Emily's Ghost (41 page)

"I'm not allocating
resources to this story," Stan said flatly. "I've heard it before.
It's bullshit. Strom's a lot of things, but he's not connected.
Nice try."

"I
told
you, Stan -- oh, forget it."
She slammed the receiver down, furious with him for suspecting her
motives. Granted, it was a fantastic window of opportunity for Lee.
But it was a genuinely newsworthy story as well. She tried not to
think of the enormous conflict of interest the story represented
for her as she punched in Lee's phone number. She'd made him
promise not to call her, so he sounded surprised and -- she had to
admit --extremely pleased to hear from her.

She brought him up to date
on her progress in the case, then said, "I'm not sure I'm doing the
right thing here, Lee. I think this violates the Hippocratic oath
or something. But I got an anonymous tip last night, and I don't
know what to do with it. I can't follow it up myself, and Stan told
me flat out that it's an old rumor and untrue. But I just have this
feeling –-"

"My Emily of the Hunches,"
Lee said in a bemused voice. "Okay. What now? Shoot. Who's your
latest suspect?"

"Oh, this isn't about
Hessiah." She told him exactly what the caller had said about Boyd
Strom's toxic dump. Lee listened in absolute silence. When she was
done, he said, "I see."

"I don't know what you can
do with it. The guy called me at home, and I wasn't on the payroll
at the time, and anyway, the
Journal
has turned it down, so
-–"

"So you wrapped it up in a
big red ribbon and gave it to me. Thanks," he said
dryly.

"Well, for goodness' sake,
the primary is less than a month away, everyone says the second
debate ended in a draw, and you're running out of options, mister.
If Boyd Strom doesn't make a real boner in the last debate, if he
doesn't say that Poland is the capital of Iraq or something, then
.... Do you
want
to lose?"

"Doesn't what you're
saying leave you with just a little bit of a bad taste in your
mouth?" he asked her quietly.

She felt the heat fire up
in her cheeks, then burst into flame. It was the first time in her
life that anyone had even
hinted
she might be doing something unethical.
Especially when she wasn't quite sure that it wasn't.

"It doesn't leave as bad a
taste in my mouth as -- as what
you're
saying," she said petulantly.
And then she placed the receiver very gently, very precisely in its
cradle.

When she turned around
Fergus was there, shaking his head. "What a world," he said
sympathetically. "What's a toxic dump anyway?"

She told him, but he was
puzzled. "Poison has to go somewhere. Here's a man willing to pile
it up on his own land. Why would that stop him from getting elected
in the primary?"

"Because he's not going to
tell anyone about it," Emily said impatiently. "He's going to sell
the land for a school or a playground or to some unsuspecting home
builders. And in the meantime the stuff is going to leach into the
groundwater or nearby streams -- well, never mind. You couldn't
possibly imagine what we've done to our environment, Fergus. I
can't begin to explain it."

"If it's so bad, why's the
senator miffed with ye?"

"I suppose," she said with
a sigh, "because I've thrown all the dirt in his lap. He has to
decide whether he wants to brush it off or make it into a mud pie
and sling it at Boyd Strom."

"I see yer point. Better
to have someone else sling it for ye." He wandered over to the
window and stared, as he often did, into the hot summer night. "Ye
two seem to be having a hell of a time working things
out."

"I know," she said sadly,
shutting down her computer for the evening. "If it's not one damn
thing, it's another."

"Without me ye'd have all
the time ye need to give over to this toxic business." He threw his
head back slightly and closed his eyes. "Am I right?"

It gave her pleasure to
watch him unobserved. It evened things out somehow. Besides, there
was something about him that held her in thrall. It was as if she'd
pulled aside a veil and was able to see how angels
moved.

"It's more complicated
than that, Fergus," she said softly, addressing his question at
last. "It has to do with priorities. With you it's a matter of life
and death, not just of political survival. I love you, Fergus," she
said, surprised by how easily the words came flowing out. "I'll
always be here for you."

He came over to the desk,
splayed the palms of his hands on its surface, and leaned toward
her, his green eyes glittering with emotion. "This isn't the way it
was supposed to be, dear one. I never meant to mess up yer life
this way. I thought I'd be in and out of it, and that would be
that."

He reached his hand out to
touch her hair. She held her breath, but she could not feel his
touch, only a kind of soft and pleasurable charge. He drew his hand
away. She knew instinctively that for him to dare caress her would
be fatal, yet right now she was willing to take the
chance.

"I've got into yer life
now," he added hoarsely, "and now I don't want to get
out."

"But you can't stay ... I
can't let you take that risk ... I have to keep going, or
--"

"Or what?" he asked with a
bleak smile. "Either way I die."

Emily had her key in the
lock and was sliding the dead bolt into place when she heard the
phone ring inside her condo. She swore under her breath and
retraced her steps, catching the phone just as the answering
machine kicked in. "Wait!" she shouted over the recorded message
and Lee's voice. She began madly punching buttons, unsure which one
stopped the machine. There was a screech and a howling sound, and
the beast came grudgingly to rest at her fingertips.

"Sorry about that," she
said, breathless from the effort. "I was on my way out."

"I'm glad I caught you,
then," Lee answered in a relieved voice. "Emily, I'm sorry about
the other day. I'd given my staff standing orders to turn aside
anonymous tips; when you and I spoke, I was acting from reflex.
During campaigns we get besieged with 'helpful
information.

"Really."

"No kidding. Just today
Jim Whitewood told me that the friend of an ex-girlfriend of a
second cousin of Boyd Strom's called with what she claimed was the
Scout's honor truth about Strom: When he was a kid, he stole
crayons from the dime store and sold them to his classmates at a
discount. She claimed it was an indication of his character. Maybe
he did, and maybe it is," Lee added, "but it's not the way we do
business.

"I see," she said,
unmollified. "Toxic waste equals stolen crayons."

"Okay, that wasn't a great
example. We've heard far worse, but I'm not about to jump into the
rumor maelstrom and repeat them. Emily, please, I know your motives
are snow-white. But I can't use it," he argued. "Don't you see
that?"

"I don't know," she
admitted.

"I miss your voice," he
murmured with a weary sigh. "You're the champagne in my campaign,
and lately I've been living on bread and water. I have half an hour
before I leave for a Kiwanis speech. Am I making you late for
anything?"

"I'm on my way to Talbot
Manor," she said offhandedly. "But I can go anytime."
Take that, Senator.

There was an extra beat or
two of silence. Then:

"Do you think that's wise?
As I recall, you said Fergus had a healthy fear of the
place."

"Fergus can't stop me,"
she said, sounding more reckless than she felt. "No one can," she
added, just to be ornery.

"Of course not. You're a
grown-up," he said in his beautifully deadpan way. "You don't want
to hear this from me, Emily," he said much more seriously, "but I
think you're losing your perspective. You've romanticized this
whole event and all the people in it, past and present. You're so
hell-bent on solving this thing that you're forgetting your
justifiable fears about Maria --"

"I can handle Maria," she
interrupted.

"-- and whatever it is in
there that Fergus refuses to face."

"I can handle that, too,"
she said defiantly. She was behaving like an absolute witch, and
she knew the reason why: because her feelings were still hurting
from the day she'd called him about the toxic dump tip.

"Look, at least promise me
you'll wait until the weekend. I'll be free early Saturday; we both
can --"

"Oh, right!" she crowed.
"What could be more discreet than my showing up with a
six-foot-two-inch celebrity senator on one arm, in a house that
might be haunted, that rents beds for the night? If your opponent
ever found that out, he'd think he'd died and gone to
heaven."

"Don't worry about my
opponent; worry about yourself. I'm serious about this, Emily.
Don't go."

"'Don't go'? Is that an
order?"

"Have you ever followed an
order in your life? If you have, then it is."

"I think you know the
answer to that one, Senator. Gosh! Look at the time; the Kiwanis
will be getting restless." She was about to hang up when she added
nervously, "Call me again when you get a chance, Lee?" Then she
hung up.

Emily drove in deepening
twilight to Newarth, her Toyota moaning and groaning all the way.
By the time she reached the Bourbon roses that graced the massive
iron gates of Talbot Manor, it was dark -- dark and oppressively
hot, with the first stirrings of wind. The air was very heavy, very
charged. A thunderstorm was imminent. That was fine with her; it'd
be a distraction to the people inside Talbot Manor. Still, Emily
hoped the storm would hold off until she'd climbed the granite
steps carved into the side of the tower; she had no great desire to
go hurtling through space into the bushes again. She crept around
to the tower, located the foot of the granite escape, and aimed her
flashlight at the window at the top of the steps.

It was boarded shut with
plywood.

Nuts.
Now what? Maybe the tower was so fire-damaged that Maria
hadn't bothered moving the papers and diaries back into the desk
drawer. Emily hadn't considered that, although Fergus might have.
She should've mentioned her plan to him,
but no-o-o,
she had to decide to
spare him any distress.

She went back to the front
and hovered in the dark near the huge double doors, trying to
figure out which room she should break into on the main floor. As
she stood there the doors swung open and two couples, laughing and
talking restaurants, stepped out onto the sandstone steps. Acting
on impulse Emily said, "Good evening," and walked through the door
being held open for her by one of the men.

She ducked into a side
receiving room and peeked around the corner. The front desk, thank
God, was unattended. Emily knew from Mrs. Gibbs that Frank was out
of town; that left only Maria, presumably watching television in
her private sitting room. Emily tiptoed past the desk on cat feet,
her heart lodged firmly in her throat, and up the stairs leading to
the guest rooms. There was no one in sight. If August was
considered high season at Talbot Manor, she'd hate to own the place
in the off season.

On the third floor the
smell of smoke seemed to permeate everything, no doubt including
all the beige drapes and all the beige carpets; the fire must have
been a bitter blow to poor Frank's plans. Emily paused just long
enough in the dimly lit hall to fling back the bolt on the new door
into the tower. When she stepped inside she had to switch on the
flashlight she carried; there was no moon to light up the room this
time. Except for the acrid smell the tower seemed much the same, at
least by flashlight. Emily shined her beam on the four-poster and
saw different sheets, this time in a rich paisley pattern. So her
hunch had been right. Not even the fire had been enough to drive
Maria away.

There was a kerosene lamp
on the floor next to the bed, and matches. Emily decided to take
the risk of lighting the lamp; the room was too pitch-black to move
around with any ease. In the dim cast of yellow light she made her
way to the desk behind the tall Oriental screen and pulled open the
middle drawer. Maria had brought everything back—the diaries, the
photos, the letters.

Emily went straight for
the diaries. They all were bound in leather with tiny brass locks
but were of varying styles and sizes. The first one was locked.
That threw Emily for a loop, but the second snapped open nicely.
The bookplate inside was inscribed in a neat but childish
hand,
"Mon Livre.
Celeste de la Croix." Emily flipped through the pages. It was
in French, every blessed word.

She was able to figure out
that
"1 janvier 1852"
meant that Celeste was about thirteen when she wrote it, but
for anything more than that she'd need a French dictionary. She put
the diary down and picked up another: also in French, written by
Celeste two years later. And another, still in French, three years
after that. But by 1863, the date inscribed in the next diary,
Celeste had become confident enough to write in her naturalized
tongue, English. By 1863 Hessiah had been born and James had
drowned; surely Celeste would have had been moved to write about it
all. With a prayer of gratitude Emily held the diary close to her
breast.