The Dirty Secret (11 page)

The Vincents had been married for 25 years, and his wife rarely deviated from her Saturday night routine. In the absence of some calamity, he knew Donna would crawl in bed at 10:00 p.m., flip on the bedside lamp and watch a re-run of The Golden Girls. When the show was over, she would read the Bible for 20 minutes, turn off the light and go to sleep. In his mind, neither solar eclipses nor the phases of the moon were as predictable as his wife’s behavior, and he derived a certain degree of comfort from that predictability.

By the same token, in a self-analytical moment that arrived while he was taking a leak, he wondered whether his own boredom with that predictability had led him to pursue his tryst with Tabatha McCallen.
If you wanted more excitement in your life, you should have taken up skydiving instead of playing ‘hide the sausage’ with another woman.

Such self-indictments were not amenable to a good night’s sleep. Vincent flushed the toilet, washed and dried his hands, then let out a deep sigh. Opening the door, he saw Donna propped up in bed facing the television with a smile. Sure enough, the four Golden Girls were sitting around the kitchen table, and when Sophia let loose with one of her biting one-liners, the First Lady let out a chuckle that was perfectly on cue with the show’s laugh track.

Vincent strolled over to his wife, bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m going to check out the scores online.”

Donna looked up, still smiling. “Okay, honey. But don’t sit too close to the computer screen or you’ll hurt your eyes.”

“I won’t. Be back in a jiffy.”

The First Lady nodded and patted his hand. “Don’t keep me waiting,” she said with a wink. “You looked awfully handsome in that tuxedo tonight, Mr. Governor.”

Vincent grinned back. “You looked quite smashing yourself. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Not a chance,” Donna replied. “I’ll be waiting.”

The governor raised her hand to his lips, gave it a little peck and then walked across the hallway to the extra bedroom that served as his office in the Mansion’s living quarters. He crossed the room, sat down at the red oak desk and brought the computer to life with a tap of the mouse. Just as he opened ESPN’s website, his cell phone began playing Marshall’s fight song. Peering at the viewscreen, he saw Dick Bowen’s face and phone number.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Luke. How was the fundraiser?”

“Just like all the others,” Vincent deadpanned. “Dressed-up rich people hobnobbing, writing checks, nibbling on hors d’oeuvres and drinking booze like the plane is going down. What’s up?”

“We’ve made our pitch to Ruth Thompson on the memory cards. She didn’t give us a firm commitment, but we’ve given her some food for thought. I’ll touch base again tomorrow.”

Vincent heard the phone click before he had a chance to respond. If nothing else, Dick Bowen was astonishingly focused. Give him a task, and he would demolish a brick wall with his skull if necessary to get it done.

I just hope he applies that same tenacity to my dilemma with Tabatha.

CHAPTER 21

ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 9:00 A.M.

Rikki slept later than anticipated, so she quickly walked down to the basement and jumped on the treadmill, trying to work up a good sweat before heading to work. Listening to her favorite workout mix via wireless Bluetooth earbuds, her running shoes rhythmically pounded the treadmill belt as the sculpted muscles in her long, dark brown legs stretched and contracted with each step.

The television mounted to the ceiling was tuned to CNN’s Sunday morning show. Although the music blocked out the talking heads, she followed the discussion via closed captioning. West Virginia’s fifty five counties were depicted on a map, variously colored blue or red and she noted with satisfaction that Pleasants County was depicted in blue. Then one county in the southern part of the state was expanded into a separate graphic by itself.

Rikki pressed a button on her earbuds and the music came to a halt. Grabbing the remote, she turned up the TV to drown out the treadmill’s whirring engine. The words “MINGO COUNTY” had morphed onto the screen along with a circle labeled “Williamson” on the west-central edge of the map.

“Mingo County is the only county that still has not completed its post-election canvass,” an off-screen male anchor reported. “Technical glitches in the county’s voting machines have delayed that process, and the two campaigns have waged a bitter battle over what the County Commission must do in this situation.

“Joining us today from Charleston, West Virginia, is Susan Mathis, the lead attorney for Senator Wilson’s campaign in Mingo County. And from Williamson, West Virginia, we also have David Anderson, Governor Royal’s chief legal advisor. Thank you both for being here.”

“Thank you for having me,” Mathis replied.

“It’s my pleasure,” Dave added. He stood in front of the boxy-looking county courthouse wearing a light blue dress shirt and a solid silver tie.

“Ms. Mathis,” the anchor opened. “Why do you want the commission to throw out the initial election returns in favor of this ‘backup data’ we’ve heard so much about?”

“Because it’s the most accurate reflection of the voters’ intentions. The memory cards in nine machines were malfunctioning when the tabulations were run on Election Night. The backup data was uploaded to the server before the malfunctions occurred. Using that data is the only way to determine how those people voted and we must make sure every vote is counted.”

Mathis disappeared and was replaced by a split-screen image of the anchor on the left side and Dave on the right. “How do you respond to that position, Mr. Anderson? Why shouldn’t every vote that was cast in this election be counted?”

Dave cracked an amused grin. “We agree that every vote cast must be counted. But there’s no evidence this so-called ‘backup data’ is any more accurate than the calculations which were made
twice
on Election Night …”

“The computer experts from AIS
testified
that the backup data is more accurate than those initial calculations,” Mathis loudly interjected from off-screen.

Anderson chuckled, and the look on his face was one Rikki instantly recognized as the likely precursor to some wickedly disdainful response.

“Ah,” Dave said, feigning enlightenment, “you mean the same bozos who didn’t detect any malfunctions in those nine machines on Election Night? Whose paychecks are signed by Dmitri Mazniashvili, an indicted criminal that Governor Royal wants to deport to face justice for defrauding his homeland of billions of dollars? Who has given millions from those ill-gotten gains to Senator Wilson’s party? You want us to take
their
word for it?” Dave laughed caustically. “For all we know, this ‘glitch’ is just a scam Mazniashvili dreamed up to cook our election results and avoid extradition for his crimes. Personally, I’ll put my faith in the results originally reported on Election Night.”

Rikki muted the TV, reactivated the music and continued running, lost in thought as the treadmill whirred along. Although she was a loyal Democrat who had enthusiastically voted for Senator Wilson, the campaign’s ties to Mazniashvili made her uncomfortable. Though they frequently clashed on political matters, she had never known Dave to speak untruthfully about anything. He had foibles and flaws, for sure – some of which she found utterly
maddening
– but dishonesty was not one of them.

On the other hand, she hadn’t spoken to Dave in almost fifteen years. A good deal of that time Dave had lived and worked in D.C., a town not exactly renowned for truthfulness. Who knew how much he might have changed after a decade and a half in that environment?

But as she stared at the television, intensely studying his face, her heart told her Dave had not changed at all. That self-confident glint in his green eyes. That fiery tone of defiance in his voice as he belittled his opponent’s arguments. No, that was not some changed man from her past she barely recognized. The handsome, smiling face she saw staring back at her on TV belonged to the same brilliant, incisive, passionate, articulate, funny, infuriatingly conservative and pigheaded man she had fallen in love with so long ago. She was certain of it.

Red lights on the treadmill’s display began flashing and the conveyor belt slowed down.
Have I really been running for 45 minutes?
Her labored breathing coupled with the streams of sweat flowing down her arms, back and legs rendered that conclusion irrefutable.

Rikki’s pace slowed, as she caught her breath and lowered her heart rate. Toweling off her face and neck, she turned off the TV and walked upstairs to get ready for the day.

Entering the master bedroom, Rikki kicked off her shoes and socks and stripped out of her sweaty workout clothes. Strolling into the bathroom naked, she pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the water.

Waiting for the shower to heat up, Rikki exhaled deeply. Running her hands through her long, sweaty black hair, she stared in the mirror. Even though she was pushing forty, she thought she had taken pretty good care of herself over the years. Sure, she might not be as perky and tight in certain places as she had been in her twenties, but she knew she still turned men’s heads. Her face was unlined, causing most people to underestimate her age, and she knew she had an exotic look that frequently elicited questions about the precise nature of her ethnicity.

Turning away from the mirror, she stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. The water felt wonderful, and she closed her eyes as she stuck her face beneath the showerhead and wet her long hair. As she worked a big handful of shampoo into her hair, her mind ran rampant.

Why am I suddenly so distracted by thoughts of Dave?
For years, she felt confident she had put their breakup behind her and moved on with her life. Now she had doubts. Maybe it was the recent conversations with her mom and Jack, or maybe it was because she had seen him on TV so much lately. Regardless, she wasn’t happy with the situation.

Rikki rinsed the shampoo from her hair and poured a mass of fragrant orange body wash into a loofah sponge, reflecting as she lathered it onto her arms. She hadn’t been a shrinking violet since breaking up with Dave; far from it. She had dated numerous men on a short-term basis and had a few longer relationships as well. She honestly could not remember a time when she had lacked attractive romantic options, including several viewed as “keepers” by her friends. But for whatever reason, she inevitably found her suitors lacking in some way. And then it was just a matter of time before she would end the relationship, much to the frequent exasperation of those around her.

Oh, well. There’s no sense getting all worked up about it.
If she was destined to fall in love again and perhaps even get married, she had faith it would happen when the circumstances were right. And if not … Well, if that were the case, she thought she would be okay with that too.

Rikki shut off the water and grabbed two thick cotton towels. Drying herself off, she wrapped her long hair up in one of the towels and stepped onto a bath mat before making her way into the bedroom.

Forty minutes later, she was fully clothed in a comfortable baby blue sweater, designer jeans and a pair of snazzy black boots. Sitting alone in her breakfast nook, she sipped on a cup of coffee heavily flavored with cream and sugar as a plate with toast crumbs and dried egg yolk sat in front of her. Sunshine poured into the room through a bay window overlooking her back yard, and the cloudless sky greeting her this morning was a mesmerizing, flawless shade of blue.

Staring out the window, she saw two whitetail deer walk cautiously out of the woods into her unfenced yard. A big, healthy-looking doe and her fawn were enjoying the warm weather, blissfully unaware that the woods would be swarming with rifle-toting hunters in only eight days. Just as Rikki began wondering how the doe would fare, her thoughts were interrupted by her cell phone ringing. She answered the phone without even looking at the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Hey, Rikki. It’s Jack. How are you doing?”

“Good,” she replied energetically. “I just finished breakfast, and now I’m debating whether I can squeeze in time for church today. What’s going on?”

“I need to get those financial records to you. And I was hoping we could get together to go over a few things, including an interesting email I received this morning.”

“Oh, yeah? Who was it from?”

“I should just show you the email in person. Let’s just say I found it very interesting, and it’s very sensitive.”

“You’ve piqued my curiosity, Jack. How does two o’clock at the courthouse sound? I need to start moving my stuff in there because I may be taking over sooner than expected.”

“That’s what I heard. Sounds smart, especially if Joe’s health is as bad as they say.”

Rikki shook her head and smiled.
Dear Lord! Yet another reminder of just how quickly news spreads around here.
“So does two o’clock work for you, Mr. Chatty Cathy?” she asked with a giggle.

“Two will be fine.”

“I’ll meet you at the door facing the refinery,” Rikki clarified.

“Gotcha. See you then.”

Rikki hung up, finished her java and carried her plate and mug to the kitchen sink.
I wonder what this email is all about? Did he catch Tabatha fooling around? Between politics, his crazy wife and the Schoolcraft lease cancellation suit, it could be anything.

Two hours later, Rikki opened the heavy glass courthouse door with one hand while clutching a stuffed banker’s box beneath the other. After six trips lugging boxes from her hybrid SUV up three flights of stairs to her new office, her breathing was labored.

Maybe I’m not in as good shape as I thought I was!

As she prepared to lock the door behind her, a car horn blared. Glancing up, she saw a gray Durango stopped in the road between the courthouse and a rusting oil refinery. The barrel-chested figure of Sheriff Vaughn was behind the wheel. “Howdy, Rikki,” Vaughn’s rich bass voice called. “What’re you doing here today?”