Authors: Ellen Hart
They carried their plates into the dining room. While Jane opened the bottle of Bordeaux, Cordelia filled the water glasses from a pitcher on the table.
“How was the drive up from Chadwick?” asked Cordelia, sitting down and flapping open her napkin, tucking it into the top of her cotton caftan. This one was an orange, red, and yellow geometric pattern. Maybe a five on her flamboyance scale.
“Long. I’m glad it’s Jane’s turn to come down next time.”
“After the election, I’ll be able to use the Cessna again,” said Jane, tasting the veal. “Really wonderful, Cordelia. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“I guess I’m kind of surprised that Melanie moved across the street,” said Kenzie, her eyes searching out the rivulets of rain cascading down the windows. “But thirty feet isn’t like … all the way to Nebraska.”
“Speaking of odd girlfriends, did Jane tell you—” Cordelia stopped midsentence and yelled “Ouch!” Narrowing her eyes at Jane, she said, “Did you kick me?”
“Must have been the cat.”
“I thought we’d called a moratorium on kicking me under the table.”
“An addendum to the Geneva Accords,” said Jane, smiling at Kenzie.
“What were you going to say about old girlfriends before Jane kicked you?”
Under the table, Jane pressed her boot to Cordelia’s shin.
“Just that … nobody is Ozzie and Harriet anymore.”
Nice save, thought Jane. She removed her boot.
Cordelia’s phone rang, cutting off any further conversation on the topic. When she grabbed the cordless off a stack of scripts piled on an end table in the living room, she said, “Oh, hi, Peter.”
“My brother, Peter?” whispered Jane.
“Yes, she’s here. What?” She glanced at her watch. “Sure. But why?”
She moved over to the TV and turned it on, still listening. “Oh, my God!” She switched stations until she came to Channel 5, then motioned for Jane and Kenzie to join her.
They all hovered around the screen as the anchorwoman reported a story about the murder of a young woman late last night.
“Charity Miller worked at a local bank in Minneapolis,” said the anchorwoman. “Her body was found outside her apartment shortly after six this morning by another resident of the building. Police were immediately called to the scene. A statement that was issued later in the day indicated that the woman may have been immobilized by a taser and then sexually assaulted. The exact cause of death isn’t known at this time.”
“Oh, Lord—” said Jane, grabbing the phone from Cordelia. “Peter, this is unbelievable.”
“I know. And it gets worse. The way the police found her … it
was the identical MO Corey Hodge used when he raped that woman ten years ago. Except the first woman lived to tell about it.”
“Do you know how she died?”
“The police aren’t saying, and there won’t be a medical examiner’s report for a couple of days. But it’s bad, Jane. Really bad. And I’m not just talking about Charity.”
It might seem cold to consider the impact Charity’s death might have on her father’s campaign, but it was impossible not to go there. “Do the police think Corey had anything to do with it?”
“I don’t see how he couldn’t be their primary suspect. You should get over here. Dad’s pretty upset. He canceled his evening speech. Reporters have been calling most of the afternoon, but now they’re showing up, demanding a statement. It’s starting to look like a circus over here. I think Dad could use your support.”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
Jane and Kenzie put the food away while Cordelia changed into something more appropriate. She came down the stairs from her bedroom a few minutes later wearing jeans and her red and black buffalo plaid hunting jacket, the one she always wore when she needed to feel strong.
Instead of taking the freight elevator to the ground level, they rushed down the back stairs. Jumping into Cordelia’s car, they roared out of the back lot. When feeling rushed, Cordelia could be a heavy honker, a barger-inner, a weaver, and a lead foot. She was all of that and more on the way to St. Paul. They arrived in record time, just as a Channel 11 camera truck was backing into a lucky parking space across the street. It looked like Fox News 9 had already arrived.
“I wonder if this was the homicide Melissa was called to cover?” called Cordelia, locking the car.
Jane and Kenzie were already halfway down the block, with Cordelia flailing to catch up.
Jane lowered her head and attempted to make her way past two
men from Channel 4 who were working to erect some lights, but before she could reach the steps, a reporter shoved a mic in her face and asked, “Ms. Lawless? Would you like to make a statement about what effect Charity Miller’s murder may have on your father’s bid for governor?”
Jane wasn’t sure if she should answer the question or refuse to comment. Refusing made it seem as if she was afraid to respond. She stopped, hanging on to her umbrella with white knuckles, and said, “I’m stunned by Charity’s death. She was a friend, a wonderful young woman, so full of promise. As far as I know, no one has been charged in her murder. When someone is, I’m sure my father will have a statement. But what I’d like to stress is that I believe the people of Minnesota will see any attempt to connect my father to this homicide as nothing more than deeply cynical negative spin. Thanks. That’s all I have to say.”
She turned and was about to dash up the stairs when she heard the reporter ask, “Ms. Thorn, would you like to comment?”
“You bet I would.”
The lights were finally up and running. Cordelia stepped into the spotlight as if moving from a rainy night into a bright summer day.
“No, she wouldn’t,” said Jane, grabbing her arm and pulling her up the steps. Kenzie followed.
“Hey, I could have helped,” said Cordelia, disengaging herself from Jane’s grip. She ruffled herself like a barnyard chicken that had just been drenched with water.
“I’m not sure a statement from a woman with pink hair would play well down on the farm or up on the iron range.”
“Well, that’s just … just … just—” She sputtered but couldn’t seem to decide on a descriptor.
“Un-American?” offered Kenzie.
“Exactly. I am a rainbow!”
You’re a lunatic, thought Jane.
Inside, she saw that Peter had been right. The main room was chaos. It looked as if hundreds of her father’s friends and political
backers had come to show their support. Some were crying, some looked like they were about to burst into tears. Most of these people had known and cared about Charity.
Placing her hand on Jane’s back, Kenzie whispered in her ear, “I think I’ll go across the hall to the phone banks. Maybe I can help.”
Jane was incredibly grateful. She watched Kenzie weave her way through the crowd, then looked around and saw that Cordelia had already found Peter. He had his camera on his shoulder and appeared to be documenting the uproar. It was his job these days, and while this bleak evening might make for an interesting piece of drama for the finished documentary, it wasn’t going to be much fun to live through. Standing on tiptoes, she tried to see her father’s silver hair, but it was impossible. There were too many tall people in the room. She pushed her way through the crowd toward his office. The door was closed, so she knocked, hoping to find him inside.
“Who’s there?” came Maria’s voice.
“It’s Jane.”
When the door swung back, Jane saw that her dad was sitting behind his desk, his tie loosened, glasses on the tip of his nose, reading through a bunch of papers.
Maria quickly shut the door behind her.
“Peter called me,” said Jane.
He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. I just got off the phone with Charity’s dad. Her mom was so upset she couldn’t even talk.” Glancing at Maria, he added, “Could you ask someone to get me something to drink? Water? A soda?”
“Of course.” Her eyes grazed Jane as she left.
“Sit down,” said her dad, motioning her to one of the chairs opposite the desk. “Keep me company.”
“Do you know anything more than what the TV’s reporting?”
“Nothing. Someone’s supposed to fax us a copy of the police report, but so far we haven’t seen anything.”
“You know Corey better than I do. Do you think he did it?”
He ran a hand down his tie, thought about it. “My memory of his
case is pretty sketchy, but from what I remember of him as a kid, he didn’t have an Off switch, especially when someone said no. Yeah, I think it’s more than possible he did it.” He stood, shuffling through the papers on his desk. “Charity was such a great kid. I can’t believe … any of this. I was planning to use whatever pull I had on the powers that be over at the university to help her get into veterinary school.” Suddenly, he face went deathly pale.
“Dad? Are you okay?” She rushed behind his desk as he half fell, half dropped backward into his chair. Bending over him, she put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a little dizziness.” His eyes fluttered shut.
“I’m calling a doctor.”
“No,” he said, gripping her hand. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”
He seemed anything but fine. “Have you felt dizzy before?”
He took a couple of deep breaths. Swallowed a couple of times. “Of course I’ve felt dizzy before. Haven’t you?”
“Not like that.”
“It must be a stress reaction.” He opened his eyes, looked around the room. “I’ve dealt with the results of homicide all my life, but … it’s never been quite this close before. Charity … it’s such a waste. Such a goddamn waste.”
“I still think I should call a doctor, have you checked out.”
“No doctors,” he said, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. He ran the back of his hand across his eyes, took another deep breath.
Jane was relieved to see that some color was coming back to his face. “I worry about you.”
“I know you do, honey, and I love you for it. But I’m okay. Just a little tired.”
The door opened and Maria came in with a can of Sprite.
“Perfect,” said Ray, taking the can and popping the top. After a couple of swallows, he said, “Much better. Thanks.” He squeezed Jane’s hand. She was still standing next to him. “Are you planning to stick around awhile?”
“Absolutely. Kenzie’s here, too. So’s Cordelia.”
“Good, then I’ll have some friendly faces in the audience when I address the crowd in a few minutes.” As he rolled up his shirtsleeves, he gave her a confident smile.
If Jane had ever had a hero, it was her dad.
Luke tried to call Christopher several times from the campaign office that night. He wanted to give him the news about Charity before he heard it on TV. Christopher always listened to the local news at ten. But sometimes he turned off the ringer if he went to bed early. Luke left several messages asking Christopher to call him back, but when none of them were returned, he began to get worried. He stewed around for another hour, then left around nine, saying he wasn’t feeling well. He didn’t give a rat’s ass that some of his coworkers gave him dirty looks. Maybe they thought he was a rat leaving the sinking ship.
Maybe they were right.
Luke and Christopher had recently moved into one of the new loft condos along the Mississippi River in Minneapolis. So far, only three of the other condos had been sold. They both relished the privacy, although tonight, Luke wished he’d been able to call a neighbor to check on Christopher.
The loft was dark and quiet. He called Christopher’s name, walking through each room. When he reached the bathroom he flipped on the overhead light. Christopher was curled into a ball on the tile floor holding a bottle of brandy to his chest.
“No lights,” cried Christopher, his words slurred. Before he covered his eyes with his hand, Luke caught a glimpse of how red and swollen they were.
It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. “You heard about Charity.”
“I should have protected her,” he said, grimacing, leaning his head against the wall as a stream of helpless tears ran down his cheeks.
Before shutting off the light, Luke pried the bottle out of Christopher’s hand. “I tried to call you.” The only light came from a wall sconce in the hallway.
“Charity’s dad phoned to tell me what happened. I … I’ve been throwin’ up.” He looked around helplessly, reached for the bottle.
Luke held it away. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“Not, enough.” Christopher rubbed his eyes, tried to focus. “I tried. I tried so hard to keep her safe.”
“Oh, baby, if anyone’s to blame, it’s me.” Luke had been afraid to tell him he hadn’t talked to Charity last night and that someone had mentioned seeing her leave with Corey. “It was Hodge. You’re going to hate me, Christopher, but I never—”
Christopher screwed his head around, looked at Luke from an odd angle. “Hodge?”
“The rapist.”
“No. Gabriel killed her. He tried to kill me but—” He wiped his mouth. “But he couldn’t. So he went after her. He couldn’t stand that … that we were friends. He told her that. He demanded that she stay away from me, but she wouldn’t. He blames me for their breakup. He’s furious at her, thinks she picked me … me”—he pounded his chest—”over him. He’s the one who should be dead. Honestly, swear to God, if he were here now … I’d kill him with my bare hands. I would. I’d kill him.” He looked around wildly.
Luke set the bottle on the sink. He crouched down and pulled Christopher into his arms, appalled by how much he was shaking. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m … scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Gabriel!” He buried his head against Luke’s chest.
“Oh, baby. You’re safe.”
“I’ll never be safe. Never again.” Christopher clung to him so fiercely it almost hurt. Luke had never seen him this drunk before. “Look, you can’t stay in here. Do you need to throw up anymore?”
“I dunno.” His eyes swam in his head. He tried to get up but fell back against the wall.
Luke helped him to his feet. “How about a shower?”
“No way.”
“Okay. Bad idea. You probably won’t remember this tomorrow morning. But man, you’re going to have one hell of a hangover.”
“Don’t leave.”
Luke cocked his head. “Why would I leave?”