“Take it,” he said, shaking the wrapped sandwich at her. “It’s good. Don’t hold up the line. C’mon.”
“¿Tiene mostaza este sandwich? Mi hijo es alergico a la mostaza,”
she said.
Visibly frustrated, Foley turned to Bridget.
She gave him a little smile and spoke to the woman in Spanish. The young mother broke into a grin and nodded. She took three sandwiches from Foley, said, “
Gracias mucho
,” then put them on her children’s trays and her own. She moved down the line, and she and Bridget spoke to each other in Spanish. All the while, Foley stared at them with his lip curled.
“What was
her
problem?” he asked indignantly—once the young mother and her children moved on.
“She just asked if there was mustard on the sandwich, because her son is allergic to mustard,” Bridget said. “I told her there wasn’t.”
“What about just now when she was talking with you?”
“Oh, she was thanking me. She also asked if I was with you. And I told her no, I wasn’t with you at all.”
She thought Foley might laugh. Instead, he gave her an icy, imperious look and went back to handing out sandwiches. “Hi, Jim Foley, God bless you . . .”
There were still people in line when Foley glanced at his wristwatch, consulted his men in the business suits, then took off his apron. He tracked down Roseann and had his cameramen get it on film as he shook her hand. Then he hugged her. Roseann looked a bit startled.
Foley’s cameramen started filing out, but he and his two friends in the business suits turned and approached Bridget. “I just wanted to say, it was nice to meet you, Bridget,” he said, shaking her hand.
“You too, Jim,” she said, relieved he didn’t hug her too. “It was fun working alongside you.”
He stepped up closer to her. “I can see why they’re saying you’re Brad’s secret weapon. Talking in Spanish to so many of these good people. Very impressive. You’re a smart girl, aren’t you? And pretty. You’re almost too good to be true—just like your brother.”
“Thank you, Jim.” She reached for the soup ladle again. “Well, I’m holding up the line. I should get back to work now.”
He winked and touched her arm. “You put on a good show, Bridget. Still, everyone has their secrets, right? I know you and old Brad have a skeleton or two in the Corrigan closet. I can almost hear those bones rattling. Can’t you?”
Bridget gently pulled her arm away. She stared at him, eyes narrowed. “What exactly does that mean, Jim?”
“Oh, you know what it means, Bridget,” he said, giving her another wink. “You don’t need a translation.”
Then he turned and walked away.
“Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light . . .”
When she was a kid, Bridget used to think the lyrics were “Jose, can you see . . .” As she sang, she tried to enunciate correctly so it didn’t sound funny. She was standing on a pitcher’s mound, belting out the National Anthem—God help her. And God help anyone who was listening.
The bleachers at Harrison High School’s playfield were nearly filled. About two hundred people had come to see the Little League baseball game. Most of them—including Bridget—hadn’t expected a media event. They hadn’t known there would be a camera crew and a local TV personality, Skip Stevens of
Northwest Tonight
, on hand. Skip was in his late forties, with chiseled features and a helmet of perfectly coiffed blond hair. Everyone was surprised when he trotted up to the pitcher’s mound with a microphone in his hand. He introduced himself, put in a plug for his show, then—much to Bridget’s chagrin—announced that while this was a bipartisan event, “We have a partisan celebrity in the crowd today, Bridget Corrigan, whose twin brother just happens to be running for senator of Oregon.”
Bridget put on a smile, got up from her seat in the third row of bleachers, and waved to the crowd. Had she known there would be a camera crew, photographers, and this jackass from Channel 6 asking her to take a bow, she’d have put on some makeup this morning. At least her hair was clean—though a bit windswept. And she looked presentable in her Irish knit sweater and jeans. She didn’t feel totally humiliated.
She got a polite smattering of applause from the crowd, along with a couple of wolf whistles. Then Skip Stevens chimed in again: “We’ve seen her on TV, translating her brother’s speeches into Spanish. But did you also know that Bridget has a terrific singing voice? With us today, we have Tony DeCavalero, one of the finest, most-famous accordion players in the country. . . .”
A short, dark, chubby man, wearing kelly-green pants and a yellow windbreaker, lumbered up from the dugout to the pitcher’s mound. He carried his accordion—and played a few bars of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
“You can hear Tony Tuesday through Sunday nights at Mama Pageno’s Italian Café in downtown Portland,” Skip said. “We’re in for a special treat today, folks, because Tony will open our game with a rendition of our National Anthem on his accordion. Now, if we could only persuade Bridget Corrigan to provide the vocals. Bridget?”
Wide-eyed, Bridget shook her head. She was so stunned and embarrassed. And Lord, she didn’t even want to think about the utter humiliation her son, David, probably felt at that moment.
Skip had stirred up the crowd, and they cheered her on. Reluctantly, Bridget got to her feet, then made her way from the bleachers to the pitcher’s mound, where Skip Stevens and the short man with the accordion were waiting for her.
Bridget figured Brad—or his campaign manager—had something to do with this surprise. They’d turned David’s Little League game into a photo opportunity/media event. Though she had a smile plastered across her face, Bridget was seething inside. She and Brad were attending a fund-raiser later tonight, and once she got him alone, she was really going to let her brother have it. What nerve. It was bad enough they were doing this to her, but did they have to screw around with David’s baseball game? Brad could have at least warned her. Did he have any idea how difficult the National Anthem was to sing? All those high notes in the “rockets’ red glare” section. And with a creaky accordion backing her up, no less.
Bridget hadn’t sung in public since a drunken karaoke night session at a party with Gerry six years ago. Before that, she’d sung a number from
Candide
at a college recital her senior year. Still, despite an uncertain start, she managed to hit the right notes and belt out a fairly rousing version of the National Anthem.
The applause was enthusiastic. And much to her relief, David, standing by the dugout with his teammates, was also clapping. He didn’t seem too embarrassed. Bridget got a peck on the cheek from Skip Stevens, and shook hands with the accordion player. She blew a kiss to the crowd, then retreated to her spot in the bleachers’ third row.
The video crew recorded her every move, and she noticed several people who had brought cameras to their sons’ game were now taking
her
picture. It was beyond her why they wanted a snapshot of someone they barely knew—just because she was on the local news from time to time. Still, several people in the bleachers were moving down the aisle with their cameras for a good shot of her. Bridget put on her sunglasses, then did her best to pretend they weren’t there. By the end of the first inning, she’d managed to pretty much block everything out—even the camera crew—and concentrate on David’s game.
“Bridget?” said someone standing to her right.
She ignored him and held up her index finger. “Just a minute, okay?” she said, eyes on home plate. “My son’s at bat.”
She moved forward—to the edge of the seat. David played second base, and wasn’t up to his usual game today. A grounder had gotten past him and he’d thrown a wild ball at the first baseman, botching a double play. Bridget figured the cameras—along with that surprise pregame show—had unnerved him. Now he stood at the plate—having tallied up a ball and two strikes. From the crowd, he got a chorus of cheers and jeers—more than any other batter so far. Bridget kept thinking it was unfair David should have all this extra pressure heaped on him. She blamed herself—and Brad.
Biting her lip, she watched the pitcher wind up and let loose a fastball. David swung the bat and
connected
—thank God. Bridget got to her feet and studied the ball as it soared toward left field—directly into the glove of the opposing team’s left fielder.
Damn it
.
Frowning, she plopped back down on the bench.
“Bridget?”
She sighed and glanced up. Fuller Sterns was staring back at her. The once loudmouth party boy appeared nervous and tentative. He wore a baseball hat to protect his nearly bald head from the overcast sun. “Fuller?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
He hesitated. “Could I sit down?”
Bridget slid over on the bleacher bench and made a spot for him. She was suddenly aware again of the people watching her—and the camera crew. “Um, do you have a son playing in the game?”
He quickly shook his head. “No, I knew you’d be here, so—”
“
You knew
I’d be here?” she asked, eyes narrowed at him. “What? Are you following me or something?”
“No, I read that you’d be here. It was on Brad’s campaign Web site.”
She blinked. “What?”
He nodded. “They listed your schedule today, all your public appearances. They said you’d be singing the National Anthem at your son’s Little League game. Harrison High School playfield at one this afternoon, the Web site said.”
Bridget couldn’t believe it. People logging on to Brad’s Web site knew before she did that she’d be singing the National Anthem at David’s Little League game. Was her every move being broadcast? No wonder she had strangers peeking into her house at three in the morning. It took a minute for her to swallow her anger and address her old high school classmate. “So, um, why are you here, Fuller?”
“Well, I haven’t had much luck getting a hold of your brother. I mean, I’ve left several messages for him the last couple of days. Have you spoken with Brad? It’s like I told you at Olivia’s wake, I really need to talk with him.”
Bridget sighed. “Fuller, I’m sorry—”
“I don’t mean to ambush you like this,” he continued. “But it’s easier to connect with you. You’re more accessible than your brother. I guess you’ve always been—even back in high school. Anyway, if you could please ask him to call me—”
“I’ve already tried, Fuller,” she gently interrupted. “Brad just doesn’t want to talk to you. I’m sorry. Maybe if you told me what you want to see him about . . .”
“It has to do with Gorman’s Creek,” he whispered.
Bridget stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. “If that’s the case, Brad definitely won’t talk with you. Remember the agreement we all made twenty years ago—not to talk about it—ever? He still feels that way.”
“Listen, Bridget,” Fuller said, frowning. “I lied the other day when I said I hadn’t seen Olivia since graduation. A couple of weeks ago, she called me—out of the blue. Suddenly, after twenty years, she wanted to get together. She practically insisted on it. I’ll be honest, I know how Brad feels about seeing me, because I felt the same way about getting together with Olivia. But she talked me into meeting her for coffee.”
“What did she want?” Bridget asked.
“I found out at the Starbucks. She needed money. She said she had ‘information to sell,’ stuff that would rip the lid off what went on at Gorman’s Creek.”
Bridget glanced around to see if they were being watched. No one was taking her photograph, and the camera crew seemed focused on the game for the moment. She turned to Fuller, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “You mean Olivia was blackmailing you?”
“That’s what I thought,” he replied. “But it didn’t make any sense. After all, Olivia was just as culpable as any of us for what happened. If she went public with it, she’d be ratting on herself. But Olivia insisted this wasn’t blackmail, and she used that phrase again: she had ‘information to sell.’ Apparently, she found out something that happened at Gorman’s Creek, something none of us are aware of. Olivia said several people would be happy to pay for this information.”
Bridget wasn’t sure what that meant. Did Olivia intend to divulge their secret to Brad’s political opponent? Jim Foley would have paid dearly for what she could tell him.
“Olivia and I met last Sunday,” Fuller continued. “She drove down from Seattle. I promised her, when the banks opened the next day, I’d wire her five thousand bucks. And that’s just what I did.”
“You gave her five thousand dollars? Why, for God’s sake?”
“I needed to find out what she knew,” Fuller said. “For a measly five grand, wouldn’t you have done the same thing? Maybe she discovered something about where the body went. I mean, hell, I don’t know about you, Bridget, but a week doesn’t go by without me thinking at least once or twice about what happened back there at Gorman’s Creek. And I get sick to my stomach every time.”
Bridget understood exactly what he meant.
“Anyway, after I wired her the money, she called to set up another meeting. She didn’t want to give out this information on the phone, she said. So she promised to drive down from Seattle and meet me the next day. We were supposed to get together on Tuesday. That was the morning she shot herself.”
“Did you talk to the police or anybody about this?” Bridget asked.
He let out a laugh. “What, are you crazy? You think I’d tell the police about a meeting I was supposed to have with a dead woman—so we could discuss a crime we committed twenty years ago?”
An older man on the bench in front of them glanced over his shoulder in their direction.
Bridget nudged Fuller. “Keep it down,” she whispered. “People are watching. Huh, in fact,
one person in particular
is making it his avocation to watch me.”
“You mean, like a stalker?” he asked.
“Brad said it comes with the territory when you’re in the newspapers and on TV,” Bridget explained under her breath. “But I think this guy might be more, I don’t know,
sinister
.”
Fuller just gave her a slightly dubious stare.
“You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?” she said, restlessly shifting on the bleacher bench. “Well, this guy was peeking into my windows at three o’clock the other morning. The police confirmed it. There were footprints all around the house. And I don’t mind telling you, it really scared me.”
“I believe you, Bridget,” he murmured. His face looked ashen. “I believe you, because the same goddamn thing has been happening to me.”
From the far corner in the top row of the bleachers, he watched them—like God.
Fuller Sterns and Bridget Corrigan were deep in conversation. He’d been carefully observing them for the last ten minutes—ever since Fuller sat down beside the senatorial candidate’s sister. Though he only saw their faces in a quarter profile, every once in a while Bridget Corrigan would glance around or peek over her shoulder. She had a nervous, guarded look on her pretty face. What with the camera crew and all these spectators, maybe she didn’t want to be seen talking to Fuller Sterns. Or perhaps what Fuller was telling her made her uncomfortable.
He watched a plump woman waddle down the aisle and unwittingly interrupt Bridget’s and Fuller’s furtive discussion. She seemed to babble on, while Bridget smiled and nodded patiently at her. The woman pointed to someone else in the bleachers, then seemed to indicate to Bridget that she would be right back.
As soon as the lady left, Bridget whispered something in Fuller’s ear. He got to his feet, worked his way down the aisle, then ducked behind the bleachers.
From his spot on the top row, he turned and watched Fuller head toward a side entrance to the high school.
Bridget Corrigan remained seated. The woman descended on her again—this time with another, older, chubby lady. The two of them seemed to talk Bridget’s ear off. After a few minutes, Bridget got up and shook both their hands, then moved down the aisle and disappeared behind the bleachers.