Dead Politician Society (7 page)

Thanks for making time for this.” Penny sipped her sparkling water, and several thin gold bands clattered gently on her arm.

“Time, I have plenty of.” Laura speared a piece of avocado with her fork. “What I'm quite sure I don't have is something to contribute to your story.”

“You'd be surprised what people are interested in.”

“No,” Laura said. “I would not be. When I was married to Hayden, our housekeeper took the garbage to the curb when she heard the truck coming down the street. If we put it out the night before, reporters didn't feel it was too uninteresting to rummage through our trash to find out what we'd thrown away.”

“I hope they weren't
my
staff.” Penny's smile hadn't changed since kindergarten. Laura wondered if it had been phony even then.

Laura put her fork back down. Why did people call lunch meetings if they intended to talk the whole time and never let you eat? “I'm sure some were yours. But don't think it worries me. I know privacy isn't part of public life. What is it you think I can I help you with?”

“Well . . . I heard a rumor that you found a business card . . .”

“A rumor about a business card?” Laura sipped her wine, hoped her laugh seemed natural. “That sounds so cloak and dagger.”

“I agree.” Penny raised her ultra-thin eyebrows. If Laura hadn't known Penny to be an extremely hard worker, she would think her days were spent being pampered and perfected in the spa. “But is it true?”

How could Penny have found out so quickly? Laura had only turned the card in that morning. “Not that I recall. What sort of business card?”

“Come on, Laura. You can tell me. We're friends before anything.”

That might have worked when they were seven, when the promise of friendship with someone more charismatic had still held a certain allure. “I think your source must be winding you up. This wine is lovely, by the way. Is it expensive?”

“Yes.”

Laura took another sip. “French?”

“Laura, you can stop playing games. I know you found a card. I don't know what it says or why it might be significant. If you're not going to talk to me, then fine. I understand. But you can at least level with me. I'm leveling with you.”

“Fine. Here's the truth.” Laura leaned into the table and met Penny's eye. “I promised the police I wouldn't tell anyone. Especially not the press.”

“The press?” Penny hooted.

A man at the next table glanced at the women briefly, then returned to his companion.

“You do still work for the
Star
,” Laura said.

“Work for them? You make me sound like a common reporter.” Penny prepared a bite of Caesar salad on her fork, then set it down before eating it. “The police think you made the card yourself, to deflect the investigation away from yourself.”

“They what? How do you . . . ?”

Penny poured more white wine into Laura's glass, then topped up her own.

“But why would I be a suspect?”

“Please. The estranged wife? The divorce not even finalized? Political pensions heading your way annually until you die? Compound that with Hayden leaving you for a younger, sexier woman. Caught by the
press
, no less. Hell, I'd be tempted in your position.”

“But I wasn't tempted.” Laura reached for her water and took a long sip. “What a stupid thing to say.”

Penny pursed her lips. “Well, I believe you, of course. Nice little Laura Sutton. You couldn't hurt a fly. It's the police who aren't as sure.”

“How do you know?”

“The same source that told me about the business card.”

Laura threw her hands in the air. “So what do you want from me, Penny?”

“Collaboration. Let's prove your innocence and figure out who the real murderer is.”

“Penny.”

“You mean, what's in it for me?”

“Mmm. That's just what I mean.”

“Look at us, Laura. We've known each other since we were children playing hopscotch, and now here we are, two women of the world.”

Laura wondered if Penny had grown up expecting to be a woman of Pluto.

“To think we took classes in high school that were all about being a perfect wife.”

“I
was
the perfect wife. For twenty-five years.”

“But look at you now. You're a lesbian!”

The man at the next table glanced over again. He met Laura's eye and cracked a smile.

“Penny, what are you getting at?”

Penny lowered her voice. “I'm saying why should we sit around and let the good policemen do their work? We are two intelligent women, and between us I'm guessing we have access to a few more contacts than the local police force.”

“You want to use our political connections to become a crime fighting team?” Laura was more than a little bit skeptical.

“Why not?” Penny's smile was broad. “Well, crime solving, at any rate. I'm not suggesting we slip on our danger suits and try to take down the bad guys by force.”

“How would we do that?” Laura guessed that Penny already had a detailed plan.

“First, we pore over archives. You can come to my office, and we'll scour the
Star
resources for possible motives. Find out who might have wanted Hayden dead.”

“And then?”

“Once we've gathered information, we meet with people. Other politicians — maybe someone else has received a similar card. Activist groups — we let them think we're giving them a turn in the spotlight, but really our interview questions are designed to draw out the truth about the murder.”

“Okay. And then?”

“We present the police with our conclusion. Wrapped up neatly, ready for an arrest.”

“You don't think we should include the police every step of the way?”

“Certainly not.” Penny looked appalled at the idea. “They'd want to control our investigation as well as their own. It would impede our progress, and complicate theirs.”

Laura took a bite of prawn and chewed it carefully.

“What are you thinking?” Penny asked.

“I'm thinking that at our age, we're supposed to be more sensible than this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean no. I have so much to do already. With Susie, the Brighter Day . . . I'm sure this investigation can be left to the police. To whom, incidentally, I did give my word about that card.”

“Just like that?” Penny's eyes grew dark. She moved her white napkin from her lap to the table. “After I went out on a limb to tell you all I knew about Hayden's death?”

“I'm sorry.”

The rain had not let up. Matthew wondered how much water a cloud could hold. Was it even the same cloud, dropping rain for hours on end, or did a new cloud roll in every time an old one had used up its supply?

His tweed jacket was soaked through. It would begin to smell as it dried, but that was later. He wished he owned an umbrella, but every time he saw one he liked, it wasn't raining, and it seemed like a waste of money for the two times a year he might want one.

“Dr. Easton! Wait up!”

Matthew sighed. Waited.

From behind, Brian approached him, panting. He wore old man's overshoes that made a squishing sound as he ran. “I'm glad I caught you. I was, um, wondering if you could help me out with something.”

Though Matthew cringed to admit it even silently, Brian reminded him of himself as an undergrad. Minus the galoshes.

“What can I do for you?”

“It's the
SPU
.” Brian extended his oversized plaid umbrella to cover them both as they walked. “I'd do anything to join it.”

“SPU?”
Matthew gave a slight shake of his head, and noticed Clare following close behind. He nodded at her — couldn't be rude for no reason — but she was rifling through her knapsack while trying to keep her own umbrella in place, and she appeared not to notice him. “What does that stand for? Do you want me to write a recommendation letter?”

“Please?” Brian's eyes grew wide. “It's the Society for Political Utopia. I know you're involved.”

“The Society for a what? I love it. How come I'm not a member?”

“But I thought . . . well, all the members are your students . . . and it was founded the year you started teaching here.”

Matthew glanced behind at Clare, who had her knapsack back in place, and was now toying with her cell phone with her non-umbrella hand.

“I'm flattered if I inspired a club of any kind. But I don't understand. If the members are your classmates, why don't you ask them if you can join their group?”

“Because they deny it exists.”

“Ah. You mean it's a
secret
utopia society?”

“They make their own utopia.” Brian looked at Matthew intently. “And they don't mind breaking the law to achieve it. Remember a few years back, when seven cancer patients were found dead in their beds at Mount Sinai Hospital?”

“Of course I remember.” Matthew glanced at his watch, and hoped the kid would get the point.

“The society was behind those murders.”

How did Brian know this? As far as Matthew knew, even the police were unaware of the connection.

“I don't see how that's possible,” Matthew said. “Elise Marchand was behind the murders.”

“I know. She was a student of yours, and she volunteered at the hospital.” Brian's knapsack strap was slipping down his shoulder. He shrugged it back up, shaking the umbrella a bit, splashing them both with drops of rainwater. “But the part that never made the papers is this: Elise left an
SPU
business card at each of the victims' bedsides.”

How did Brian know this?

“The society has business cards, but they don't print the members' names on them. Just the initials of the group. They leave the cards in places when they've committed a Utopian act.”

Matthew's stomach was churning; he was glad he hadn't eaten lunch. “Do they always leave a card?”

“That's the idea. On the back of the cards, Elise wrote
You're Welcome
in her own handwriting. She used her left hand, but the analysts still matched the writing to hers. When they caught her, she admitted to everything freely.”

“I remember the confession.” Inside his jacket pocket, Matthew clenched his right hand into a fist. He reminded himself that the kid was innocent; it was Matthew alone who was guilty. “She said her mandate was complete.”

“Well, by her mandate,” Brian said, “she meant the club's mandate.”

Matthew raised his eyebrows, shifted his briefcase once more so that he could glance back at Clare inconspicuously. Still there, and still ostensibly oblivious. Not that it mattered; he wasn't telling Brian anything he wouldn't tell an outsider.

“No wonder they keep themselves a secret. Do you know who the members are?”

“Not the students. They change from year to year, and the alumni have their own club they keep active. But — are you sure you're not involved? My dad says that's the one thing he does know.”

“Your dad?”

“It's his idea for me to join.”

“Why on earth would your father ask you to join a club that condones murder?” Matthew didn't have to feign confusion this time.

“He's impressed by how the society gets things done. And he thinks the members are the movers and the shakers of the incoming political generation. So the motivation is twofold: I can begin to make some changes that we'd like to see made in the world, plus he thinks the society is the right place to begin networking. For when I go into politics.”

“Are you planning to run for office one day?”

“That's the plan.” Brian was glum.

“Well, cheer up. It's not the worst job you could apply for.”

“You really can't help me?”

“I really can't.”

Matthew watched Brian fall back into step with Clare. They had probably been walking together before Brian had run ahead to bug Matthew. He must be getting paranoid as he aged — he could have sworn Clare had been hanging about to eavesdrop.

Why didn't he trust her? By all external signs, Clare was an unspectacular student who had probably chosen the wrong major — in other words, as normal as a person her age could be. But his real concern was Brian. He hadn't mentioned a particular cause he wanted to champion, but there must be a reason Brian's father wanted him to join the
SPU
. What terrible pressure to put on your son. What terrible overshoes to send him off to school in.