Dead Politician Society (5 page)

Laura watched Susannah pick up a book from the chrome-legged shelf. Even her glance was forceful, as she looked at the book, pursed her lips, then tossed it into the giveaway box. Laura wished she had the same strength in her own movements.

Susannah turned to look at her. “You want the books about Hayden, or do they qualify as giveaways?”

“I guess I'll keep them. I can always donate them to the library later.” Laura had no idea what she wanted.

Susannah put two books into the keeper box. “Did you like living here? Because I can't see it.”

“You can't?” The question surprised Laura. In the twenty-odd years she'd lived in the house, she'd never thought to ask it.

“This place is all sleek lines. Even the art on the walls is cold. I can see it working for Hayden and your kids. But you're so much softer.”

Laura studied her old bedroom. She glanced at the darkened doorway to the ensuite bathroom, where at this time of night she would have been getting ready for bed. “I didn't hate it. But you're right that I was never myself here.”

“Imagine if you'd stayed. You should send Hayden's mistress a thank-you card.”

Laura saw her old desk in the alcove where she'd written dozens of nice, polite thank-you cards. Why hadn't she noticed years before that there was no lightning bolt coming down for her if she failed to say the right thing, or send the right card?

“And spend another of Hayden's hard-earned dollars on that gold-digging tramp?”

“Please.” Susannah snorted. “It's the taxpayers who worked hard for Hayden's money.”

“That isn't fair.” Laura opened the jewelry box on the dresser and wondered if it would be seriously tacky to sell some of the watches. “It's not easy to live in the public spotlight.”

“Spare me the hard luck story.” Susannah picked up another book, frowned at it, and put it in the giveaway box as well. “I still don't get why this responsibility falls upon you. You left the jerk years ago.”

“I don't mind. Who else would go through his things?”

“Hayden's parents, your children, his mistress . . .” Susannah ticked off alternatives on her fingers. “Anyone he didn't cheat on or publicly humiliate.”

“I was his wife, Susie. He died alone and unloved. Do I need to spite him past the grave?”

Susannah shrugged.

“Are you all right on your own for a bit?” Laura said. “I'd like to tackle the closet.”

“Sure. When I finish with this shelf I'll move on to the books in the study.”

Laura grabbed an empty box and immersed herself in the walk-in closet, one of the few features of this skinny house that had ever felt spacious.

She checked Hayden's pockets before packing the clothes. All told, she found forty dollars, several pieces of lint, and a ridiculous number of business cards.

She packed the suits, shirts, and accessories into boxes for the Brighter Day charity shops, and stacked them in the hallway. It would be a field day for whoever opened the boxes. Hayden's clothes had always been more expensive than Laura was comfortable with. Not that she didn't love shopping at Holt Renfrew, but she had always felt that when you made your money from the public, you should dress like your average constituent could afford to. Especially if — as Hayden had — you called yourself a socialist.

She put the forty dollars in her pocket, and flipped through the business cards.

There were a few cards for jewelers — maybe a ring in the cards for the mistress? More likely a new pair of cufflinks for Hayden's elegant wrists. Several cards were for lawyers — was he suing someone? Being sued? A couple of accountants' cards, and then a bunch of one-offs, including a caterer, a dentist, a birthday party clown (?!), and a house painter. Then there was one that made no sense at all.

It was simple card in black and white. The letters
SPU
were slightly off-center in a small font, with no name or contact info. Laura doubted the card had been professionally made — it looked like a bad job with some card stock and an inkjet printer. She flipped the card over to find the words — also typed, but in a different, more cursive font —
Your death will be your greatest public service.

Laura tried to remember which pocket she had pulled the card from. It couldn't have come from the tuxedo Hayden had been wearing at the benefit; that would be with the police. So when did Hayden receive this card, if not the night he died? Had someone mailed it to his office — or, worse, his home? Public figures received threatening messages all the time — was this another empty statement, or did this card actually relate to Hayden's death?

“Hey, Laura, check this out!” Susannah called from the bedroom.

Laura slipped the
SPU
card into her pocket and went out to join Susannah. “What is it?”

“This fell out of one of the girlie mags.” Susannah waved a small sheet of paper in the air.

“Out of one of what?” Laura eyed the July copy of
Penthouse
with surprise.

“It's a prescription for Viagra.”

“You're joking.” Laura knew she was laughing too loudly. “Just when you think you know a person, you find out they like to have sex.”

Annabel waited until Matthew's snores were loud and constant, then instead of putting in her earplugs, she slipped noiselessly from her bedroom. She didn't pause to watch him sleeping; the sight could break her heart. So long as Annabel kept her nesting instinct at bay, her relationship was safe. But as soon as she began to demand more than the fragments of himself that Matthew was prepared to give, he would be gone.

So why did she stay with him? That was another day's question.

She turned on her computer and waited for it to boot up. She put the kettle on — stainless steel to match the rest of the kitchen — and prepared her bunny rabbit mug with mint tea.

She loved the city at night. This condo stretched the realistic limits of her budget, but it was worth every passed-up pair of shoes to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows upon the old St. James Cathedral, and the St. Lawrence Market beyond.

She wished she could be given some kind of sign to know if her plan to contact Utopia Girl was intelligent or just plain dumb. She willed the city to do something dramatic with its lights and buildings, anything at all, to alert her if she was heading into disaster. When ten minutes had passed and the Cathedral was still standing, Annabel opened her email software and plunged in.

“Whatever you do, don't respond to the email,” that strange little man, Detective Inspector Morton, had told Annabel and Penny when he'd spoken to them together at the
Star
. “This person clearly wants attention. If you feed them, you'll be playing right into their hands.”

Annabel felt guilty. She shut down the program. Who was she kidding, contacting a maybe killer, opening some kind of dialogue so she could write a book that probably no one would want to publish anyway? Why did she think she stood a chance in hell of lifting herself out from the rat race?

Then she thought of Penny, and her rage came back in an instant. That woman made her working life hell, and what disgusted Annabel most was her own inability to fight back. It was like Penny shot some kind of stun substance through her eyes that immobilized Annabel — or worse, turned her into a ridiculous pet puppy dog — until the editor was long gone and all of Annabel's pride had vanished with her.

She opened Outlook again. Life wasn't going to happen to her. It had dropped this opportunity at her door, and Annabel wasn't fool enough to think a new chance would be along shortly.

Okay,
she typed.
I'm intrigued. Your obituary isn't going to print in the
Star.
The police have officially put a ban on it, until you're caught, so sending it to other papers will only yield the same result.

Was this too obvious a lie? Would Utopia Girl know that the police couldn't technically ban publication? It was worth a try.

But if you give me a bit more, like your motivation, and some background info, we can turn this into a pretty great book deal. You'll get your story told, I'll get my name in lights.

Respond to this address if you're interested. Or instant message me — my screen name is Death Reporter. Anything you send to my work email will be monitored by my boss and the police.

She clicked Send before she could change her mind, and the message went away into the night.

Clare woke up to heavy rain. She heaved her window shut, and mopped the already warped wooden floor with a towel from her dirty laundry pile. No one could say her apartment didn't look like a student's.

She tried to envisage a scenario in which she could ride her bike to school, but in the end she chose to endure the crowds on the public transit. She grabbed her ugly black umbrella, and braced herself for the windy walk to the bus shelter. Clare liked the Junction — it was a hodgepodge neighborhood, originally working class, but now the yuppies were coming.

On the sidewalk, she watched mothers struggle to manage strollers, umbrellas, and wandering toddlers. She was intrigued by the high-tech baby gear that seemed to be the norm nowadays. These superbuggies were a far cry from the plain stroller that Clare got pushed around in as a kid, with the broken wheel that her father kept fixing but never got quite right.

When the bus came, all the seats were taken. Clare stood where she could, and held onto a pole to prevent herself from launching into other passengers. She didn't mind the crowd — the rain outside made it feel almost companionable. But she was glad when the bus stopped at Dundas West subway station, where the crowd dispersed and she made her way down to the trains.

When she changed trains at St. George Station, Clare saw Jessica, her nose stuck into a giant textbook as she rode the escalator up to the southbound platform.

Clare caught up with her when she was standing on the platform. “What are you reading?”

Jessica glanced at Clare with a surprised smile. “Chemistry.”

“You seem like you like it.”

“I do.” Jessica's shoulders relaxed, which made Clare notice that they'd been tensed. “It's so organic and logical.”

“How can something be both organic and logical?”

Jessica grinned. “Therein lies the beauty. So which party did you end up in?”

“I'm a Communist. Or Commie. I'm not sure what our official name is.”

“Commie. None of the names are real parties.” Jessica opened her funky leather shoulder bag and slid the textbook into the main compartment. “Dr. Easton hates you guys.”

“How can he hate the whole party?”

“Secretly? I think he's a closet socialist.”

The subway arrived, and they stood together near the door of the train.

“Have you taken one of Dr. Easton's classes before?” Clare reached up to grab the metal rail as the train lurched forward.

“Uh-huh. I took his intro class two years ago.”

“He's kind of cute.”

“You think?” Jessica rode the train's movement without holding anything for support. “He'll date his students, so if you mean that, you should go for him.”

“What?!” Clare sputtered. “Is that, like, common knowledge?”

“Fairly common. He slept with Diane Mateo when she was in first year. Totally did a number on her self-esteem, but my guess is she had too much of that to begin with. You're new this year, right?”

“Right.”

How tight were the poli sci students with each other? Did Clare, as an outsider, stand any chance of being welcomed as one of their own?

The train stopped at Museum Station.

Clare paused. Her first class was a short walk from the Museum subway entrance, but Jessica was clearly staying on the train. Although it would make her a couple of minutes late, Clare opted to stay and talk. “Isn't that Diane over there?”

“Yeah,” Jessica said. “Speak of the devil, huh?”

“Hi, guys.” Diane had soon bustled her well-groomed self through the subway car. “Having a little cross-party meeting?”

“Hi. I'm Clare.”

“I know,” Diane said. “Clare Simpson, Commie. I had my party secretary note the names and affiliations of everyone in the class.”

“Your party secretary?” Jessica smirked. “Did she attach photos?”

“No photos, no. Now what I'd really like to know, and I'm prepared to trade information here, is what kind of confidence treaty you two have been negotiating.”

Clare was about to tell Diane that they'd met up coincidentally when Jessica spoke instead. “You first.”

“All right.” Diane nodded. “I have it on good authority that Dr. Easton is a Libertarian in real life, and the highest marks go to students whose assignments reflect his values.”

Jessica put a finger to her chin, and appeared to assess the information before forming her response. “Since I already knew that about his politics, but I think he grades fairly, I don't see how that merits us giving you details about our alliance.”

“Aha!” The train stopped, and Diane continued talking as the three of them got off and headed to the station's exit. “So there
is
an alliance.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Jessica's long legs took the stairs two at a time, leaving Clare and Diane scrambling to keep up.

Diane pouted. “Fine. What kind of information are you after?”

Jessica reached the top of the stairs. “I don't know. You curious about anything, Clare?”

“Of course I am.” Clare got to the top a few seconds later, with Diane. “But I don't want to trade information without first okaying it with my party. Sorry, Diane.”

“You guys think you're funny.” Diane briskly searched her purse until she pulled out a tiny umbrella.

“No, we think you are.” Jessica made a shooing motion. “Now be off. Clare and I have grown-up business to discuss.”

Diane looked questioningly at Clare to see if she was actually on Jessica's side, but Clare kept her face blank, and Diane, perhaps to save some dignity, turned and walked away. Clare felt a little bit mean, but Diane seemed plenty strong enough to get over a childish snub.