The Other Woman Page 10

  “The campaign consultant? Told you—?”

  “Oh yes, in no uncertain terms. Rory told me the polls showed I’m ‘unpopular.’ ‘Too reserved.’” Moira closed her eyes briefly. “He said their internal poll numbers showed I interfered with Owen’s female demos. As Rory so delicately put it, I was ‘in the way’ when it came to women voters. So he told me he’d handle it all, but it would be best if I ‘had the flu.’ Or was ‘tired.’ This is off the record, remember, as we agreed. But that’s ridiculous. He’s lying to me. He’s covering something up.”

  “And that’s why you’ve been off the campaign trail? You were told to stay home?”

  “Owen and Rory are inseparable,” Moira replied. She stood, picked up her water, edged past the coffee table, and stood in front of the fireplace, arms crossed. Almost a silhouette in the already-darkening afternoon, the fire glowing behind her. “He’s new to the campaign. A hired gun, here for the duration only. And Owen relies on everything he says. I think Rory knows about her. He’s helping Owen hide her. Until after they win, of course. Then they’ll go to Washington. What if I wind up as another one of those poor wives, pushing their redemption books on TV talk shows?”

  Over my head. I’m in over my head. Even if Jane ran out of the room with her hands over her ears—la la la, I can’t hear you—Moira Lassiter already started the dominoes falling. It’s what Jane suspected all along. What the holy hell was she supposed to do now?

  Jane had to ask.

  “Who?” she said. “Who is this other woman? Would you know her if you saw her?”

  Moira shook her head. “No. But when you called, asking why I wasn’t making campaign appearances, I knew the sh— Well, it was about to hit the fan. As they say.”

  “But…”

  “Sheila King, the press secretary? Knows Rory is insisting I lie low,” Moira went on. “But I found a phone number in Owen’s jacket pocket. The phone was disconnected. Another time, I found a matchbook from some hotel. I’m putting two and two together. As you would. You weren’t going to let go of your ‘Where’s Moira?’ story, correct? And that’s the problem I had to solve.”

  “But I never said—,” Jane tried again.

  Moira kept talking. “Erase me from the campaign? No. Rory’s not going to get away with it. Cover-ups don’t work. We have to get in front of this.” Moira jabbed her palm with a finger. “Face it. Handle it. That’s why I need you to find out what’s true. Find her. Stop this.”

  Crazy. Nut city. Over the edge. There is no reason—

  But there was. A reason that took Moira’s whole unbelievably twisted story and twisted it back the other way.

  Jane had to ask.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Lassiter,” Jane said. “But if your husband is having an affair, and it becomes public knowledge, Eleanor Gable’s campaign would instantly cash in on that. It’s likely your husband would lose the election. So I need to ask you. Are you hoping Gable wins? Do you want your husband to lose?”

  20

  “You were so patient with her, Governor Lassiter. Don’t you think so, Rory? No wonder you’re doing so well in the polls.” Kenna Wilkes turned to the candidate, smiling as she closed his office door behind that Hannah person. Gone at last. Now it was just the three of them. Hannah’d asked some pretty ridiculous questions in what she called her “interview” for her pitiful neighborhood paper. But all good, actually, since Rory had suggested Hannah interview her as a typical volunteer. Brilliant. He’d taken her picture with the governor, too.

  “Always happy to spread the word, Kenna,” Owen said. “And happy you could join us for the interview.” The governor was concentrating on a stack of papers Rory placed in front of him. Not on her. Still, there was time.

  Lassiter signed something, closed the folder. “So, Maitland. Weren’t we going to Springfield later this afternoon? It’s what I told that young woman.”

  “Still on, Governor, but postponed a bit. Snafus with the hotel, but it’s all fine now.” Rory shot Kenna a look. “In fact, Mrs. Wilkes volunteered to help with the event. To get a feel for the campaign. Right?”

  “Happy to,” Kenna said. Understatement of the century. “Jimmy’s at his grandparents this weekend for Halloween. I’d adore to come.”

  Rory was still talking. Didn’t wait for Owen to respond.

  “She’ll pass out name tags, flyers, that sort of thing? She can ride with us. We’ll leave as soon as you’re done. It’s gonna be a late one, Governor. Maybe too late to get back to Boston tonight. We should stay over.”

  Rory lifted his briefcase onto the governor’s desk, pushing a hefty leather-bound book out of the way. Snapping the locks, he took out a sheaf of papers. “Our internals show we can hit it out of the ballpark in Western Mass. See? Here, and right here. What I’m hearing, the Gable people are ignoring it.”

  But Lassiter seemed to remember she was in the room. Now, instead of focusing on Rory and his poll numbers, Lassiter focused on her. Kenna felt him raking her with those eyes. What was he seeing? What did he want? He stared at her, hard, as if he were about to say something.

  What would it be? As she waited, her mind sampled the possibilities, one delicious idea at a time.

  Maybe he would finally send Rory away. And she’d get what she wanted. It wouldn’t take long; then everything would be different. She crossed her arms in front of her, holding in her hopes, trying not to smile.

  A buzzer sounded on Lassiter’s phone console. Startled, he pretended he wasn’t staring at her.

  “Sir?” The receptionist’s staticky voice came through the speaker. “You need to leave for Springfield soon.”

  Kenna glanced at Rory. He rolled his eyes at the phone console. “Under control, Deenie,” he said, raising his voice at the speaker. “Mrs. Wilkes will be joining us.”

  “I should call Moira,” Lassiter said. He patted the breast pocket of his pin-striped suit jacket and pulled out a flat silver cell phone. “She’s expecting me for dinner. No hope of that now, right?”

  Did he chance another look at her? Kenna touched her hair, allowed herself the trace of a smile. Oh, yeah. Call Moira. Just do it.

  “Good idea, Rory. Let’s stay overnight in Springfield,” Lassiter continued. His cell made a soft trill, turning on. “I’ll let Moira know I won’t be home.”

  * * *

  “Jane!” She couldn’t hear him, not from this distance, but he’d recognize that walk anywhere. Bundled in her black coat, that gray scarf she loved flying out behind her, her head down in the darkening Saturday afternoon. She must be here for Sellica’s funeral.

  Jake threw a BPD placard in the windshield, banged open the door of his unmarked cruiser, and took off after her. She was already across Cumberton Ave. Headed for All Saints Church, had to be. Question was, why.

  “Jane!” Getting closer now, headed up Harrison Street, almost to the crosswalk, Jake called her name again, raising his voice. A chunky city bus wheezed between them, erasing Jane briefly from view. A siren whirled in the distance. Damn. He would never catch her before she got to the church. He took off, in a flat run, then stopped. In the middle of the crosswalk. Wait a minute.

  He stared at her vanishing form. Maybe he could learn more if she didn’t know he was here. He hated to spy on her, but that was why she’d put the brakes on their relationship, right? Insisted their jobs would get in the way. Maybe she was right. Like now.

  Jake hung back, letting her get ahead. He felt like an idiot, tailing Jane. But Sellica Darden had been murdered. Maybe Jane knew something she wasn’t telling.

  She was a block from the church. Long black cars pulled up to the front, exhaust pluming from their tailpipes. Clumps of dark-clad mourners gathered on the far street corner, some walking arm in arm. Detail cops in orange webbed safety jackets stopped traffic, allowing people to emerge from their cars unhurried, unthreatened by the busy street. A huge wreath of white flowers and some kind of greenery hung on the front doors.

  Jake kept to the
shadows. He had a perfect view. What did he expect to see? He’d know when he saw it.

  Now Jane was trotting up the wide front steps. She stopped to talk with a woman in a black coat, her face hidden by her broad-brimmed black hat. He saw Jane take the woman’s hands, lean forward. Leota Darden. Did Jane know her from before? Had Jane met Sellica’s mother? Leota had never answered him directly about that.

  If Sellica was Jane’s source, maybe she’d told her more about Arthur Vick than Jane reported. Maybe that was key.

  Another big question: What if Sellica knew Amaryllis Roldan?

  DeLuca was on it now, checking. And if his partner found a connection, it meant there was a Bridge Killer.

  And that meant they were all screwed.

  Dammit. Arthur Vick? He could picture Vick killing Sellica in some testosterone-fueled revenge move. Maybe an accident, a mistake. But the others? Arthur Vick as Bridge Killer? No. No way. Too much to lose. Too public.

  If there was a Bridge Killer, whoever it was, he was nuts. Arthur Vick wasn’t nuts. An egocentric asshole, but not nuts.

  Probably not nuts.

  Jake checked his watch. The five o’clock funeral didn’t start for another twenty minutes. He watched more mourners arrive and stop to speak with Mrs. Darden, Jane seeming to stand aside. Keeping his eye on the front steps, he hit speed dial.

  One ring. Almost two.

  “DeLuca.”

  “D? About Arthur Vick.”

  “You come to your senses, Harvard?” DeLuca’s sarcasm was punctuated by bells ringing and what sounded like—cash registers? Of course. Grocery store. “Gonna let me pick him up?”

  “Not yet,” Jake said. “Listen. On the down-low. Let’s check Vick’s alibi. For Longfellow and for Charlestown. I mean, for Miss Roldan. And for Sellica Darden.”

  “By ‘let’s,’ you mean me.”

  “Ten-four, good buddy.” Jake smiled. D was a good guy. “You getting anything at the grocery?”

  “Nada.”

  “Anything on Sellica? More on Roldan?”

  “Nope. And nope. Like I said. Nada. Roldan’s a nobody at Beacon Markets. Passing through.”

  “She know Arthur Vick?”

  “Oh. Yeah, they were boyfriend–girlfriend. I just forgot to tell you.” DeLuca paused. “Like I said. Nada. No connection so far.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  Jake hung up the phone, then scrolled his BlackBerry for the notes from this morning’s interview with Leota Darden. The green screen glowed against the glare as the corner streetlight popped on. Something Leota had said. About her daughter and Vick. About the money. He rolled the ball with his thumb, squinting at the screen, working his notes into view. Found it.

  “She counted on it, with those other girls, thought it was a way out of the life.” Word for word what Leota said.

  What other girls?

  Clicking off his BlackBerry, Jake eased closer to the church. Two men in black robes opened both front doors. Golden light from the vestibule spilled out the entryway and over the front steps. He could hear the low murmuring of organ music.

  He could go inside. Stand in the back. See who arrived. See if anyone looked like a Bridge Killer. Right. Jake ran his jacket zipper up and down, thinking. Was there someone else Jane hoped to talk to? Who would she come here to see?

  He could watch and wait. He reached for the BlackBerry in his jacket pocket. Or. He could ask.

  21

  Jane felt guilty as hell.

  Guilty about Alex. Guilty about Sellica.

  But right now, standing on the steps of All Saints waiting for a funeral to begin, she had to ignore her cell phone’s insistent vibration. It was certainly Alex, certainly reacting to the voice mail message she’d left him about the Moira Lassiter bombshell. Moira, intense and persistent, sticking to her story, insisted she was in love with her husband and wanted only to “uncover the truth” to prevent him from making “a career-ending error.”

  The fact that Moira divulged her suspicions was almost a bigger story. And if that was vodka in her glass instead of water? Did that make her story more true? Or less? It would sure explain why she suddenly became a nonperson in the campaign. Jane was dying to get into the newsroom. Confer with Alex. Plot their strategy. Figure out how to confirm it all.

  Alex would have to admit that her instincts about the other woman had been right, which would be really gratifying. And if it was a drinking thing, fine, his instincts had been right, too. But now Jane had to be here at the church. Guilty or not.

  A few TV stations had sent crews to Sellica’s funeral, vulture patrols, looking for mourner-video to “humanize” their coverage of the murder. This part of TV she didn’t miss one bit. Intruding on strangers’ grief to tape a few moments of video sorrow. She watched as a stern-faced minister allowed TV to get a few exteriors, then banished them to across the street. Eventually they gave up, headed off to some other tragedy.

  Two black-clad arrivals hugged Mrs. Darden, then entered the church, leaving her alone next to a tall arrangement of pine branches and white chrysanthemums. Jane approached her, took the woman’s gloved hand in hers. Mrs. Darden was all shades of black and soft gray, a fragile sparrow.

  “Mrs. Darden, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Jane said. She struggled for the appropriate words. “Sellica was … you must be…”

  It was only the second time she’d met Mrs. Darden. The first time, Sellica was alive, and had told her about Arthur Vick. Jane had been pumped for the scoop. Assured Sellica she’d never reveal her as the source. Assured her mother she could keep the secret. It had been exciting, knowing she’d be able to change their lives. As it turned out, change was exactly what happened. Jane got fired. Sellica got killed.

  “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say,” Jane started over, trying not to lose her composure. Sellica’s death had nothing to do with her, logically, but somehow it felt as if it did. Everything bad happened after Super Jane stepped in to make things right. “It’s just—”

  “She trusted you, Miss Ryland, and don’t you worry that you let her down.” Leota Darden wore a single white calla lily pinned to her black coat. She touched it briefly with a gloved finger. “My Sellica got herself into trouble. We tried, we all tried, but none of us could help her. Now she’s in a better place. I appreciate you’re here.”

  Mrs. Darden’s eyes were rimmed with red, tears threatening, lines on her face deeper than Jane remembered. She clutched Jane’s wrist, pulling her closer. Jane picked up a faint scent of roses, maybe vanilla. Mrs. Darden’s hat brushed Jane’s cheek.

  “But, Jane. I need to ask you…”

  Jane leaned down, calculating. Ask me what? Maybe Sellica told her something. Dammit. The cell phone. It vibrated again, fuzzing against her thigh. Lucky she’d turned off the ringer. Alex again, no question. She had to ignore him. Had to hear what Mrs. Darden was about to say.

  “Will the police care?” Mrs. Darden whispered. Her slim fingers tightened around Jane’s wrist. “Will they find who did this? Or will they think my Sellica deserved it? For the life she had? And what if it was the Bridge Killer?”

  Jane almost burst into tears. How could she be so selfish, so self-centered? Of course what Mrs. Darden wanted to say had nothing to do with the Vick case. Nothing to do with her. This poor woman. First, seeing her daughter’s disreputable profession put in the spotlight by a lying, manipulative jerk. Then learning she was murdered, maybe by a serial killer. And today, at her only daughter’s funeral, the grieving mother actually had to worry whether the police cared.

  Sellica had trusted Jane. Now her mother was trusting her, too. Despite everything that happened. Jane owed them. This time, she would make things right.

  “Of course the police care. Of course they do.” Jane held Mrs. Darden’s eyes. Promising. Meaning it. “Listen. I know someone on this case. Pretty well. A detective. I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

  “The police alread
y came. A young man, to my house.” Mrs. Darden leaned closer, whispering. “He said there was no Bridge Killer.”

  That was Jake. Had to be. What if Mrs. Darden told him about her and Sellica?

  “Leezey? Honey, we’re so sorry.”

  “Sweetie, we’re here for you.”

  Two women, Mrs. Darden’s age, gray hair, tweed coats, both in hats with fabric flowers and elaborate feathers, arrived at the top of the steps. One at a time, murmuring their condolences, they hugged their friend.

  Jane retreated, grateful for the moment to collect her thoughts. If Mrs. Darden told Jake that Sellica was her source—that might solve her problem. If Jake knew, but not from her, she could talk to him about it. Right? Without breaching a confidence. That could change everything. The lawyers, the appeal, the million-dollar judgment.

  Maybe Mrs. Darden, not Sellica, was the key to her redemption.

  Jane’s cell phone vibrated again. The women were still deep in conversation, so she reached into her pocket. A text. From Alex.

  Where U? Yr Moira story hot. Big. Need U to go to Springfield. By 7. Lassiter rally. Staying o-nite. U right maybe. Got camera? Call me.

  She stared at the screen. Alex was sending her to Springfield? Where Moira said the campaign event was scheduled. They were staying overnight? Of course she had her camera. Of course she was curious, and of course she wanted to see if Moira’s suspicions were true. And Archive Gus’s photos were still in her car, though she knew the face of the woman in the red coat perfectly, even without them.

  What to do? Springfield was straight out the Mass Turnpike, maybe an hour and a half from Boston. If she left now, drove fast, she’d get there in time. But she’d miss the funeral. Which meant she’d miss talking to anyone who might be on the lookout for her. Whoever that would be.

  “Jane?”

  She looked up, startled at the hissed whisper from behind her, almost dropping her phone. Who knew her name? Was this the person? Someone who had come looking for her? She whirled toward the sound, squinting in the semidarkness. A shape came closer, stepping into the light. Jane smiled, stashing her phone. She’d know that shape anywhere. She kept her own voice low, not quite a whisper. It was a funeral, after all.