermann shrugged. "Oh, well, why not? Man."

"Accent?"

"Local redneck, replete with ain'ts and—er—four-letter adjectives," the other said, with a glance at Erin. "Sounded authentic, but you never know."

"No, sir, you shore don't, 'cause it ain't all that goddamn hard to fake," said Nick caustically. "Well. Thanks. Lay off her, will you? You've got plenty already."

Dubermann smiled sweetly.

He was persuaded not to turn on the camera while Nick poked distastefully in the burned rubbish. "I already looked," Dubermann said. "Looks like sticks and leaves and stuff like that; no significant remains."

"The cops won't thank you for messing up the evidence," Nick muttered, messing it still more. "You have called them, haven't

"No time. I barely made it myself."

"Yeah, sure. Half the fun of this business is being the one to break the news to the victim. Why don't you go find a phone and break it to the police?"

"What, leave the scene of the crime?"

'Hey, it is a crime, isn't it?" Nick exclaimed sarcastically. "I have an excuse for failing to report it—I'm escorting the distraught widow. What's yours?"

"Hmmm. Guess I'd better. Don't do anything newsworthy till I get back."

He loped off, hugging the camera.

With the van gone, Nick was able to park directly in front of the gate. He and Erin sat at the back of the church rather than parade down the aisle to the front pew where Rosemary sat with Kay. The church was almost full. A touching demonstration of piety, or an example of the public's interest in celebrities? Rosemary often attended services, and perhaps there had been time for the news to spread, locally at least. . . . With such thoughts to preoccupy her, Erin didn't derive much spiritual benefit from the service. Mr. Jones was not at his best, whatever that might have been. He cut the congregation's responses off more than once and rushed through his sermon in a rapid mumble.

Rosemary was forced to run a gauntlet on her way through the vestibule. The people who stopped her to express their indignation and sympathy were all friends and neighbors, with the kindest of motives, but it obviously cost Rosemary considerable effort to linger. As soon as she decently could, she made for the door. When she saw who was waiting outside, she stopped with a muffled exclamation and yanked her veil down over her face. Not only had Dubermann returned to his post, camera at the ready, but two uniformed police officers were with him.

"Lean on me and look frail, ' Nick muttered.

In what might have passed for modified mourning, face veiled and head bowed. Rosemary looked like a new-made widow instead of a woman who had received a minor, if unpleasant, shock. The effect on the policemen was exactly what Nick had hoped; they readily agreed to his suggestion that they come to the house later instead of subjecting Rosemary to the torment of a public inquisition, and by escorting her to her car they frustrated Dubermann's further efforts at photography and interrogation.

Once in the car and underway, Rosemary pulled off her hat and sank back against the cushions. "God,' she muttered.

Kay patted her hand. "As soon as we get home you go up and lie down. I'll talk to the police—"

"No, you won't," Rosemary snapped. "Oh, Lord, Lord, Lord! Wait till Joe hears about this."

The rest of the drive passed in silence. After they had passed through the gates, Nick stopped the car.

"I'll close them and put up the chain. The boys of the press should be along pretty soon."

"Surely not," Erin exclaimed.

Rosemary's voice was dry and controlled. "When Jim Wright
pushed Fauntroy around the Capitol in a wheelbarrow after losing a bet on a Redskins-Dallas game, he got full network coverage. Sunday is a slow news day. They'll be here."

Erin had believed
she was growing accustomed to the bizarre
life-style of a candidate for public office, but the remainder of the afternoon showed her she had a thing or two yet to learn. The press did show up—all the Washington television stations, plus newspaper and press services. Nick had not barred the gates to keep them out, as she had innocently supposed, but only to sift the news people from ordinary curiosity seekers. The press was welcomed in, served food and drink—mostly the latter—and entertained by Nick and Jeff, while Rosemary, closeted in conference with Joe and Will, prepared a statement.

Erin was kept busy serving drinks and making sandwiches. She expected to pass unnoticed, but she was foolish enough to tell the truth when a reporter asked her if she had been at the church. Instantly she found herself besieged, and was only rescued by the appearance of Rosemary, poised and cool, and wearing a smile that contained exactly the proper blend of friendly welcome and pained distress.

The hounds and the cameras converged on Rosemary; Erin didn't need Nick's scowl and peremptory gesture to know this was her opportunity to escape. She locked herself in the bathroom next to the kitchen and cowered there until she heard Nick's voice.

"It's okay, they're gone."

When she emerged, the hallway was empty. She found Nick in the commons room, hands on his hips, staring disgustedly at the wreckage—empty glasses, crumbs, crumpled napkins, scraps of paper, cigarette butts and ashes.

"Why do we bother with these slobs?" he demanded.

The question was obviously rhetorical, and Erin didn't bother to answer it. "I'm sorry," she began.

"What for?" Nick yanked his tie off and stuck it in his pocket.

"For talking to that reporter. I should have kept out of the way, but he started asking me questions and it seemed rude not to answer—"

"Oh, that. You couldn't have done anything else. Have you ever been on television before?"

"They won't use that! I didn't say anything important—"

"None of us did. None of us ever does. But you're a helluva lot prettier than Kay and I."

He picked up a glass, looked helplessly around the room, and put it back on the table.

"I'll clean up," Erin said. "You probably have something more important to do."

"I should get in there," Nick muttered, gesturing in the direction of Rosemary's office. "If you're sure you don't mind—"

"No, I don't mind. But, Nick—"

"Hmmm?" He was already at the door.

"Never mind, you're busy."

"We'll talk later," Nick said, and went out.

As she washed glasses and emptied ashtrays and vacuumed the carpet, Erin's mind was free to wander, and the tracks her thoughts followed were not strewn with roses. The physical disorder was only a pale reflection of the emotional invasion that had taken place. An hour's work, and all signs of the former would be obliterated (except for a few rings on the coffee table—hadn't the press ever heard of coasters?). The other, deeper intrusion left worse scars, and it had no limits. Nothing in a candidate's past was sacrosanct or private, not any more. Ancient infidelities, misdemeanors, and even simple errors of judgment—all had been dragged into the light of day, discussed and dissected, served up as the butt of humor and of sermonizing.

Not that Rosemary's misfortune fell into any of those categories; she was a victim, not a villainess. In fact, the incident would probably win sympathy for her, if it was handled properly. And Rosemary knew how to handle it. She was a past master at making the most of "free media," as opposed to the political advertising she couldn't afford to buy. The object was to get your name and face before the public, as often and as prominently and as cheaply as possible. This particular story would have been a candidate's dream, except for its grisly associations. . . .