Primary Storm (15 page)

I turned into a driveway that was reached by going through an open gate supported by two stone columns, each with a brass numeral 7 set in the stone. On either side of the gates were Wallis police officers, providing crowd and traffic control, and a small knot of reporters and supporters from the Hale campaign and the other campaigns as well, waving signs and banners at one another. I was processed forward and about fifty feet up into the driveway, I ran into a more formal checkpoint. Smart work. That way, traffic wasn't backed up on Atlantic Avenue from the arriving guests, such as we were.

The checkpoint was manned by a uniformed Wallis cop  ---no doubt on paid detail --- and a Hale campaign rep, a young man who checked my name on the clipboard. There were portable lights set up on a pole and a kerosene heater at their feet.

"Cole, Lewis Cole," he said, shivering a bit in the cold, holding a clipboard in one gloved hand, holding a small flashlight in the other. "Yep, you're on the list."

"Thanks."

"Hey ---- quick question, if you don't mind. You're not the Cole who was arrested a few days ago, are you?"

I decided the truth wasn't in my favor. "Nope. That was my evil twin."

"Oh." I guess the guy wanted to ask me more questions, but headlights were appearing behind me, so I kept on driving.

Up ahead, the driveway curved to the left and I parked among a host of other high-powered, high-priced SUVs to the side of an expansive two-story brick home with black shutters and a white-columned entrance. One vehicle was parked right near the door, a black Jaguar XJ8 with vanity plates: WHTKER. Based on the parking lot population, I guessed the topic tonight wouldn't be alternate energy sources or our never-ending reliance on Middle East oil. Outside it was bitterly cold. Inside, I was glad to be someplace where the cold didn't make my nostrils seize up, and I dumped my winter parka on a long counter in a foyer that was serving as a coat check.

Before me was a wooden table, manned by yet another collection of eager volunteers, and after making sure I was on the all powerful list that either allowed me entrance with a smile or a curt dismissal with a sneer, they passed over a contribution folder with an attached envelope for the good senator. A nice picture of the senator and Barbara was on the outside of the folder. Inside were some stock paragraphs from his campaign speeches, and little boxes one checked off to make a donation. The smallest box was a hundred dollars, the largest --- due to campaign financing restraints --- was one thousand dollars. I shoved the envelope in my pocket and walked away.

I grabbed a Sam Adams beer from a young waitress with tanned skin, and went into the main dining room. Unlike the last campaign rally, this one was smaller, more manageable, and I didn't feel sick to my stomach. A good combination. The hall was wood paneling and high ceilings and wooden chandeliers, and it looked like the place had been magically transferred from medieval England. Around me, talking and drinking and eating, were what passed for high political society in Wentworth County. Annie wasn't here yet. To say I felt out of place was like calling the sinking of the
Titanic
a minor setback for steamship travel.

I took a swallow of my beer and looked around the dining hall, went over to a bookshelf that had a collection of leatherbound volumes. Some history books, a few biographies, and a collection of seafaring tales from Edward Rowe Snow, a New England historian who had a flair for storytelling that made a lot of young men and women --- including a writer from
Shoreline
--- fall in love with this region.

"Admiring my first husband's collection?" came a voice.

I turned and there was a woman, dressed in a fine light blue wool dress with a string of pearls about her throat. Her dark brown hair was carefully coif fed, and her skin and face were those of a woman in her late fifties, perhaps mid-sixties, and even early seventies, depending on the light. But her eyes were that of a young woman who could not believe that her girlish spirit was still trapped in a body determined to grow old. I had the oddest feeling I had met her before.

"Yes, I was," I said. "A nice collection."

She held out her hand, which I briefly squeezed, and she said, "My name is Audrey. Welcome to my home."

"Thanks for having me," I said. "I'm Lewis."

"Are you part of the senator's campaign staff, or a local?"

"A local."

She cocked her head in a little display of amusement. "I'm afraid I haven't seen you at any party functions these past several years. Are you a newcomer to politics?"

"Hardly."

"And what, may I ask, is your political persuasion?"

I sipped from my Sam Adams. "I'm a drunkard."

She laughed and laughed at that one. "Oh, that's a good one. The great line from Rick Blaine, in Casablanca. Of course, he was asked about his nationality, not his politics .... Still, such a wonderful, wonderful movie, filled with classic lines. That was George's favorite movie ... George being my first husband. You know, he always thought he had the rakish charm of Bogart, when he wasn't too busy making money ... such charm."

She seemed lost for a moment, and smiled again. "Charm brought him a long way, especially in business. But charm is what killed him, because of his hobby."

"His hobby killed him?"

Audrey nodded. "Yes. George loved to fly. Owned a small plane that he kept at an airport up in Rochester. He charmed his way through flight school and pilot licensing and all that, but the night he was trying to get to Nantucket and his instrumentation failed ... well, the sky and the ocean weren't impressed with his charm."

"I'm sorry," I said.

She shrugged. "It happened a long time ago ... and now I'm married again. To Henry, over there in the corner."

I looked to where she was pointing, at a great stone fireplace that was roaring right along. A man about ten years Audrey's junior with a red face and too fine blond hair and wearing one of those funky navy blue jackets with a crest over the breast pocket was holding court with a couple of young, attractive women dressed in cocktail dresses that looked more suitable for June than January. Even with the low roar of conversation in the room, I made out the sigh of disappointment from my newfound conversationalist.

"Henry doesn't have as much charm, but he is a fair companion ... though you can probably guess about his particular hobby. But I'm of an age and condition that I don't particularly care. But what I do care about is giving back."

I nodded and she said, "And I've been entirely too rude, prattling on and on about my personal life. And you, Mr. Lewis. Where are you from?"

"Tyler Beach."

"And what do you do?"

"I'm a columnist for a magazine.
Shoreline
."

The smile on her face froze just a tad. "The understanding, of course, is that tonight's event is entirely off the record, and not open to members of the press. I'm not sure how you gained entrance."

"I'm sure it is off the record, and I guarantee you, I don't consider myself a member of the press. I write about the seacoast of New England and its history. I don't write about contemporary politics. And I gained entrance through the good graces of a woman friend who works on Senator Hale's campaign."

The frozen smile defrosted back to its original state. "That's fine .... I once considered becoming a reporter, back when I was in college, in the Stone Age, when writers worked on manual typewriters and television crews used real film in their cameras ... but I decided life was too short and too grand to be just an observer. I wanted to participate, to be in the arena, not in the audience."

"I see."

"Mmm ... perhaps not. I believe I think you see an old, rich, idle woman, throwing a party for her equally rich friends, all for the privilege of seeing another lying politician up close." She leaned into me, her voice crisp. "But that's not the case. I can't sing, dance, or run for office. But what I can do is write checks, and convince my friends to write checks, to men and women and causes that I believe in. And tonight, I believe in Senator Hale. And I hope you do as well."

"We'll see," I said, feeling light now as Annie approached me through the crowd, smiling, wearing a tan turtleneck sweater and a long black skirt.

Audrey saw where I was looking, and she touched my wrist.

"So glad to meet you, Lewis. Enjoy yourself ... and someday, why don't you come play with us? It can be so much more fun than kibitzing from the sideline."

She moved into the crowd and Annie came up to me, we kissed, and she squeezed my hand and said, "I get here a few minutes late, and already I see you're trying to bed one of the wealthiest women in your state."

"I was?"

"Certainly. The former Mrs. George Whittaker, whose late husband was a developer who cheerfully raped the southern portion of the state and built lots and lots of malls and strip housing developments, and who ended up in the bottom of the Gulf of Maine some years ago. His wife has his fortune and not his politics, and she's been a heavy hitter and king-maker --- or queen-maker --- during the last three New Hampshire primaries. Having her in Senator Hale's corner has been a real break for him."

I now knew who owned the impressive Jaguar parked outside. I saw Audrey Whittaker pause and talk to some people, and then it clicked. I had seen her before, at the campaign rally where the shots had been fired. At the Tyler Conference Center, she had been holding court as well, but even though I now knew where I had noticed her before, something odd was niggling at me.

Annie squeezed my hand. "I'm starved. Let's get something to eat."

"And the senator?"

"Another thirty or so minutes out. We've got plenty of time." Still holding my hand, she led me through the crowded dining room and through a set of swinging doors that led into a kitchen, which looked like it belonged in a small restaurant. A catering crew was working there, and lots of pans and pots were being banged around, and steam was rising up from a couple of cooking stations. Annie let me be and came back a few minutes later, carrying two Sam Adams by their long necks, and two full plates, which she managed to balance on her wrists. I grabbed a plate and a beer and kissed her on her nose for her effort.

"Nice balancing act, Counselor," I said.

"Old waitressing trick. You never quite forget them, no matter how old you get. Let's find a quiet place."

Which we did. From another door we went into a small hallway leading to a breezeway that looked like it headed out to a garage or some other outbuilding. The breezeway had tall windows with recessed padded window seats, and we shared one while balancing the plates on our laps. Annie, knowing me so well, had filled my plate with scallops wrapped in bacon, slices of prime rib, rice pilaf, and a chunk of salad for roughage. I raised my bottle in salute.

"Thanks for dinner."

"Don't thank me, thank your new friend, Mrs. Whittaker."

"If I can, I will." I looked around the paneled walls and fine wooden floor and said, "How do you know your way in and around this place so well?"

Annie was being good in her food choices tonight, with lots of salad, lots of rice, and a couple of small pieces of haddock and a fine collection of steamed vegetables. Murmuring through her first bite, she said, "Been here a few other times for fund-raisers. Get to know the lay of the land after a while. Mrs. Whittaker is a real sweetheart in lending out her home to the campaign."

I ate some and said, "Ask you a campaign-related question?"

She delicately dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "As opposed to asking a bosom-related question?"

"That can come later. I was just wondering ... how many fund-raisers can one person like her support? I mean, I thought the federal limit on making campaign contributions is one thousand dollars per person. There must be a limit on one's pool of friends."

Annie smiled at me and raised up her bottle in a mock salute.

"One of these days, you really need to show me that cabbage patch you were raised in, my dear."

"What do you mean?"

"Yes, campaigns are limited to what they can receive. But not, quote, independent political action groups, unquote, which can get as much money as they want to pump up any message they want. Especially if said message by some wonderful coincidence manages to complement a certain campaign's message. Tonight's soiree is being held by something called the American Fund for America's Future. Or some such nonsense. But what it does is raise oodles and oodles of cash to help Senator Hale, without being constricted by the Federal Election Commission. Because it's a so-called independent committee, it can attack the other candidates and make them look bad without being an official part of the Hale campaign. Is this a great country, or what?"

"I don't know if I ever had political virginity," I replied, "but if I ever did, I think you just took it."

She gave me a wicked smile. "Keep on hanging around with me, and we'll see whatever forms of virginity are up for the taking."

We finished our meals and dropped off our dishes with the busy catering staff in the kitchen, and went out to the main dining hall, which was now even more crowded. There was a hum in the atmosphere, something anticipatory and electric, and I looked at all the young and old eager faces, all sizes and shapes, male and female, all of them looking forward to that one moment in time, the one in which they shared a room with the next president of the United States.