Sabotage At Willow Woods (4 page)

The man nodded emphatically. “As a former oil man, it always disturbs me when towns try to cut down on the rights of drivers. I should be able to drive my car downtown and park it with no hassles!”

They were discussing an issue that was fairly controversial in Boylestown: installing parking meters in the downtown area and putting all proceeds toward the struggling schools.

George pushed a long, green-stemmed baby carrot around her plate and nudged my elbow. “Julia doesn’t actually know how to drive,” she whispered. “She grew up in Brooklyn. She takes the bus everywhere and thinks everyone should do the same.”

I watched in amazement as Julia continued her conversation with the old man, still agreeing that yes, parking meters are big-city foolishness, that part of being an American was being a little in love with your car. Julia worked for a big midwestern PR firm. The
way George described it, she was pretty hot stuff, and Carrie was lucky her old friend was willing to take a leave of absence from work to run her local campaign. “Carrie’s for the parking meters,” George whispered. “Like, hugely, one hundred percent for the parking meters.”

That’s when something amazing happened. Julia tilted her head to the side, as if something had just occurred to her, and said, “Although . . . there is another way to look at it.” I glanced at George, and Bess on her other side, and raised my eyebrows. As we listened, Julia seamlessly laid out the ideas behind Carrie’s feelings on the importance of education, and how children are the future, and really, would having to pay fifty or seventy-five cents to park really dissuade people from driving? All the while, she studiously avoided contradicting the old man in any way, or implying that he had said anything wrong. By the end of her speech, the man was nodding vigorously, saying “Oh, yes,” like the parking meter plan was obviously the right choice.

Bess looked at the two of us with wide eyes.
“Whew, she’s good. Why isn’t
she
running for office?” she whispered.

George didn’t look quite convinced, though. “Because she lies too much?” she whispered back.

“Of course,” Julia was saying now, picking up her wineglass and settling back in her chair, as if this were just a casual fireside chat, “I’m sure Carrie would consider giving other incentives to drivers. The idea is to raise as much money for the schools as possible. Perhaps we cut down on bus service so more people will drive?”

George cleared her throat. She looked like she’d heard enough of Julia explaining what Carrie did and didn’t believe. “
Actually
,” she said, “I’m pretty sure Carrie would be against cutting bus service in this town. A lot of people rely on it. Also, didn’t you tell us that you took the bus here tonight?”

Silence fell over the table, so thick and unexpected, it was like we’d all been covered in glue. Julia turned and looked over at the three of us—as if noticing us for the first time—and clearly did not like what she saw. The older man, who hadn’t acknowledged the three of
us in any way up to that point, gave George a disapproving look.

Julia pasted on a frozen smile and cleared her throat. “I’m sure you misunderstood my story, George,” she said, before waving a vague hand in our direction. “I love to drive. Anyway, have you met Carrie’s little cousin and her friends, Mr. Driscoll? Sooooo cute, aren’t they? Carrie thought it would be fun to let them come to this dinner and get a little firsthand political education. Of course, they’re all too young to fully understand the ins and outs. . . .” She glanced up, and her eyes shot daggers at George. “
George
, would you be a dear and go find the waitress? We need a coffee refill.”

George glared at her for a second, but then quickly seemed to remember how much her cousin needed Julia and got up from the table. “Sure thing,” she murmured, before disappearing into the crowd. I turned around and shot Bess a look:
Poor George
. She nodded as the conversation continued around us, the three of us forgotten.

A few minutes later, while George was still gone, Carrie stepped up to the podium that had been set up on a raised platform along the inner wall of the ballroom. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, and the ballroom erupted in applause. “I wanted to tell you a little bit about how much I love Boylestown— and some of my plans for its future, should I be lucky enough to be elected to the town council.”

Carrie paused and took a breath, and George slipped back to our table and sat down. She shot an annoyed look at Julia, but the campaign manager was already focused on Carrie’s speech, making a video recording with her phone.

“As I was saying,” Carrie went on, “I love this town. When I was just a little girl—”

At that moment, a loud noise came over the sound system—like someone breathing deeply into a microphone. It didn’t line up with what Carrie was doing, though, and that was confusing. I glanced at Bess and George, wondering what we were hearing, when suddenly Carrie’s voice came booming out of the speakers
at a much higher volume than her actual speech. “I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY THINK,” the voice, clearly Carrie’s, boomed through the speakers, “AS LONG AS THEY CAN AFFORD A TICKET. ONCE I’M ELECTED, I CAN DO WHAT I WANT. I DON’T HAVE TO LISTEN TO A BUNCH OF RICH OLD FOGEYS!”

A stunned silence fell over the crowd, followed immediately by a buzz of angry voices. What was going on? Carrie stopped her speech, looking like a deer in the headlights—where was this coming from?

George was frowning, looking at the nearest speaker. “It’s a recording,” she whispered. “Somebody’s playing it over the sound system.”

“But why?” Bess hissed.

“And where did they get it?” I added. “It sounded like Carrie was insulting the kind of rich donors to her campaign who are here tonight!”

George shook her head, looking over at Julia. The pretty redhead had stood up and was craning her neck to look into the back room. She glanced back at Carrie
onstage and spread her arms wide, as if to say,
I don’t know what’s going on—I can’t help you
.

Carrie cleared her throat. “I—I—” But as soon as she spoke into the microphone, her voice was drowned out by angry shouts.

“When did you say that, Ms. Kim?”

“When was that recording made?”

“If you really feel that way about your supporters, why are we wasting our time here?”

Carrie shook her head, looking miserable. “I didn’t—just give me a minute, please—I can’t—”

But people were already beginning to push back from their tables and throw their napkins onto their plates. Angry voices joined in frustration, a kind of chorus of disgruntlement.

“—show
her
what I think about her attitude—”

“—entitled and selfish!—”

“—throw my support behind the
other
candidates—”

Carrie was stunned and silent at the podium. She watched with hollow eyes as many of the guests headed for the door. Even the older man at our table, Mr.
Driscoll, who’d been so concerned about the parking meters, shook his head and got up.

“Please, Mr. Driscoll, don’t go,” Julia begged, her smile wide but desperate. “Obviously we’re having some sort of technical difficulty, but I know Carrie’s heart—”

But Mr. Driscoll gave Julia a look of pure contempt. “I’m leaving. At the very least, Ms. Kim has some explaining to do,” he said crisply. “I am withdrawing my support until she can explain her statements.”

Julia’s face fell like an undercooked soufflé. Mr. Driscoll nodded at the carefully styled older woman next to him, and they rose to leave together. Slowly the rest of our table began moving on too. I looked helplessly at Bess and George. It seemed safe to say that the dinner was breaking up.

George squeezed my arm. “Let’s go find Carrie,” she said.

I didn’t argue. I could imagine that whatever had happened tonight, George’s cousin could use a sympathetic ear right about now.

Bess, George, and I all made our way to the corner of the platform where Carrie stood, bent over and looking stricken.

“Are you okay?” George asked softly, touching her cousin’s shoulder.

Carrie let out a sharp laugh and turned. Her eyes were red with tears.

“I’m very much
not
okay,” she whispered, dissolving into a sob. “I don’t even know what happened!”

“Someone must have hacked into the sound system to play a recording,” George explained.

“Was that recording really you?” Bess asked softly.

Carrie nodded. “That was really my voice,” she said. “But those words were taken totally out of context! This was a conversation I had with a few local reporters. The piece you heard was part of a much longer answer about how I’m not going to be swayed by special interests—I want to govern in the best interest of my constituents.” She sniffled. “I think it’s important for politicians to represent their town fairly—not just the people with money.”

“Well, someone got access to that recording and created a totally different message,” George said grimly. “Someone with pretty good editing software, because it sounded natural. Usually if you cut and patch dialogue together like that, it sounds choppy.”

Carrie shook her head and swiped at her eyes. I followed her gaze across the room, where Julia was chasing down a group of four little old ladies. “—all a
big
misunderstanding!” she was saying. “If you knew the Carrie
I
know—like
I
know her . . .”

Hmmmmmm.

My mind was spinning a mile a minute. So many questions were swirling around in my brain. If Carrie was telling the truth and the recording was taken out of context, who would want to sabotage her campaign like this? Was it the same person who’d written the mystery note? Could this be step one of what the note had promised:
YOU’LL BE SORRY
? And did it all trace back to worries about the environmental effects of building a new sports complex?

Carrie accepted a tissue Bess offered from her purse
and wiped her face, then noisily blew her nose. She seemed to be trying to pull herself together. “Come on, girls,” she said, looking from George to Bess to me. “I want to see something.”

Carrie led us through a closed doorway that led to a noisy, hot space. The kitchen lay down a narrow hallway. Just off the hallway was the control room.

Carrie walked over to a large sound system. She reached out, and before I could yell,
Don’t touch it—you’ll mess up the fingerprints!
, she pulled a tiny flash drive from a USB port.

George held up her hand. “Give it to me,” she said. She dug into the black leather tote she’d brought and pulled out her shiny tablet. As soon as Carrie handed her the drive, George had it plugged in and was touching the screen to play the audio file that lay within.

“I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY THINK . . .” Carrie’s voice rang out, small and tinny, from the tablet’s speakers.

George stopped the recording and looked at me. “Ladies,” she said, “I think we’ve found some evidence.”

WHEN I GOT HOME AFTER
the failed fund-raiser, I felt so exhausted that I got into bed right away. I figured I’d be out like a light as soon as my eyes closed. But instead I tossed and turned for an hour, mulling the whole case over in my head: Carrie’s sports complex plan. What it would do to Willow Woods. Barney and the mysterious Ms. Meyerhoff, beloved teacher and Green Club sponsor. How effortlessly Julia had bent the truth to win over Mr. Driscoll. And the recording—which Carrie claimed was manipulated—and her face when we’d
gone to comfort her after her speech was disrupted.

What was really going on here?

I stared out the window at the willow tree outside my bedroom, the long fronds undulating softly in the night breeze. I wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but I must have, because suddenly . . .

I stood in a small clearing surrounded by dense forest. It was pitch dark there—I had a tiny flashlight to light my path—and even though I knew we weren’t far from the high school or the road it sat on, it was dead silent.

How had I gotten there? Where was everybody?

“Bess? George?” I called urgently, shining my flashlight in a slow circle around me. “Dad?”

An owl hooted, and when I turned around, Barney was standing right in
front of me, his pale skin almost blue in the dull light.

“How did you get here so quickly?” I demanded. I hadn’t heard any movement behind me.

Barney just smiled. “I think a better question is, what took you so long? Come on.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the trees so roughly I dropped my flashlight. “Wait . . . wait!” I cried. “I lost my—”

Barney turned around, his lip pulled back in a sneer. “You don’t need it,” he hissed, dragging me farther. “This is important, Nancy. I want you to stand right here.”

He knows my real name?
The thought occurred to me after Barney pushed me roughly up onto a tree stump, then disappeared into the darkness.

“Barney?” I called. “Barney? Where are you?”