The Governor's Lady (7 page)

She looked around the circle. The security men had stepped back a pace, watching everything warily.
At least they didn’t pull out their machine guns
.

“I thank you all for doing your jobs. I’m impressed by your professionalism. But I think I’ll declare this a special occasion. My first day in office. A historic event. And in the future, I think we’ll declare this area open to the press. With, of course”—a nod to the security men—“proper precautions. Mr. Kincaid, tell your fellow members of the press corps not to come armed with anything more dangerous than pads, pencils, and cameras.” Her gaze swept the circle again, rested on Roger, whose neck was showing red splotches. “So let’s get on with our day. Mr. Kincaid, allow me a few minutes to get settled, then join me in my office.”

Coat off, gloves in pocket, coat and gloves in closet. What to do with her purse? She laughed. Roger looked puzzled.

“No governor in the state’s history has had to deal with a purse, Roger. My first dilemma.” She stowed the purse underneath the desk and sat in the enormous leather chair. “I think I’d like to have a somewhat smaller chair, Roger. This one just swallows me up. I can’t have people coming in here thinking I’m not big enough to fit the chair.”

“The chair goes with the desk,” he said.

“Then maybe we’ll rethink the desk, too. For now, we’ll do the chair. See if you can rustle up something.”

Roger stood his ground. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“What, a reasonable chair?”

“Wheeler Kincaid.”

She studied him for a moment. “Okay, here’s how we’ll work this out. You’ll take care of the chair, and I’ll take care of Mr. Kincaid. But don’t take this as a put-down, Roger. Let’s just say I’m feeling a bit feisty this morning, exercising a prerogative. I depend on you to advise me on the truly important things, and as we go along, feeling our way, we’ll figure out what the truly important things are. Can we live with that?”

“I still think—”

“If nothing else, Roger, just humor me. Now, get me a chair I feel comfortable with, then send in Mr. Kincaid.”

Once she was alone, she had a few minutes to wonder what had prompted her to talk to Wheeler Kincaid. By reputation, he was arrogant, heartless, fearless, dogged. Pickett had once said of him, “He knows where all the bodies are buried, and he digs ’em up when he needs ’em.” People told things to Kincaid they didn’t tell anybody else. He had been covering the Capitol for the
Dispatch
for as long as anyone could remember. Beyond that, nobody seemed to know much about his
personal life. His wife, said to be a schizophrenic recluse, had died the year before. He had a great deal about him that was unfathomable. He kept his own secrets, and if you were a source for one of his stories, he kept yours.

But Cooper had glimpsed a different side, and it still baffled her. Early in Pickett’s first term, Kincaid had stopped her in the lobby of a downtown hotel after her speech to a League of Women Voters luncheon.

“Could I have a minute?” he asked, and his brows shot up, making unruly arcs over intense brown eyes. The security officer who was with her moved to cut him off, but Kincaid said, “You really should.”

Something in his voice made her say, “All right.”

Just the two of them in the hotel manager’s office.

“You’ve got a new personal secretary,” he said.

A young woman, daughter of a wealthy supporter of Pickett’s. She was not, Cooper had decided, either bright or interested in the job. She handled first-lady details from a small office on the ground floor of the Executive Mansion. She had wandered once into the kitchen and had beaten a hasty retreat when Mrs. Dinkins asked her icily if she was lost.

“Her family has a weekend place up on the lake,” Kincaid said. “Parties, young people running around without any clothes on, a good deal of alcohol and drugs.”

Cooper felt her throat constrict. “How do you know?”

“Got a tip, went to see for myself. Took some pictures.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you might want to do something about it. Before—”

“I read about it in the paper,” she finished for him. “But you’re not—”

“What the girl does in her spare time isn’t at the top of my list of crucial matters of state, not right now. But somebody else could get a tip, you know. It would embarrass you.” He reached in a coat pocket, pulled out a spool of film, held it up, and put it back in his pocket. “I’ll hold on to this for now.”

She stood to go. “Thank you.”

“By the way,” Kincaid said, “that was a helluva speech you gave the ladies just now. It’s not the kind of stuff I generally hear coming out of your husband’s office. Did he clear it?”

“No,” she said. “Why should he?”

Kincaid smiled. “Just asking.”

Cooper went straight to the Capitol and pulled Pickett out of a meeting of the Oil and Gas Board.

“My God,” Pickett said, ashen-faced. “How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“
How
do you know?”

“I know.”

Within twenty-four hours, the young woman was gone, dispatched to an obscure job in the Commerce Department. Two days later, a small padded envelope addressed to Cooper arrived at the Executive Mansion. She opened it, pulled the long roll of film from its spool, and dropped it in the trash.

Why had he warned her? To curry favor with Pickett? If so, why not just tell Pickett? If not, then what? Then she had thought,
He said it would embarrass
me,
not Pickett
. And why hadn’t she told Pickett where the information came from? Some instinct—she puzzled over it—had led her to keep that part to herself. Afterward, when she was around Kincaid at public functions, neither had spoken of it again.

Roger brought her a chair and then reluctantly ushered Kincaid in.

He asked about Mickey. They went way back, he said, to when he was a young reporter on his first job covering the Capitol and Mickey was a minor clerk for the speaker of the House, just in from the country and secretarial school.

“She’s holding her own,” Cooper said noncommittally.

“She’s one of a kind, was from the beginning.”

The door opened, and Roger poked his head in, glancing at his watch. “Meeting of the Arts Commission in fifteen minutes.” He held
out a manila folder. “I’ve got your briefing paper.”

Cooper ignored the folder. “Thank you, Roger. Check on me in fifteen minutes.”

Roger didn’t budge. “Did I show you …? A buzzer is right there beside the middle drawer. If you need anything.”

“Thank you, Roger. I feel well equipped. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

She saw the flush starting again around his neckline and spreading up his cheeks, his hand tightening on the folder, wrinkling it. He gave a curt nod and closed the door.

“The eyes follow you,” Kincaid said. He was looking at the wall behind the desk.

She swiveled in her chair to the huge oil portrait of Pickett hanging there. Pickett in dark suit and power tie, that incredibly appealing half-smile that made people want to know him, trust him.

“No matter where you move in the room, he seems to be looking at you,” Kincaid said. “And now he’s looking over your shoulder.”

“I suppose I should get my own portrait.”

“Or maybe a picture of Roger.” He nodded toward the door. “He seems fixated on looking over your shoulder, too.”

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “It might seem that way, I suppose. Roger and I haven’t had a chance to talk about ground rules.”

“Who sets those rules?” Kincaid asked with a trace of a smile. And then when she frowned, he added, “This is all off the record.”

She hesitated. Off the record or not, this was Wheeler Kincaid. “The person who sits in this chair sets the rules,” she said.

“You seem pretty sure about that. Good for you. But don’t be surprised if you need to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with Roger.”

“I can do that.”

“Again, good for you.”

“Roger might be a bit upset that he’s not out campaigning with Pickett,” she said.

“Roger is highly pissed. He’s been around a long time, thinks he’s earned a shot at the big dance.”

“Instead …”

“He’s here because he’s third-rate, and Pickett can’t afford to have third-raters on his campaign payroll. Roger’s like a well-trained dog—obeys commands to the letter but doesn’t have a lick of imagination.”

“I don’t know that the rest of them do either. Carter told me …”

“Off the record.”

“Carter says they don’t get it—social networking, all of that.” She stopped again. “Why am I telling you this? They all think you’re toxic.”

He smiled. “Only at times and in places where it’s warranted.”

“And it’s not warranted here?”

“I wouldn’t be off the record if it were.”

“Back to Roger.”

“Yes,” he said. “He’s been vocal about his assignment, vocal around people he shouldn’t be vocal around.”

“And what is he saying?”

“That he’s babysitting.”

Cooper held herself, took a moment and a deep breath. “He has nothing to babysit. I’m the governor.”

Kincaid glanced up again at Pickett’s portrait, then gave Cooper a long look. “Are you?”

“Damn right.”

“I really, truly hope so. When somebody tries to rope you and haul you in, I hope you can say exactly that: ‘Damn right.’ Because there are people who don’t think you are.” He held out his hand. “Could I take a look at your schedule?”

He scanned the paper Cooper handed him. “Full day. Arts Commission, photo-op with some Girl Scouts, two hours for lunch. Afternoon
meeting with a delegation from Banks County.” A glance up. “Do you know what that’s about?”

She sat stone-faced.

“They want some money for levee work. Lots of flooding in Banks County during the fall. Cows floating downriver, all kinds of misery.” Back to the paper. “Then home to the cozy warmth of the Executive Mansion.” He shoved the schedule back onto her desk and pulled a sheaf of folded papers from the inner pocket of his jacket. “And then there’s all this.”

“What?”

“The morning’s output from your Press Office.” He read, “ ‘Governor Cooper Lanier Approves Funds for Coffee County Road Construction Project. Governor Signs Proclamation Designating Multiple Sclerosis Week. Governor Pledges Support to Congressional Delegation on Waterway Bill.’ ” He tossed the press releases alongside the schedule. “You’ve been busy already with the state’s business.”

She half-rose from her chair. “Mr. Kincaid, you’re way out of line.”

Kincaid stayed put. “First day of a new administration. No cabinet meeting? And what about a press conference? A restless mob is in the Capitol pressroom, just itching to ask what you’re going to make of being the state’s chief executive, other than just minding the store.” He ticked off items on his fingers. “The legislature convenes in three weeks. Are you working on your State of the State address? The budget?”

She was taken aback.
No, I’m not. Damn Pickett for brushing me off. Damn me for letting him
.

She stood. “I think we can end this.” She reached for the buzzer.

His voice stopped her. “Felicia Withers is going after you.”

Her hand froze. She sat back down.

Felicia was owner and publisher of the
Dispatch
. Her family had started the paper during the Civil War and held on to it over the years, making it one of the few dailies left in the country that wasn’t owned
by a chain. It boasted a long line of fierce publishers, one generation after another. And now Felicia, who was the fiercest, acid-tongued in person and in print, arbitrary and ruthless, profoundly independent. Popular wisdom said it was far better to be Felicia’s enemy than her friend, because if you were her enemy, you at least
knew
she was out to get you. Felicia had few friends, but she cultivated legions of enemies, and somewhere near the top of her list was Pickett Lanier. She had taken an acute dislike to him when he was lieutenant governor. Maybe he was too smooth, too successful, too seemingly immune to Felicia.

“Felicia called a staff meeting last evening. Everybody on the payroll, down to the kid who sweeps the floor. I’ve never seen her so worked up. Thought she was going to blow a gasket. She ranted for a half-hour, but the sum of it was, the paper’s mission is to expose this”—his hand swept the room, including Cooper and Pickett’s portrait—“for what it is.”

“And what does Felicia think it is?”

“A farce.”

“And what does she think I am?”

“A phony.”

“Good God,” Cooper said softly.

“You know how she feels about Pickett. Well, she’s in a fine rage over what he’s pulled off here.”

“Mr. Kincaid, Pickett didn’t ‘pull off’ anything, as you put it. I was elected governor of the state, with Pickett’s help, of course. But people voted, and they voted for me. Does Felicia Withers have some problem with people voting?”

“It’s not just that. It’s personal. Felicia can’t stand powerful women. She thinks this town doesn’t have room for both of you. You’re right, you got elected, and she can’t get rid of you, but she’ll do her best to make you look—”

“Like a phony running a farce.”