Smoke and Mirrors (34 page)

"Forget about your old man," Nick snapped. "Oh, hell, I
know you can't, but at least try, for the moment, to concentrate on the issue at hand. Somebody knows about this incident and is holding it over Rosemary's head. Who? "

"Well, it isn't me. But. . . but—oh, Nick! Rosemary probably believes it is. Kay, too. I can hardly blame them. Look at the facts. I show up, out of the blue, asking for a job, and the very first time I set foot in the place there's an unexplained fire. I could have done everything that has been done—I was there. They made sure I was there, they invited me, so they could keep an eye on me—"

"Wait a minute, you're going too fast and too far. The only reason you were asked to move in was because Kay—"

"Yes, don't you see? That accident came at a very convenient time, didn't it? Kay is the only person who could have planned it. She deliberately injured her hand. Only it turned out to be more serious than she had expected, she only meant to bruise it. "

"So Kay knows the whole story."

"Of course she knows. She worked for Mr. Marshall even before Rosemary came on the scene, she was his business assistant as well as a personal friend. And think of the time schedule, Nick. My father died over a year ago. He had plenty of time to straighten up his affairs, destroy any documents that might have incriminated the Marshalls—or hand them over to his heirs. I made good and sure everybody knew Mother was incapable of dealing with business matters; if Dad had passed the information on, it would have been to me."

Nick nodded reluctantly. "And the guilty parties would be only too ready to smell blackmail in everything you said or did."

"Could something like that really damage Rosemary politically?"

"That would depend. How deeply was she involved? Was she an officer of the corporation—is her signature on the legal papers? Remember that flap about Ferraro's involvement in her husband's business, and what that did to her career. And this has sensitive side issues. The slumlord image wouldn't go over well, especially for a candidate who's made a big moral issue of supporting poverty programs and civil rights. Hypocrisy is the operative word, and a damned dangerous one in politics. Yes, I'd say Rosemary would go to some lengths to keep it under wraps."

"Who's doing this, then? I swear, Nick—"

"I said I believed you. And what's more," Nick added thoughtfully, "Rosemary and Kay aren't certain about you either. If they were, Kay wouldn't have bothered looking up those names. You want to talk about motives for harassment, the surviving members of that family have good cause to resent the Marshalls. Did you happen to notice—"

"I could hardly help noticing, it was right there in the paper. "

"Yeah. The Wilsons were black. If the oldest boy was ten in 1967, he'd be about the same age as . .

"Jeff," Erin murmured.

"Jeff came to work for Rosemary about a year ago. Gave up a good job, just as she said. When was it, exactly, that your father died?"

"May. It's been more than a year—almost eighteen months. "

"Let's assume the trust fund for the kids was set up, " Nick said. "Your father would have been the logical person to handle it; but the money had to come from Marshall, or from the corporation itself. They would take every possible precaution to keep Marshall's name out of it, but transactions of that sort can be traced, surely, by someone who knows the tricks of the trade."

"A lawyer, for instance. And Jeff is a lawyer. Oh, damn." Erin bit her lip. "It looks bad, doesn't it? Jeff could be Raymond Wilson. He was born in 1957. . . . Nick! Raymond's birthday was in March! Nick, it can't be Jeff. We just celebrated his birthday, remember?"

"Hey, that's right!" Nick looked as relieved as she felt. "Are you sure about the month?"

"Pretty sure. We can find out."

"Do the same thing Brown did," Nick said excitedly. "I'll bet he just went to the courthouse and looked up birth and death certificates."

"We don't even have to do that. Mr. Brown is probably listed in the Richmond classifieds. I'll call him back, tell him I mislaid the data."

"Good thinking, Erin."

"I'm so glad," Erin said. "I don't want it to be Jeff."

"You don't want what to be Jeff?" inquired a mild voice.

Nick jumped a good two inches. Standing behind them, looking at them with a benevolent smile, was Will.

"If I ever saw guilt writ large upon a pair of human faces, I see it now," Will went on. "Don't worry, I won't tell Joe I found you canoodling instead of working."

"I've never canoodled in my life," Nick said, recovering himself. "Canoodled! Where do you find words like that? And don't tell me in the dictionary. We are not neglecting our duty, we've got the day off."

"Hell of a place to spend it," Will said.

"Uh—just part of the sightseeing tour. What are you doing here?"

Will raised his eyebrows. "I work here. Where do you suppose I get the information I give Rosemary?"

"I always thought you made it up," Nick said. "Well. I guess we'd better get moving, Erin, right? We've got to see the White House, the monuments, the . . . the . . . See you later, Will."

Without moving or changing expression, Will somehow managed to look smaller. Abandoned, forlorn, lonely . . . "Join us for lunch?" Erin suggested. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she could have kicked herself—and so could Nick; he gave her a look of bitter reproach.

"I'm brown-bagging it." Will indicated his bulging, shabby briefcase. "I only brought one sandwich, but if you'd care to share it . . ."

"I wouldn't deprive you for the world," Nick assured him. "It's probably a peanut-butter sandwich, isn't it?"

"Why, yes. But you're more than welcome—"

"He lives on peanut butter," Nick explained. "Prolonged infantilism. No, thanks, Will. See you tonight?"

"Yes, indeed."

"You could have asked him for a ride home," Erin said, trotting to keep up with Nick's rapid strides. "If we miss Jeff—"

"We won't. Why'd you ask him to have lunch with us? We've got a lot of things to talk about. "

"I don't know why. It was idiotic of me; the words just said themselves."

Nick's steps slowed. He looked back. "He's standing in front
of the building watching us. You know, I wonder about Will. That absentminded professor shtick of his doesn't quite make it. Could he have been following us?"

"He has a logical reason for being there."

"Oh, yeah? There's a fairly decent library at the University of Virginia, and Charlottesville is only an hour from Richmond. Why does he have to come to Washington to work?"

"To be near Rosemary."

"Oh, God, you're not going to start that again, are you?"

"No, I was just suggesting one possibility. There are others."

"Indeed there are. He could be in on this, Erin. He and Rosemary go back a long way."

"So do a lot of other people and Rosemary. How long has she known Will?"

"Dunno. We're going to have to investigate the whole crowd. Would your Visa run to a private eye's pay, do you suppose?"

"I don't suppose, I know. It wouldn't."

"At least we can check on the surviving Wilson kids without too much effort," Nick said thoughtfully. "Jeff's out; let's hope we can eliminate Christie and Jackson on the same grounds."

"Jeff is only out if the arsonist is one of the Wilsons. There are other motives."

"Damn, there you go again, being logical. And, what's worse, being right. Once you admit a political motive, the field is wide open. Three people certainly knew about the Richmond fire— Rosemary, Kay, your father. Any one of
them
could have told others. Ed Marshall could have confessed, before he died. And if we managed to track this down, a trained investigator might well be able to do the same. This is the first really dirty campaign Rosemary's ever fought—the first one where she faced an opponent without scruples. It would be worth a lot to Buzz to get something on her."

"But if he knows, why is he playing cat and mouse?"

"Yeah, well, I've been thinking about that. I doubt Buzz knows. What this looks like to me is a setup for blackmail. 'Pay me, in cash or in favors, or I'll take my information to Bennett.' When she balks, he lights another match."

"Bennett's wife doesn't fit into that scenario."

"I can't think of any way to make her fit," Nick admitted. "So maybe the scenario is wrong. That meeting between Miz Marylou and Rosemary has to be connected with this somehow, there can't be two conspiracies going on."

"Two? Why not six or seven? Washington is a city of conspiracies, big and small. Everybody's hiding something, everybody is up to something."

"Now, now, don't exaggerate," Nick said. "What you need is a little nourishment. And perhaps a drop of the cup that cheers and inebriates. Down this way."

The building was of cream-colored brick, with dark-green shutters and a canopy of the same color. Window boxes held bright displays of crimson geraniums. Erin hung back, and Nick said, "What's the matter? Aren't you hungry? "

"I am, actually. But Nick, isn't this place awfully expensive?"

Nick flung the door wide. "My dear, think no more of mundane matters. This is one of the few places in town where my credit is still good. At least I hope it is. ... Please look impressed when the maitre d' greets me by name."

The maitre d' did greet him by name, and led the way to a table at the rear, behind a free-standing fireplace that occupied the center of the room.

"You notice I'm not important enough to rate a table where I can see and be seen," Nick explained.

"This is nice and secluded," Erin said politely. "Nick, was that Senator Kennedy?"

"Uh-huh. The guy with him is the majority leader. And that couple . . . I'll be damned. There's Philips Laurence. I wonder what he's doing here, this isn't his usual ambience."

"Who's that with him?"

"I don't know. Damnedest hat I ever saw, it's like a limp funnel." The deep-brimmed navy hat hid the woman's face, and most of her body was concealed by the table and by her companion. Nick twisted around to get a better look. Erin poked him.

"Don't stare, he'll see you. He's looking this way—"

"Oh, everybody stares in places like this. It isn't the food that brings people, it's the clientele. Damn, I think he's spotted us."

Laurence said something to his companion, rose, and came toward them. "Hello there," he said, smiling.

Nick gave a theatrical start. "Oh—hello, Mr. Laurence. I didn't see you. Would you care to join us?"

Laurence recognized this piece of bravado for what it was. His closed lips stretched wider. "What a lovely idea. Unfortunately, I'm lunching with someone else. Why don't
you
join
us?"

"We haven't ordered yet and you're almost finished," Nick said.

"That's true. How clever of you to have observed that without seeing me."

There was nothing Nick could say to that, so he remained silent.

"I'd like to get your input on Rosemary's appearance on my show Sunday," Laurence went on.

"You got my input, such as it was, the other day,' Nick said. "What's to say? It's your show, you have your own way of handling things."

Laurence tired of baiting him. "Quite. I understand; when you are entertaining a beautiful young lady, you don't want to share her. Enjoy your lunch, children."

"Smug son of a bitch," Nick said, glowering at Laurence's retreating back.

"Nick. That's—"

"I don't care if he does hear me. He is a smug SOB. Did I tell you about the meeting we had, to discuss Rosemary's appearance? He told me—"

"Nick, that's not what I was going to say. Just shut up and listen to me. That's your trouble, you know that? You never listen—"

The waiter glided up to ask if they were ready to order. Nick waved him away.

"Look at the menu," he growled.

"I'm looking at the woman with Mr. Laurence. Nick, it's Kay. That's what I was trying to tell you."

"The fish is good," Nick muttered. "Might as well. . . What?"

"Don't turn around."

"Why not?"

"Because if she had wanted us to know she was here, she would have waved or nodded or something."

Nick pretended to drop his menu. The performance wouldn't have deceived a child. "Are you sure?" he asked, straightening. "I can't tell."

"Yes, I'm sure. I got a better look when he was away from the table. Look at her hand—it's bandaged."

"Lunching with the enemy," Nick muttered. "And in disguise—"

"It's a pretty feeble disguise and a pretty public place for a secret meeting. And Mr. Laurence is an ally, not an enemy."

"Hmmmm. So why doesn't she wave or something?"

"I don't know. I'll have a chef's salad," Erin added, as the waiter approached.

Nick insisted she look at the menu, and persuaded her to change her mind. Breast of Chicken Rosemary was too appropriate to resist. She paid no attention to the prolonged discussion about food and wine that ensued. She was watching Kay and Laurence— and thinking.

The Pandora's box she had unwittingly opened might yet contain a small sprite of Hope, but right now she couldn't find it. All she could see were the sins and mischiefs. The discovery had made clear a number of things she had vaguely wondered about— Rosemary's financial generosity to her, Kay's inappropriate questions during the purported job interview—and cast a cloud of doubt on others she hadn't considered. It was like a spotlight, distorting by its very brightness and casting of shadows. The conversation with Joe, in which he had expressed such a kindly interest in her and her father; Christie's antagonism; Laurence's dislike; Will's habit of turning up when she least expected him.

How many of these insights were real and how many were only distortions?

After Nick had dealt with the wine steward, enjoying every nuance of tasting and approving, he shook her out of her unhappy thoughts by demanding that she report on Kay and Laurence.