The Mortal Groove (5 page)

“What's your next move?” asked Jane, cleaning the dishes off the kitchen table.

“I don't know. Honestly, Janey, I'm not sure I have one.” “What about the investigator?”

“He hasn't been able to dig up anything I can use. I should probably fire him.”

It did seem pretty hopeless, although Jane knew enough not to say that out loud.

Cordelia drifted off to her bedroom a few minutes later, saying it had been a long day and she had a headache.

While the dog did his final duties of the night out in the backyard, Jane wiped down the kitchen counters and turned on the light above the stove. Once Mouse was back inside, she checked to make sure everything was locked up tight and then went upstairs to take a shower. On her way past Cordelia's room she heard a sound so soft and muffled that at first, she wasn't sure what it was. And then she realized it was crying. She pressed a hand to the door and closed her eyes.

“It's not nice to listen at other people's doors,” came Cordelia's voice.

“Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

“No.” She sniffed. “But thanks.”

“If you need me—”

“Go to bed, Janey. I love you.”

 

 

“Just checking in,” hollered Cordelia. “Are you at the club?”

“No, the Lyme House,” Jane hollered back, holding the cell phone away from her ear. She was sitting cross-legged on the hood of her Mini in the back parking lot. She could hardly hear Cordelia over all the background noise. “What are you listening to? Iron Butterfly?”

“I sometimes play Tn-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' when I'm setting up for poker night. Gets me in the mood.”

“You're going ahead with it? I thought maybe you'd cancel.” The second Tuesday of every month, Cordelia played poker with her theater pals. Jane didn't like card games so she rarely attended.

“Why? I can't spend all my time crying. Besides, being around friends will be good for me. By the way, you're invited,” she yelled.

“Gee thanks,” Jane yelled back. Considering it was her house,
it was extremely kind of her. “But I'll be home late. FYI, I liked Roy Rogers better.”

“No you didn't.” As the song in the background changed to “Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple, Cordelia said, “Better go. I've got some of my famous black bean chili on the stove. Wouldn't want it to burn. Bye, babe.”

“Don't you give any of that to Mouse,” yelled Jane, clutching the phone tight to her ear. “Did you hear me?
No chili for the dog!”

 

As Jane trotted down the restaurant's back steps to her basement office, her cell phone rang again. This time it was her father.

“Janey, I need to talk to you and your brother, tonight if possible.”

“You sound upset.”

“It's nothing we can't handle. I asked Peter to meet us at the Lyme House pub at seven. That work for you?”

“That's perfect.”

See you soon.

 

Jane scooped fresh popcorn into a paper bowl as she led Peter to her favorite table in the back room, the one nearest the fire. This early in the evening, the table was still free. A waiter appeared almost instantly with two longneck Grain Belts. He set them on the table and then asked if Jane wanted anything else.

“Thanks, Rich. We're great,” she said, giving him a smile.

Jane and her brother sat and talked until their father finally breezed in a few minutes after seven.

For all his traveling around the state, the late nights and bad food, Jane thought he looked great. Campaigning clearly agreed with him.

Ray gave them each a kiss on the tops of their heads, then
pulled out a chair and sat down. His silver hair, usually a little shaggy, had been styled. He'd also lost a little weight.

For the past four months, he'd been crisscrossing the state, making speeches and doing radio and TV interviews. Sometime in the next couple of weeks, he was scheduled to tour southern Minnesota again. To save money, he was using his Cessna to get himself around, usually taking along his press secretary and sometimes his campaign manager. He always had people on the ground ready to meet him and whisk him off somewhere for a speech or dinner.

“You want something to drink?” asked Jane.

He glanced at the beers. “No, I better not. I've got a meeting later.”

“So, give us an update,” said Peter, pulling the popcorn closer. “Oh, hey, I heard about the Oberstar endorsement. Congratulations.”

“This is really happening, isn't it,” said Jane.

“You bet it is,” said her father. “I hopped a train a few months ago that's picking up steam. It surprises me, too. Coming in late the way I did has proved to be an unexpected advantage. I took the media off guard. It's taking my opponents some time to lock and load, but it will get nasty before we're all done, you can count on that.”

Jane thought back to her interview with Tia Masters. She had no idea how she'd be painted in the article, and no control over it. The lack of control drove her nuts.

“Actually,” said Ray, “we had our first shot across the bow today.”

“What?” asked Peter.

Ray's gaze roamed the room. “Look, you're going to hear this sooner or later, so I wanted it to come from me, not some news-paper. I'd completely forgotten about it. It happened over thirty
years ago—and it's never happened again. It was shortly after your mother died. I was so depressed,” said Ray. “It was a terrible time—for all of us, I know. I should have handled things better.”

“Don't,” said Jane.

“No, let me say this, Janey. I need to take responsibility. I was the adult and I blew it, in so many ways. I started drinking too much. It was stupid, I know, but I suppose I'm not the first guy who's used alcohol to anesthetize his pain. Not that I'm excusing myself. I got stopped a couple of times for drunk driving. And now some reporter who checked my records is about to print a story in one of the local papers. I don't think it will hurt me much, because, like I said, it was so long ago and it never happened again, but it could hurt you two if you heard about it in the wrong way. I care about you more than anything else in my life. So,” he said, leaning in to the table, “there it is. That's my story. I'm sorry if it embarrasses you.”

“Good grief, Dad,” said Peter, pushing his beer away. “You're human. Don't give it another thought.”

Ray pressed his lips together and nodded. “Enough said. We don't need to dredge that awful time back up again.”

“Do you know which paper the story will appear in?” asked Jane.

“The
Star Tribune.
Probably tomorrow.”

They sat for a moment, all of them gazing into the fire.

“Either of you hungry?” asked Jane. “We've got some great shepherd's pie on the menu tonight.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, since we're in truth-telling mode here, I've got something I need to get off my chest. I'm afraid it's not good news.” Pulling his beer back in front of him, he said, “I lost my job.”

Jane turned to face him. “When? Why?”

“It happened in late February.”

“What happened?” said Ray. “Be specific.”

“They're downsizing at the station. It's the economy, partly, and partly the new general manager. We didn't exactly hit it off.”

“Did they give you some kind of severance package?” asked Jane.

“Yeah, I'm okay for now.”

“What are your plans?” asked Ray.

“I've been looking for a cameraman job in this market but it just isn't going to happen. The reason I'm telling you now is that I've been offered a job in Oklahoma City. It doesn't pay all that well, and Sigrid isn't exactly thrilled to move to Oklahoma, but I'm thinking of taking it.”

“What about her job?” asked Jane. “She's been at that family practice clinic for quite a few years now.”

“To be honest”—he looked down at his hands—“I'm not sure she's coming with me.”

Jane and her dad exchanged glances.

“I thought you two had worked out your problems,” said Ray.

“We called a cease-fire, but no, we never really settled anything. It's hard to talk about, Dad. There are things you don't know, things I can't tell either of you.”

“Because Sigrid asked you not to?” said Jane.

Peter nodded.

What Jane did know was that a couple years ago, Peter and Sigrid had split up. Peter desperately wanted to start a family, but Sigrid didn't. They loved each other—that was never in question—but they were at an impasse. There was no middle ground in this kind of decision. If they stayed together, one of them would eventually have to give up or give in.

“What if you didn't take that job?” asked Ray, removing his glasses and using Jane's paper napkin to polish the lenses. “If you stayed in town, would you and Sigrid still split up?”

“I don't know. But I've got to make a living. And I'd like to
continue doing it as a photographer. There's nothing in town for me at any of the stations. Believe me, I've looked.”

Ray finished cleaning his glasses and put them back on. Folding his arms over his chest, he said, “What if I asked you to come work on the campaign with me?”

Peter laughed. “Right. I'm sure you need your son, the unemployed cameraman, to follow you around.”

“Actually, it might be worth thinking about. But beyond that, maybe we could figure out something more hands on, like working in the press office, or hey—Del's been screaming about needing an assistant.”

Delavon Green was Ray's campaign manager. Randy Turk had suggested him because he'd been working on the Ludtke campaign so he already knew the political terrain. Jane had met him a couple times and was impressed by his professionalism and his political savvy. He was also charming as hell, which came in handy when you had to deal with people all day long. Delavon was African American, had grown up in the projects in Detroit. He'd worked on a number of other political campaigns—several in Illinois, a few in Michigan and Ohio, and the last two in Minnesota.

“I'd have to think about it—ask Sigrid what she thought,” said Peter.

“Fine,” said Ray. “But just remember, I'm not talking volunteer here, I'm talking paid position.”

“Does the word ‘nepotism' mean anything to you?” asked Jane, laughing.

“It's the way the world works,” said Ray. “You get hired for jobs two ways. You either know somebody or you stand in line and pray. Let me talk to Del.” He checked his watch. “I've gotta run, but I'll get back to you in a day or two. Don't make any final decisions until you hear from me.”

 

 

R
andy couldn't remember a time when he wasn't lonely. As a kid growing up in a small prairie town in the northwestern part of Iowa, he didn't have many friends. Partly, it was his own nature. He never felt as if he fit anywhere. But mostly it was because he spent so much of his time defending his brother, Ethan, who was, in the parlance of the day, considered “slow.”

Ethan was big for his age, three years older than Randy, and he looked like he could crush rocks with his bare hands. Nobody dared say anything to his face, but behind his back it was a free-for-all.

Ethan had trouble with math and English, didn't always understand the rules to certain games. He was such an easy target, such a big fat joke, that kids Randy did call friends would eventually say something nasty about him. Many nights Randy came home bruised from a fight, or furious after an argument. People said he had a temper, but that wasn't it. He just couldn't stand it when his brother was the punch line to every joke.

After a while, Randy assumed that loneliness was simply the price he had to pay for protecting someone he loved. And yet he ached to have friends like other kids did. Fie wasn't athletic. Didn't like sports. By the time he was in high school, there were a few other misfits he palled around with, but it was all pretty superficial. What Randy wouldn't understand, couldn't until years later, was that this yearning for a deeper connection with other guys his age would set his life on a course he might have fled from had he understood the ramifications.