Dead Politician Society (4 page)

And if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone . . .'”

Annabel mimicked the smug, throaty voice of her boss.

Her eyes scanned the busy bar to make sure no one she worked with was in earshot. “‘. . . your promising little career will take a major nosedive.' I swear to god, that woman is living in the Dark Ages.”

Katherine glanced into her empty martini glass, plucked out the oversized olive, and popped it into her mouth. “Why the Dark Ages?”

“When employees would quiver in their boots if their boss threw a dissatisfied glance in their direction.”

“I think that's peasants who would quiver and feudal lords who bullied.”

“Whatever. Like I should be grateful to be stuck on that nowhere-bound obituary desk.” Annabel touched her head, conscious of her new chin-length haircut. She didn't love the way the stylist had blow-dried it, but she felt lighter for having so much less hair.

Katherine frowned. “Thought you liked your job.”

“I liked it when I thought it might lead to some real journalism. But I'm starting to feel like I'm going to be writing about dead people forever.”

“Can you transfer to another section of the paper?”

Annabel stroked the stem of her wine glass. “I've tried. I would kill to write fashion. Even news would be better than death. I forwarded Penny my writing portfolio a few months ago — not that much is in it; just some articles from university, which was the last time I wrote about the living.”

“You sent your undergrad newspaper articles to the editor-in-chief of the
Star
? Is she even in charge of everyday writing assignments?”

“I don't know. No one else was listening to me.”

“So what did she say?”

“Nothing. I don't even think she knew my name with my face until I showed her that death letter this morning.”

Katherine motioned to the waiter for another drink. “Why don't you look for a scoop no one else has, and write a juicy fashion story?”

“How would I get an inside scoop on fashion before the paper? They're in the loop. I'm in the lineup at the retail counter.”

Katherine laughed. “Have you always been this defeatist?”

“And if she wanted me to keep my mouth shut about the correspondence in
my
inbox, Penny should have asked me for a favor, like any normal person who wants something from someone.” Annabel began furiously folding the cocktail napkin she'd been given as a coaster.

“So Penny's a bitch. What's the big deal? She's the one who has to go home with herself at night.”

“I want to show her that she can't push me around.”

“She's your boss. Of course she can push you around.”

“I'm not going to let her.” Annabel tore a strip from her napkin, and let it drift down to the hardwood floor below them. It felt good, so she did it again.

“Annabel. Think. What will you accomplish by printing the obituary? You'll get Penny angry, you'll lose your job, and she'll make it impossible for you to get hired by the other Toronto papers.”

“I'm not planning to print the rant. Tempting as you make the consequences sound.”

“What, then? Your eyes are scaring me. Not to mention your newfound enjoyment of littering.”

Annabel rescanned the area around their high-top table. She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I'm going to reply to the email.”

Katherine's eyes and mouth fell open all at once. “From Utopia Girl?”

Annabel nodded.

“How singularly stupid. Have you considered that this person might actually be the killer?”

“I hope she's the killer. It makes a much better story than ‘The Obituary Writer Who Was Fooled by the Girl Who Pretended She Killed the Mayor.'” Annabel picked up a candied nut, looked at it a moment, then replaced it in its ramekin.

“Gross,” Katherine said.

“We share food all the time.”

“I meant gross for the next customer who sits down with those nuts.”

“Aren't we feeling conscientious?” Annabel muttered. “I'm pretty sure they change the nuts between guests.”

“I'm pretty sure they don't.” Katherine's second martini arrived, and she eyed it appreciatively. “Be careful, Bella. If anything goes wrong, this nut knows who you are and how to find you.”

Annabel spotted Penny coming in the door of the bar.

“Don't look now, but there's my evil boss.”

“Where?” Katherine spun around.

“I said don't look now. But since you have, she's the dirty blond at the door. Penny Craig. Red blouse, glasses. Entourage of acolytes.”

“Must be nice to have so many manservants.”

Annabel snorted. “She had to sell her soul to get them.”

“She looks young to be in charge of a paper as big as the
Star
.”

“She's fifty. She just happens to look fabulous.”

“God, why so negative? You're twenty years younger and you look even more fabulous.”

“Thanks.” Annabel would have liked the compliment more on a different day. “Penny's on my short list for Utopia Girl.”

“Why would Penny kill the mayor?”

“For the story.”

“And why do you need a short list? Since when were you a private investigator?”

“Since I decided to take control of my own destiny. I spent my childhood playing with dolls, and my teenage years hanging out in shopping malls.”

“I spent mine reading classics in our basement. At least you were out in the world doing something.”

“At least you were stimulating your mind,” Annabel said. “I've lived all my life doing everything normal. And here I am now. Nowhere.”

Katherine put her elbows onto the table, and leaned forward. “When did all this start? Have you been down on yourself for a while?”

“Not too long.” Annabel frowned. “I'm just starting to realize that if I stay on this path, this is all there will ever be for me. Maybe one day I'll get married. Maybe one day I'll have kids. But I'll never know what it is to live unless I take this chance right now.”

“So take up skydiving. Learn how to sail. Break up with that horrible boyfriend and date someone who makes you feel good about yourself. You don't have to risk your life and your career to open your world.”

Annabel watched Penny leave the bar — she must have come in to have a quick word with one of the senior staff members who were crowded into a booth near the entrance. Now she would be off home to some lonely penthouse with a cat she liked to kick.

As Penny left, Matthew entered.

Annabel turned to Katherine. “Here comes Matthew. Don't say anything.”

“Not even hello?”

“Funny.”

Annabel got up to give her boyfriend a hug.

“Great hair. Love the highlights.” Matthew kissed her quickly, then pulled up a stool.

“You like it?” Annabel smiled, stroking a hair back from her face. “I was worried it would be too different.”

“Different works for me. It'll be like sleeping with a new woman.”

“Whose sister can hear you.”

“Sorry,” Matthew said pleasantly. “Hi, Kat. How was today in the life of a dazzling crown prosecutor?”

“Don't flatter me. It's Annabel who falls for your crap.”

“Ah, right. Then have you heard this new dead lawyer joke? Annabel, what did you do to that napkin?”

Clare poked her head out from under the old Honda Civic. “These people are fascinated by the most inane concepts. Remember back home, we just accepted that politicians were crooks, and that voting was a waste of time?”

“Have you never voted?” Roberta was at her workbench, bent over the carburetor she'd removed from the same car.

“Nope,” Clare said. “Have you?”

“Uh, yes. Most elections.”

“What does your vote accomplish?” Clare switched her wrench end and slid back under the car.

“It gives me the right to complain when the guy who's elected screws up.”

“Some comfort,” Clare said loudly from under the Civic. She undid the bolts on the part she wanted to work on.

“Don't you want your voice heard?”

“You mean drowned out by millions of other voices? No one's ever won an election by one vote.”

“What if everyone thought that way?” Roberta's voice was irritatingly reasonable.

Clare emerged from under the car with the starter motor in both hands. “Then no one would vote, and maybe my ‘voice' would mean something.”

“So is it scary going to school with a bunch of axe murderers?”

“They're not axe murderers.” Clare sat at the double wide workbench opposite Roberta. “You know you can't repeat anything I'm saying, right?”

“Who would I tell?” Roberta's thick red ponytail fell across her shoulder, and she pushed it back with a frown.

“Promise?” Clare was worried she might say something to Lance.

“Relax, honey,” Roberta said. “We're friends. We trust each other.”

“About most things.” Clare checked the starter's cogs for broken teeth.

“What does that mean?”

Clare shrugged. “You never told me when Lance was cheating on me with half of Orillia.”

“I'm sorry.” Roberta set down the float she was holding to look at Clare, although Clare was avoiding her eye. “Lance is my son. I wish he was smarter about his choices sometimes, but you can't ask me to break his confidence.”

Clare set down her half-disassembled motor and stared at it.

“He's wrong for you, honey. As much as I'd love to call you my daughter-in-law, you need a man who's gonna treat you better.”

“It's weird. I thought time had cured me of caring who Lance slept with.”

“It will.” Roberta picked up the float, assessed it for another moment before setting it in a bin of old but potentially functional parts. “Now will you give me some details about these little axe murderers?”

“They're not axe murderers.” Clare stood up and went to the shelf where Roberta kept her solvents and aerosols. “What confuses me is this: If the killer really is in the Political Science Department, why would she lead the investigation to the university?”

“You don't like the detectives' theory?”

“What theory?” Clare said. “They think because I'm twenty-two I have no brain. They certainly don't share ideas with me.”

“What if someone saw the murder?” Roberta got up too, plucked the cleaning solvent Clare was looking for from the shelf, and sat back down. “What if a witness wrote the letter?”

“I don't think so.” Clare followed her back to the workbench, and began cleaning the starter's coil. “Then there would be two psychopaths: a killer, and a witness who would rather play games than call the police.”

“If he or she were afraid to call the police?”

“But not too afraid to write the letter?”

“Hmm,” Roberta said. “You said it was a group that took credit for the death?”

“The Society for Political Utopia,” Clare said.

“Is that a campus group?”

“Not an official one. But I haven't done much asking around, unofficially. I'm still trying to figure out how to make friends with these weirdos.”

“Drink a beer with them. You'll find them awfully similar to other human specimens.” Roberta took a new float from her repair kit, and replaced it in the carburetor.

“Yeah yeah, I'm sure they're great. And did I tell you my handler hates me?”

“Your handler doesn't hate you.”

“Have you met him? He treats me like I came into his life to piss him off. But fear not. I plan to dazzle him with results and win him over through this case.”

“Clarissa the Brave.”

Clare rolled her eyes. “No one calls me Clarissa.”

“Only your birth certificate and driver's license,” Roberta said. “But what do they know? If you want to impress your boss, I'd look into infiltrating this society.”

“If it even exists.”

Roberta pulled a few washers from the repair kit, and set them at the perimeter of her work space. “Have you seen your dad recently?”

“Where did that come from?”

“I was up north last week to see everyone. You should visit him, Clare. He looks terrible.”

Satisfied with her cleaning job, Clare started to put the starter back together.

“I don't know how much longer he has. I can't get a straight answer from your mother, poor thing. But your dad looks like he's half in the grave already.”

“Thanks for that moment of uplifting inspiration.” Clare grabbed the tool she needed and slid back under the car with the starter motor.

“He misses you. Your mom does, too.”

Clare made a loud humming noise, hoping Roberta would get the point. She bolted the starter back under the engine, connected it to the battery lead, and waited a few moments before coming back out.

“You still speaking to me?” Roberta said, once Clare was on her feet.

“If you're not trying to run my life I am.”

“Come on, honey.” Roberta was cleaning the jets on the carburetor with the same solvent Clare had used. “This is something you could regret forever.”

“What will I regret? Not being there for them when my parents insist upon living half a life? Neither of them will call the disease by its name. I go up there, we sit around, and all three of us lie. That's not what I want to remember.”

“You can change that dynamic.”

“It's not my job.”

“Fine.” Roberta shook her head. “Did I tell you Lance is getting married next summer?”

“What?” Clare was glad she was already visibly angry, so Roberta wouldn't notice her heart sink through her feet, then through the concrete floor of the garage, then settle somewhere deep beneath the surface of the earth. “Is it anyone I know?”

“Shauna Bartlett,” Roberta said. “They've been dating for —”

“I know how long they've been dating.” Clare kept her voice light. “But I never thought it would end in marriage. When we were kids, Lance and I used to impersonate Shauna and her gang — ‘Ooh, my nail, I think I chipped it. Let's go shopping and feel better.'”

Roberta grinned. “Hey, I'm not marrying her.”

“Are you happy about the engagement?” Clare didn't see how she could be.

“Sure.” Roberta furrowed her brow as she looked at the carburetor. “They're happy enough with each other. If I get grandkids in the process, even better.”

“Wow,” Clare said. “Well, congratulate him for me. She's gorgeous.”

Roberta laughed. “You're more so. Shauna's just better at using all those fancy gadgets like makeup brushes and blow dryer attachments. You'd look twice as nice if you spent half the time getting ready.”

“Don't make me blush.” How would Roberta feel if Clare told her she had the raw tools to be a kind woman, if only she'd brush up on her communication skills? “Anyway, I have to go home. Between now and the morning, I have to become a credible political science major.”

“I'm glad you came over,” Roberta said. “And I appreciate the help. Here, let me give you some money.”

“I don't want money.” Clare smiled despite herself. “I'm an adult with a job now. I'm here for the company.”

“Nah, I can't let you help me for free.”

“So consider it a trade. It helps if I can mull over my case with someone.”

“All right, honey. This time only. Next time, I'm charging for my mulling services.”

“Say hi to Lance.”

“Good luck with your acting job.”