Chapter Nine
A Loss of Trust
F
eeling very much like a fugitive, I took refuge from the media storm by checking in at the Holiday Inn Convention Center, on the north edge of town, under my former married name, using a credit card still reflecting that status.
At the desk I picked up a few toiletries not included in Hello Kitty, stuffed with the set of clothes intended for Peggy Sue.
My room opened onto the indoor pool area, where right now no one was swimming or lounging. The scent of chlorine in my nostrils, I sat on the edge of the bed wondering who had taken the photo of the senator and myself, exploiting an all-too-private moment between father and daughter.
Somebody representing his political opposition, probablyâsomebody shadowing the senator, just waiting for the right time to grab an embarrassing or even incriminating time, without need of a camera, just a cell phone. What little privacy we'd all once had was long gone, courtesy of technology.
Right then my cell trilled, I.D.ing Sis, but I let it go to voice mail. A moment later, Mother tried, and I ignored her, too. Let diva and understudy bask in that limelight they both longed for. Then I shut off the cell.
While I didn't relish hiding out at the Holiday Inn at one-hundred-plus bucks per, I had few other decent options. I certainly couldn't impose on my BFF Tina and Kevin, now that they were dealing with BB (Baby Brandy), who was technically still a preemie (but gaining weight fast, thank goodness).
And, to be perfectly honest, I had been putting off visiting them becauseâwhile I was thrilled for Tina and Kevinâseeing the baby so soon would only break my heart.
My stomach growled. It was dinnertime (which is any point between four and six P.M. for us Midwesterners) and since I had trouble thinking on an empty tummy, I grabbed my purse with keycard, and made for the hotel's restaurant, exiting the sliding glass door onto the pool area. The hotel restaurant was just across the pool, and I decided not to swim there, taking the more roundabout route. I wasn't
that
hungry.
The Hawkeye Room had (not surprisingly) a sports-theme going, heavy on the University of Iowa's gold and black and images of their cartoon mascot, Herky the Hawk. Pity the poor Iowa State fan staying here.
I took a cozy table for two by a glass windowed wall looking out at a large pond, where an assortment of ducks capered in the water, others sunning themselves on the lush green banks. Wouldn't it be nice to be one of them? Until duck season, anyway.
A pretty plump waitress handed me a menu, and I studied the nutritious salads and heart-healthy meals, then ordered a breaded pork tenderloin with onion rings, which was more in tune with my disposition and the eating habits of farm country.
A few other people were dining early: a young couple drinking wine; two forty-something businessmen devouring steaks; and a sixtyish guy picking at a salad like he'd lost something in it.
Salad Guyâquite fit, tanned, and handsome with thick gray-sandy hairâcaught me staring, and flashed me a smile.
Embarrassed, I nodded, then returned my attention to the lucky ducks.
After a short wait, my food arrived, and as I dug in, some of the ducksâeither curious or hungryâwaddled over to watch me eat, pressing their bills against the glass, as if to say, “How do
you
like it, somebody staring at
you?
” At least I was eating porkâmy usual chicken tenders might have made me feel uncomfortable.
And even in Iowa, they don't let hogs loose outside restaurants to come guilt-trip you at the windows.
The last onion ring loaded with catsup was heading into my mouth when the plump waitress approached Salad Guy. She said, “Would you like me to charge this to your room, Mr. Lawrence?”
I nearly choked on the battered bite going down.
“That'd be fine, Doris,” he said to her.
James
Lawrence?
Risking another glance, I could make out remnants of the boyish face from the photograph Mother had found at Anna's apartment.
Looked like I wasn't the only prodigal hiding out at the Holiday Inn.
After Lawrence had gone, Doris asked me if I wanted dessert and I said I didâthey served a mean strawberry rhubarb pie, and I was in no frame of mind to watch my dietâand then I asked her how long “James” had been at the hotel, nice and casual.
She crinkled her brow, mildly suspicious.
I said, “He's from here. I don't think he recognized me, but I knew James years ago.”
That should be just enough to sell it, but not too much to bog it down... .
She uncrinkled her brow and said, “Think he's been with us a couple weeks, anyway.”
Which meant James
had
been in Serenity at the time of Big Jim Bob's demise, and our home invasion, and possibly even Anna Armstrong's murder.
Back in my room, I turned on the Channel 6 news, just catching the end of a report by Erica Paul, the local newswoman who'd been the first to arrive at the Borne homestead this afternoon.
She stood on the sidewalk with our porch and front door looming behind her, hand mic poised before her perfectly made-up face.
“There are now reports,” she said animatedly, “that the young woman in the photo with Senator Edward Clark is
not
his young lover, rather an illegitimate
daughter
. I emphasize that this is as yet to be confirmed by our network news division ...” She let the pregnant pause hang, then gave birth to this beauty: “... but one thing
is
certain: this news, coming at this time, cannot be good for the senator's reelection.”
“You think?” I said to her, and shot at her with the TV remote, switching to pay-TV, where I spent the remainder of the evening watching a big dumb action movie followed by the new Woody Allen movie (they never come here), and putting a dent in the minibar, and I don't mean the nuts and Snickers bars.
The next morning I woke with a terrible sinus headache, or was it the flu?
All right!
So I was hung over. I don't drink that much, and I have had hangovers only rarely in my relatively young life, so when I
do
have one, it's two things: a) a shock to my system, and b) a doozy. You know that corny bit in the movies where people with hangovers experience even the most minor noise as exaggerated, an echo-chamber roar? Turns out that isn't a corny bit. Those were all documentaries, those movies... .
I found two stray aspirins in my purse, expending no more effort than running the last lap of a marathon race. Then I took a cold shower, toweled off, shivering like I really did have the flu, then dressed in the hamper-bound jeans and sweatshirt I'd unpacked from Hello Kitty. After using my lipstick as a cheek blush, trying not to look as sickly as I felt, I somehow exited my room and navigated around the pool on rubbery legs all the way to the restaurant, in hopes something on the menu wouldn't send my stomach bouncing.
And those damn ducks better leave me alone! Or I swear I'll ... I'll ... start crying!
I was about to be seated when I spotted James Lawrence across the lobby, heading for the revolving doors.
Curiosity trumping my hangover, I told the hostess I'd changed my mind about breakfast, and hurried to follow my fellow prodigal.
In the parking lot, James climbed into a black Jaguar with Ontario plates, and I hoped he didn't notice, in his rearview mirror, yours truly dashing over to my Buick, parked a few rows away. Mother would have been proud, as I followed him out of the hotel lot, onto the by pass, letting a car slip in between us, to give me some cover.
After a few miles, the Jag veered off at the Locust Street exit, and headed back into town. A few more miles later, break lights flashed, and he swung into the main drive of Greenwood Cemetery.
This destination wasn't user-friendly for somebody tailing a perp. (Well, I know he wasn't necessarily a perp, but I'm afraid TV and Mother have worn off on me.)
Nonetheless, I pulled in myself, taking a secondary drive running parallel to his, keeping his car in sight, hoping I wasn't too obvious.
Greenwood was Serenity's oldest cemetery, dating back centuries. You know the kind, like in horror moviesâtowering monuments throwing dark shadows, guardian angels warding off evil, and creepy crumbling stone crypts. In more recent years, the wealthy opted out of this ancient grotesquerie, however, in favor of storing their dearly departed in expensive mausoleumsâornate granite structures with stained-glass windows.
Years ago, when Mother brought young Brandy to Greenwood to visit Jonathan Borneâwho I'd
thought
had been my real fatherâshe would ask me, “Do you know how many people are dead in this cemetery?”
And young Brandy would say, “No. How many?”
And Mother would say, “All of them.”
Which I thought was pretty funny at the time, and it did somehow take the edge off having to visit there.
As I drove slowly along, keeping the Jag in sight, the low morning sun shot through each passing monument like a strobe light, sending sharp pains through my already-throbbing head, accompanying the grinding of gravel under my car's wheels, which reverberated like one twenty-one-gun salute after another.
When James finally pulled his car over in front of a particularly grand mausoleum, I paused long enough to watch him exit his car, debating what to do next.
Mother would have come up with some ridiculous reason for being here
exactly
at the same time as James ... but I had no patience with subterfuge, and limited talents of improvisation. So I continued on to the next cross drive, then drove back to where the Jag was parked, inching the Buick up to his.
In a brown corduroy jacket and tan slacks, James was seated on a cement bench in front of the mausoleum, his back to me, and when I shut the car door, he craned his neck, his somber expression turning to surprise.
“Well, hello,” he ventured.
“Hi,” I responded as I walked toward him through freshly cut grass.
He looked up at me. “Weren't you in the hotel's restaurant yesterday evening?”
“That's right.”
His eyebrows raised and maybe that was a smile. “... and weren't you all over the news this morning?”
“Oh yeah. Belle of the ball.”
“Hiding out at the Holiday Inn, huh?”
I nodded.
“Not very dignified, is it?”
“Not when you raid the minibar and pay for it in the morning.”
That made him laugh. “Well, I don't blame you for ducking the media. I've had my own share of bad publicity. I don't think anyone will think to look for you in a cemetery.”
That was a smile, and it was niceâmischievous. I liked him already.
I nodded toward the mausoleum. “Visiting your mother?”
“Yes.” He patted the cement seat next to him. “Please, sit.”
I did. “I guess you know who I am. If you were paying attention to the news, anyway.”
“I know you're my friend Peggy Sue's sister. Or should I say daughter?”
“It's like that scene in
Chinatown,
” I said. “ âSister, daughter, sister, daughter' ... without the slapping, thankfully.”
“Nice to meet you, Brandy Borne.” He extended a hand.
I shook itâwarm, firm, not show-offy strong. “Nice to meet you ...”
Should I admit I knew who he was?
“James Lawrence,” he said, like somebody in the wings prompting Mother. “But don't you know that? I mean, you
did
follow me out here.”
“Spotted me, huh?”
He grinned. “Not till you ran that red light to keep up.”
“It was pink. Not that running a light's
okay
, but there weren't any other cars, and ... look, I don't normally follow men around, you understand.”
“They probably follow you some,” he said, having swiveled to look at me. “So what can I do for you, Ms. Borne?”
“First, you can call me âBrandy.' ” I took a breath. “Second, you can quench a sister / daughter's curiosity.”
“I'm willing to try, within reason. And my friends call me Jim.”
“Okay, Jim. You visited Peggy Sue in the hospital, either today or yesterday, not sure which ... anyway, you brought her some flowers. I was just wondering what your relationship was.”
His eyebrows raised. “What did Peg
say
it was?”
I shrugged. “She didn't. All she said was that there had been âsomething' between you years ago. But the age difference makes anything romantic, at least back then, very unlikely. Hey, don't worryâI already figured out who my father is.”