''I didn't need any help,'' Josie said, unimpressed and unconvinced of his chagrin. ''Grace might have liked someone to wave at her when they took her off to jail, though. Maybe someone to hand her a tissue when she was fingerprinted. You know, a friend – or a relative – someone who cared that she'd just been arrested for murder.''
To his credit, Tim Douglas had the decency to blush before he engaged Josie again.
''I didn't know it would be so serious. I figured it was a mistake. Listen, she's got support. She's invaluable to the campaign. I mean it. I'd do anything for Grace.''
''I was thinking more along the lines of her brother showing some interest.'' Josie ambled around the room. She touched things. She asked: ''Is he here?''
''No,'' Tim answered again. ''A candidate is booked months in advance. Half the time he's double booked. Now that the primary is so close he's seldom here.''
Josie pivoted. She smiled.
''His wife's death must have put him so far behind that Grace's arrest just threw the whole calendar into a tizzy.'' Josie's broad, mirthless grin underscored her displeasure and Tim Douglas had the courtesy to be uncomfortable.
''Look, Ms. Bates, it's just not that simple. . .''
''Funny, it seems simple as pie to me. A member of your family dies, you bury them. When one of them is arrested for murder you move heaven and earth to help them out.''
''I've called our attorneys,'' Time interrupted. ''They'll be calling you to . . .''
''To what, Mr. Douglas? To debrief me? To take over? To spin this or work some angle and try to make it go away?'' Josie shook her head. ''Won't work. This is a huge problem and it's not going disappear because you want it to. Maybe I should talk to the media and explore why you insist on trying to pull strings and ask favors. They might care what Grace has to say about the night Mrs. McCreary died even if her brother doesn't.''
''Okay. Calm down.'' Tim pumped his hands open palmed toward the floor.
''I am calm.'' She moved closer, intimidating him with both her height and her righteousness. ''You don't want to see me when I'm upset. So, why don't you tell me what Matthew knew about the police investigation and when he knew it? Otherwise, I might start thinking that Grace is being fed to the lions to keep the cops from poking their noses around your precious little campaign or, worse, your candidate.''
''I don't appreciate the insinuation,'' Tim objected, stuffing his hands in his pockets and standing his ground. ''We're as surprised as anybody by what's happened. Threats and theatrics aren't going to make this any better. This is a mistake and we will clear it up.''
''I wouldn't be so sure, Mr. Douglas. The district attorney wouldn't have agreed to the arrest much less a hold on bail if this was a mistake. This isn't some lady off the street. They know exactly who they have in custody. With that in mind, let me point out that any end run you try to make will be construed as obstruction of justice if the DA gets wind of it.''
Josie turned away in disgust. Tim Douglas pissed her off and this place gave her the creeps. It was a patriotic funhouse: giant posters of Matthew posed against red, white and blue bunting were unfurled from the ceiling, plastered on the windows, strung over tables. Plastic buttons banded with Matthew's name and bumper stickers that promised unity and prosperity were set out in boxes like party favors.
Beneath the streamers and posters, the signs and buttons were second hand desks, a scarred floor and walls that were pockmarked with thumbtack holes. It was cheap space and the labor came even cheaper. They were bought, not for money, but for love of the candidate: his ideas, his ideals and sometimes just because of the way he smiled, the fall of his hand on their shoulders. Josie couldn't help but wonder if Francis would care that Matthew McCreary had allowed his sister to be taken off to jail without lifting a finger to help her.
Then she chuckled. A woman like Francis wouldn't care if Matthew McCreary were the devil himself. She was star struck and starry eyed. Josie wondered if she had ever been so ridiculously in love with the man. She doubted it, but then there was a lot of water under the bridge and memories had a way of washing clean.
''I'll tell Matthew that you were here, Ms. Bates,'' Tim Douglas said with all the graciousness of a host exhausted by his company.
Josie looked away from a particularly fetching picture of Matthew to find that the campaign manager had changed while she zoned. There was a little sagging at the jaw line, deeper shadows under his eyes. His voice had lost some of its verve. He was dog-tired and seemingly resigned to weathering her tenacity. Yet, there was something else happening here. Josie could feel the roil of anxiety somewhere just left of his center. More than likely it meant nothing. Tim Douglas was a lackey, a messenger boy, afraid of a political scandal because it would mean his job.
''Why don't you let Matthew know I'm here now.'' Josie picked up the phone on the desk closest to her and held it out to him.
''Matthew checks in with me. I only call him in an emerge. . .'' He caught himself and Josie gave him credit for a sliver of conscience as he realized what he was about to say. She put the receiver down.
''When he calls, tell him Josie wants to see him. And, if I don't see him soon, I'll be issuing a public invitation to chat.'' Josie picked up a campaign button and rubbed her fingers over it as if she could divine Matthew's location. When that failed, when she tired of Tim Douglas's stonewalling, Josie tossed the button back on the desk. ''I wonder how his constituents will feel about all this unity crap when they find out he can't even be bothered to help his own sister?''
Tim Douglas stood at the door and watched Josie Bates disappear into the night. He wanted to leave, too. It had been a long time since he had opened the door to his apartment before one in the morning. Matthew thrived on a few hours sleep and Tim thought he could do the same if he just worked hard enough. Pick up a great man's habits, a successful man's habits and he, Tim Douglas, would become great and successful himself. Unfortunately, all he got was tired and when he was tired he didn't think straight. Like now, when he was thinking that maybe Matthew had been wrong about this whole, stinking mess. Grace was on his mind, too. He didn't like thinking about her because all he could imagine was her face. He'd seen her when she looked unsure of herself, worried, concerned and it always made him feel bad. A frightened Grace must be a sad sight, indeed.
Tim was also thinking about the election and whether or not their polls were correct. If Matthew really did have the edge in the primary it might not be a good thing. Tim was wondering if maybe Matthew McCreary wasn't the right man for the job. Maybe he was too controlled, to objective. It struck Tim odd that a man could lose his wife, see his sister in trouble, and still keep his nose to the grindstone. Then again, that's what separated a leader from those who were led; decisiveness in times of crisis.
Taking a deep breath, Tim pulled the shade over the front door, turned around and looked at the posters that papered the walls. As he looked at Matthew's picture, Tim realized that face was half the reason why Matthew McCreary was the candidate and he, Tim Douglas, was not. A few steps and he was at Francis's desk and picking up the phone. How things had changed in a few weeks. Michelle was dead. Grace arrested. The receiver felt as heavy as his heart but he held it to his ear as he dialed. The phone on the other end was answered on the third ring and Tim asked for Matthew. When he answered, Tim said:
''Grace is in jail, Matthew. Her attorney was here.'' He waited for a directive, an expression of shock or dismay but all he heard was the other man breathing. When Matthew failed to lead Tim got just a little scared. ''Matthew? We need to get Grace out of jail now. We can't just leave her there. Who do you want me to call?''
''Don't call anyone. I'll handle it, Tim.''
Matthew McCreary cut him off with a touch of a button. He could still hear Tim objecting to the decision with the kind of well-chosen words an ambassador would use to note a hostile act by the host country. It was a gift, that quickness of mind that allowed reason to be voiced while emotions tugged at the heart. Poor Tim, talented and loyal though he may be, he was too decent to understand that there were times when one must divorce themselves from the immediate so that a problem could be made right down the road. That was the mark of a good politician and a smart man, a man who had been through worse than this.
''Matthew? Is everything all right, dear heart?'' Helen Crane called to him from the doorway of the library. Matthew raised his head. He allowed himself another minute before facing his hostess. Her brow knit with the utmost concern and still she looked lovely.
''No.'' Matthew walked toward her, taking the crystal tumbler she so thoughtfully held out. Their fingers touched. Her hands showed her age.
His scotch and water had been refilled; the ice was fresh. Helen had given him just enough time on the telephone for privacy, appearing an instant before he might decide not to share the news with her. Behind all of Helen's graciousness and thoughtfulness was the exquisite timing of someone who didn't want to be left out, who felt entitled to put in their two cents because they had already put a few hundred thousand into a candidate's coffers. He appreciated her money but it was her style and acumen, her contacts and drive that Matthew coveted.
Helen Crane was the better half of George M. Crane, an industrialist who had made a few senators in his time. Unfortunately, his time had come and gone. He had died three years earlier leaving Helen, still beautiful in her sixties, with a fortune and a legacy she relished. Now, solo for the first time, Matthew McCreary was the man she was backing. If he did as well as she anticipated, Helen would be in the middle of things on her own terms: a hostess, a shaker, a mover, the woman who politicians would court. Matthew was her test case.
Of course, his package had been much more attractive when Michelle was alive. Of Spanish descent, the daughter of a politico herself, her Hispanic roots were a plus in California. Matthew had weathered his wife's death well among the voters who saw him as courageous in the face of tragedy. Now, though, as they moved from her late husband's dark study into the light of the marbled foyer, Helen Crane saw that Matthew McCreary wasn't just bothered by this phone call, he was truly disturbed.
''Am I going to have to guess or do you want to share, Matthew?''
''Grace has been arrested. She's being charged with Michelle's murder.''
''Really?''
Helen took another step in tandem with Matthew McCreary then glided ahead of him. She was impossibly slim, and could be mistaken for a woman half her age at a casual glance. When she turned and took her seat on the deep, dark red sofa, she didn't look much older. Handsome woman. Stylish woman. Smart woman. She motioned to a chair across from her. Matthew wandered past it to stand next to the great stone hearth.
''Sit down, Matthew,'' Helen ordered wearily, dismayed that he should challenge her on so small a thing. ''I can't think when you're standing there looking like a little lost boy. This is a bad turn but it's not the end of the world unless, of course, you think she did it?''
''Don't be ridiculous. Grace couldn't have done that.'' Matthew dismissed the idea with a long pull on his drink. Finally, he sat down, deliberately choosing the chair that was less attractive but more comfortable than the one Helen had indicated. Compromise. There was always that where women were concerned.
''Fine,'' Helen muttered. ''We'll get her an attorney who will understand the ramifications of Grace's arrest. This needs to be put down very quickly.''
''She has an attorney. A woman,'' Matthew said.
''She retained someone without consulting you. That's a surprise,'' Helen mused. ''Is this woman any good?''
''Actually, yes.'' Matthew took another drink and smiled wryly. ''She's had some notoriety of late. Do you remember Fritz Rayburn?''
''That old sack of shit Davidson appointed to head the California Supreme Court? Of course I do. Ugly way to die. Burned up in his own house,'' Helen muttered. ''So Grace's attorney is the one who pulled that little girl's fanny out of the fire, so to speak. At least she's competent. Do you think she understands that moving this through and getting Grace back behind the scenes is critical to your campaign?''
''I would imagine she does. The question is, does she care?'' Matthew laughed without humor. ''Tim says she's going to be the one screaming from the roof tops about what a bastard I am if I don't make an appearance soon.''
''Charming.'' Helen picked up her cup of coffee. Instead of drinking, she fingered the Limoge as if it were a prized cat. She thought out loud. ''Perhaps, if you were more than generous with her hourly fee she might rethink her loyalty.''
''That's the last thing you'd want to do with Josie.''
''Josie?'' Only one of Helen's brows arched in surprise.
''You might as well know, I lived with her for a while. Long before Michelle.''
''Then, maybe you can persuade her to care about your future for old time sake,'' Helen suggested, her curiosity no more evident than the scars from her last facelift.
''I wouldn't mind trying, Helen.'' Matthew drained his drink and his expression melted into one of wistfulness and that made Helen a wee bit nervous. It was too soon after Michelle's death for Matthew to become entangled in any liaison.
''Well, first things first I suppose,'' she said briskly. ''You take care of Grace and her lawyer however you see fit. Meanwhile, I'll find out what I can about the district attorney. I'm assuming she's being charged in Long Beach.''
''Yes.'' Matthew downed the rest of his drink. ''They've refused bail. They've taken her to jail.''
''Oh, dear. Well, your opponent won't fool with this bit of news. He already had his hat handed to him when he tried to suggest your grief over Michelle would keep you from being an effective candidate.'' Helen sipped her coffee, looked up and added, ''Not that anyone doubts that you are grieving, of course. It's just that you seem to understand life must go on.''