Dead Politician Society (2 page)

Matthew leapt aside to avoid the tattooed adolescent riding full speed down the footpath. He protectively balanced his full, steaming coffee, and allowed himself a cautious sip once the kamikaze student was three buildings away.

On another day, Matthew might have snarled at the kid, or thrown him a sarcastic comment about being more considerate. But today was his favorite of the year: the first day of school. Students rushed around campus, energizing it with their flurry of self-centered activity. The Gothic buildings were regal in the late summer's light. Matthew himself felt natty and hip in designer blue jeans and his retro tweed jacket. It would take more than a socialist on a bicycle to knock him off his perfect cloud.

Since he'd been a child in Scarborough, he'd always loved the first day of school. The first day held the promise that the coming year would be the great one. He could be voted school president by an overwhelming majority, or win an academic award that had Oxford knocking on his door, or Mariana Livingstone might finally recognize his
je ne sais quoi
and fuck his brains out behind the football field.

Now, Matthew felt like his great year had come, at last and to stay. He arrived at his office building, the concrete and glass block that was home to several other departments in addition to Political Science. He climbed the wide stone staircase, and smiled at a group of teenaged girls who had the doe-eyed look of first-year students. They made up for all the Marianas who never had given him the time of day, behind the bleachers or anywhere else.

“Dr. Easton!” An eager voice accompanied light footsteps running up the staircase behind him.

Matthew turned to see a student from a previous year's introductory course. She was a stunning girl — tall, fair-complexioned, and full of original ideas. “Jessica. How was your summer?”

“Terrible.” The girl scowled. “I spent it looking after my sick grandmother in her gloomy old mansion.”

“How altruistic.”

“How depressing.” Jessica shifted the faded leather bag on her shoulder. “I was supposed to go tree-planting out west, which I was totally stoked about. Anyway, her health conveniently cleared up right at the end of the summer.”

“Well that's . . . good news?”

“It is.” Jessica sighed. “And I'm thrilled to be taking Poli Real World this year. It's great to have one course where we're actually encouraged to have strong opinions.”

“I'm delighted to hear it.” Matthew reached for the door handle. “I look forward to your contributions in class.”

“I'm just so angry sometimes with the whole system. It boils my blood that there are no checks and balances to keep the politicians accountable.”

“Frustration keeps the course going,” Matthew said. “And it's useful. Last year when we submitted our course conclusions to our local representative, he brought two of our ideas to the table in Parliament.”

“Yeah?” Jessica seemed rooted to the steps. “Did it change any policy?”

“Not this time. But we'll get there. Was there anything else?”

“Um, no, I don't think so.” Jessica chewed on her lip. “I'll see you around?”

“Brilliant.”

Matthew slipped inside the building, opted for climbing two flights of stairs instead of making conversation with his colleagues in the elevator, and let himself into his office for the first time in four months.

The room was ugly and institutional. The cheap metal bookshelf held political texts spanning the twenty years from his high school days until now. All that was missing was a book with Matthew's name on the cover. Although of course he would have preferred sturdy wooden shelves in a musty room in an ivy-covered hall, having his own private corner of this large, prestigious university made him feel like he'd arrived.

He dusted off his swivel chair and a portion of his desk, and pulled a pile of paperwork from his briefcase. He enjoyed one short sip of coffee before a knock at the door interrupted him.

“Come in, Shirley!”

“Is my knock so distinctive?” Dr. Rosenblum poked her head into Matthew's office, and followed with her compact body. “How was your summer?”

“Productive,” Matthew said. “I've finished the first draft of my book, and my editor finally seems to understand my vision.”

“You relented on the editorial bias, then.” Shirley lifted an eyebrow. “Good for you. Have you also considered changing your public outlook on Hayden Pritchard?”

“Public? I don't think Pritchard is anywhere in my book.”

“I meant for your students. I know you've circulated at least two summer reading articles bashing Pritchard and his policy.”

“I'm flattered that you take such an interest in my courses.”

“Oh, stop your preening. I'm serious. I don't want you maligning a man whose corpse isn't even cold.”

“What do you take me for? Some kind of lunatic zealot?”

Shirley patted her already immaculate gray curls into place. “It's not the worst description.”

“Well you have my word of honor.” Matthew took a long sip of coffee before continuing. “I won't bring champagne to class, and I won't expose my real opinion, which is that I think Pritchard self-destructed naturally when his crummy karma came knocking.”

“Funny. By the way, you have a new transfer student. Clare Simpson. I know you like to hand-pick the class list, but I took the liberty of adding Clare to Poli Real World.”

“You what?”

“I'm sorry. But the Registrar asked as a special favor. I got the impression that Clare's parents are friends with someone important in administration.”

“You just got that impression, did you?”

“It was implied that the Chancellor would appreciate the concession.”

Matthew shook his head. “This is exactly what's wrong with the system. Don't you see? Privilege breeds privilege.”

“I thought it was socialists you hated.”

“I hate socialists when they're hypocrites.” Matthew couldn't get the coffee into his system fast enough. “Like Hayden Pritchard. May he rot in peace. But a million times worse is some entitled little bitch who gets to bypass all the hurdles that make an accomplishment worth anything. How am I supposed to congratulate my twenty other students on being selected for the course when Clare fucking Simpson comes breezing in with Daddy's gold card?”

“I agree that the world shouldn't work this way,” Shirley said. “But it does, and there it is. More power to you and your students when you finally succeed in changing it.”

“Fine,” Matthew said. “I'm not going to fight you. But no special grades. Clare either holds her own like the rest of the students, or I won't hesitate to fail her.”

“That's all I'm asking.”

“Shall I cc you in the email when I send the class their revised reading list?” Matthew felt this was a strong enough dismissal, except that when he turned back to his work, his elbow caught his nearly full coffee and launched it into its death spin. He scrambled to save the papers on his desk, which thankfully were minimal after a summer away from the office. He faced Shirley, and noticed the misshapen ceramic mug in her hand, “World's Coolest Grandma” painted inexpertly onto the side.

“Oh, not your look.” Shirley grimaced, but her eyes were smiling. “It isn't your gourmet dark roast, and I can't offer you any fancy soy milk, but yes, I have a pot of coffee on in my office.”

Laura Pritchard was washing up from breakfast when Penny Craig called from the Star. It was a shame, Laura thought, that Hayden wasn't alive to appreciate the drama. He wouldn't care that he was dead — even as a young man, he'd never seemed particularly involved in his own life. But all this press and intrigue? He would have been in Hayden Heaven. Laura closed the dishwasher and gazed out upon her backyard garden.

“Thanks for calling,” she told Penny. “I promise, not a word until the story comes out.”

“I appreciate it,” Penny said. “The police have asked us to hold publication indefinitely.”

“Can they make you do that?” Laura pulled a stool out from the marble counter, and sat down.

“They can ask. It helps that the inspector in charge has promised the
Star
an exclusive interview once they've finished their investigation. If that letter isn't a hoax, this is the story of a lifetime.”

“I imagine it must be.”

“My god. I'm so insensitive. Are you going to be all right? I'm tied up all morning, but I can make time for lunch if you want to chat.”

“Thanks, but my head's going to be all over the place.” When had she ever met Penny to chat? “Does anyone else know about the email?”

“Only Annabel Davis. The poor woman has been made to fear for her job if the smallest word slips through her lips.”

“I can imagine.” Laura had witnessed Penny's wrath in high school, thankfully never directed her way. “So why are you telling me?”

“God, Laura, I'm not a piranha. Sure, I want my exclusive, but friends come first. Besides, I trust your discretion.”

Friends?

Susannah stomped muddily through the kitchen door, causing Laura to shake her head with mock horror.

“These tomatoes are coming up nicer every year.” Susannah plonked three juicy-looking samples onto the counter Laura had just finished scrubbing.

“Listen, Penny. I appreciate the call. Susie's come inside, and it's her first day back at school, so I'd like to see her off.”

“How cute. Have you packed her a lunch?”

“Don't be ridiculous. She's thirty-five. She's been getting her own lunch for a year now.”

Penny laughed. “You won't say anything about the email, though, right? Not even to Susannah.”

“I've promised I won't.” Laura turned off the telephone handset.

Susannah helped herself to a mug of the coffee Laura had brewed. Masses of dark curls seemed to fly in all directions. Laura touched a strand of her own carefully blow-dried hair, and wished she could be so unconcerned with her appearance.

She smiled at Susannah. “I swear, you must lie down and make dirt angels when you're back there. I've never seen a filthier gardener.”

“I like to feel the earth between my fingers.” Susannah pulled up a stool of her own.

“Don't you have class this morning?”

“I'm taking off in a few minutes. The course I'm stoked about isn't 'til this afternoon. Poli Real World. Hey, you think you could get me an interview with your ex-husband on how
not
to create a utopian political climate?” Susannah clapped a hand to her mouth. “God, Laura. I'm sorry. I talk without thinking. I forgot for a second that he . . . you know . . . died.”

Laura leaned into the counter, and rested her chin in her hands. “I just got some strange news about Hayden.”

“And you were talking to me about dirt angels?”

“The
Star
received an email this morning taking credit for his death.”

“The newspaper? Are they taking it seriously?”

“The police are. They don't normally.” Laura felt her voice shaking. “Last week, Penny said, they had three separate people claiming to know the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa's body.”

“Are you all right?” Susannah pushed the fruit bowl aside to reach across the counter for Laura's hand. She held it firmly. “I'll skip my morning class.”

Laura squeezed back. “Go to school. I'll be fine.”

“Really,” Susannah said. “I can miss the opening lecture from Dr. Robertson. That man defined the word
pompous
then expanded the definition to fit himself in.”

They sat for several moments before the doorbell broke the silence.

Susannah got up. “I'll grab it.”

The ground floor was an open concept, and Laura watched Susannah hop the half-flight of stairs down to the living room, then open the door for two men. They weren't wearing uniforms, but they introduced themselves loudly as Detective Inspector David Morton and Detective Sergeant Raj Kumar.

Laura stood up from her stool, and Susannah led the detectives up to the kitchen at the back of the house.

“Laura Pritchard? We need to ask you some questions.” Morton was slight and anxious-looking. Probably around Laura's age, she thought; maybe a few years younger.

“Am I a suspect?” Laura surprised herself by blurting out the question. “Sorry. What I mean is would you like some coffee? Please sit down.”

Kumar pulled a chair from the round kitchen table and made himself comfortable. He was good-looking, somewhere in his thirties, and his warm brown eyes moved constantly. Laura had the sensation that he was memorizing her kitchen, but she didn't find it unsettling.

“No coffee, thank you.” Inspector Morton continued to stand. “Pritchard is the right name?”

“It's fine,” Laura said. “I've been using my maiden name, Sutton, since Hayden and I separated. But technically, yes, I'm still Pritchard. Would you like anything at all? A glass of water?”

Kumar seemed about to accept, but Morton's reply pre-empted him. “No, thank you, ma'am. You initiated the separation, is that correct?”

Ma'am. When had fifty become over-the-hill? Laura felt like her life was just beginning — apparently the outside world would disagree. She sat down opposite Kumar, who silently made notes.

“Yes,” Laura said. “I left Hayden.”

“And yet you never agreed to sign the papers for a divorce?”

“What is this?” Susannah was perched on a stool at the counter. “Your perverted version of a bedside manner? Laura has lost someone who meant a lot to her.”

“Your name, please?” Morton asked.

“Susannah Steinberg. But you haven't answered my question. What gives you the right to come in here, all highbrow and —”

“Do you live here, Ms. Steinberg? Are you a friend, or a roommate, of Mrs. Pritchard's?”

“Girlfriend,” Susannah said. “As in, I like to see her naked. And caress her. And run my tongue along her inner thigh until I come to — well, you get the point. And yes, I live here too.”

Morton smiled thinly. “How long have you been together?”

“Three and a half years.” Susannah refilled her coffee mug. “Plus I was after her for a year before that.”

“How did you meet?”

“At a homelessness rally, originally.” Laura tried to move the tone back to friendly. “Then we worked together on a literacy campaign in Regent Park.”

“Then Laura moved here — as in, away from her husband — and I haunted her local pub.” Susannah seemed to delight in the detectives' discomfort. “I bought her a glass of fucking expensive Cabernet Sauvignon every Friday for about six months before she agreed to dinner.”

“Please. You bought me house wine.”

“Not at first.”

Kumar coughed into his hand.

Morton glanced at him, then turned back to Laura. “When did you and your late husband separate?”

“Four years ago.”

“Susannah was ‘after you' while you were married?” Kumar looked up from his notepad.

“Only briefly,” Susannah said. “But she didn't know I was flirting until later.”

“Now Mrs. Pritchard — Ms. Sutton — I'll need you to account for your whereabouts yesterday. From the morning, please.”

Laura ran through a brief account of her more or less typical day.

“You both attended last night's Working Child benefit?” Morton's thin eyebrows lifted.

“The Brighter Day hosted the event. We were volunteering.”

“In what capacity?”

“Supervisory, mainly,” Laura said. “We'd both been on the planning committee from the get-go. Susannah was in the kitchen, running damage control and making sure the food came out in good time. I was out front, greeting guests, assisting with last-minute seating changes, that kind of thing.”

“Why did you choose those roles?” Morton asked. “Or were they selected for you?”

“A bit of each, I suppose.” Laura stroked the handle of her coffee mug, a Mother's Day gift from when her daughter had been ten that had somehow survived the years and the move. “Susie has catering experience, and I've entertained a good chunk of the guest list in my home at one point or another.”

“In this home?” Morton glanced around the split-level, cottage-style house. The furniture was expensive, and the colors were vibrant and warm, but Laura knew the overall effect hardly suggested impressive guest lists.

“In the home I shared with Hayden.”

“When did your husband buy his ticket for the fundraiser?”

“Oh, Hayden didn't buy his own ticket. The political parties always take a table or two at events like this.”

“All right. At what point was it known that Mayor Pritchard would be attending the benefit?”

“I don't know.” Laura wrinkled her brow. “A few weeks ahead of time, I suppose.”

“Who would have had access to the guest list?”

“Well, the Brighter Day, of course. Maybe Elly's Epicure, the caterer, although I doubt that. Susie, do you still have their card?”

Susannah shrugged.

“Did your husband have a will?”

“Estranged husband,” Susannah said. “Isn't there such thing as a common-law divorce?”

“No,” Morton said. “Mrs. Pritchard, do you know if your late husband had a will?”

“We had wills when we were together. I've since changed mine. I assume he has, too.”

“Do you know the approximate value of his investments and real estate holdings?”

“Can you leave us alone now?” Susannah said. “I'm sure violent suspicious death is all in a day's work for the pair of you, but Laura has received an enormous shock. This is information you could get from Hayden's lawyer or accountant or bloody mistress.”

Morton eyed Susannah for several moments before speaking. “Have you finished talking?”

Susannah rolled her eyes. “Laura, you want me to stay? I'm thinking I'll take off to class if that's okay with you.”

“Where's your class?” Kumar asked, pen poised.

“It's at the school of None of Your Fucking Business,” Susannah said. “And after that, I'll be joining friends at the You Can Fuck Yourself Café. Stop in if you're not busy.”