The Incumbent (8 page)

The other items on my desk took only a few minutes to handle. That left me about ninety minutes to review Randi’s proposal. She was good—very good. Before me lay an analysis of demographics, estimated marketing expenditures, possible opponents, and more. The real kicker was something she learned that had yet to reach my ears. Congressman Martin Roth was retiring at the end of this term. There had been the occasional rumor that at the age of sixty-six, he had grown weary of campaigning and Capitol Hill. According to Randi, the rumors were true. She had inside information from a friend who worked in Roth’s district office.

Congressman Roth would vacate the office in two years. Once word of this became official, every wannabe politico would come out of the woodwork. Randi was pushing for an early start.

“It is imperative that essential campaign personnel be in position at the time of the congressman’s official declaration. An announcement should be made within thirty days of this declaration so as not to appear too opportunistic,” her summary read. In short she was saying, “Let’s get a jump on things.”

I would run as a Republican, the party of which I had long been a member. My standing with various Republican groups was sound, so there was a good chance they would throw their weight, mailing lists, and volunteers my way.

Still, the idea of Congress was hard to swallow. The work would be interesting and meaningful, but the campaign arduous and expensive. The congressional district was larger than the city limits, meaning I would be campaigning in areas where no one knew me. Not an insurmountable problem. Every candidate faced such things.

I had often thought of running for higher office, but always saw it a decade away, and then I saw myself running for state office, like assembly or state senate, never Congress. Still . . .

Randi appeared at my door. “It’s eleven-fifteen. If you’re going to pick Celeste up at half-past—”

“I’d better get going.” I stood and handed her the file. “Lock this away, please.”

She took it. “What do you think?”

“Of the file? It’s well prepared. You still amaze me. As far as what you’re suggesting, well . . . I need time to digest the idea.”

“Oh.” She sounded sad.

“However, I’m willing to consider it.”

Her eyes sparkled and a knowing smile crossed her face. “That’s great!”

“Easy, girl. I only said I would consider it.”

“That’s half the battle.”

It was my turn to smile. “You don’t know me as well as you think.”

“I know you better than you think.”

I gathered my bag. “That’s probably true. I’ll see you at the restaurant. Don’t be late. I’m hungry.”

“I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Leave the bells, they distract the other diners.”

I exited my office and made my way toward the car. My mind was churning. In less than twenty-four hours I had run the gamut of emotions. My brain had had an aerobic workout that left it weary and longing to shut down—and all this before lunch.

W
hen I pulled up in front of my house, Celeste was standing on the stoop—much to my relief. Seeing me, she walked quickly to the car and got in.

I studied her for a moment. “Ready to eat?”

“Yes. We need to pick up Michele.” She told me the address.

“That’s not far.” I waited a moment before asking, “How are you doing?”

She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

The girl looked frail, a waif caught in a brutal hurricane of fear and emotion. The skin under her eyes was dark, the rim of her lids still red from crying. She wore the clothes she had on when I took her home: blue jeans, coral tunic, and a pair of white Nikes.

“I assume Maria arrived.”

“Yeah, she got here not long after you left. She washed my clothes so I could wear them. She’s nice.”

I agreed, then pulled the car from the curb. “Have you known Michele long?”

“I’m sorry.” I started to repeat myself when she added, “I was rude.”

It took a moment for me to catch up. “You mean about this morning?”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“You didn’t say anything wrong.”

“I implied it. I mean, you came to my house, you took me in and did nothing but treat me right. When I heard that the blood was on your card, it made me think you had something to do with my mother’s disappearance, but that’s stupid. Why would you do that? It doesn’t make sense.”

West was right; Celeste was a sharp young lady. “Thank you. I was afraid you’d leave while I was at the office.”

“I know. Turn left here.”

Making the turn, I said, “I went to the Police Station and let them fingerprint me. I also sent over the bank records Detective West asked for. They were in perfect order.”

“I told him my mother wouldn’t steal anything.”

“I think he was afraid someone might try to force her to withdraw the money. I suppose they still can.”

“Can’t you tell the bank to stop any withdrawals?”

This thought had occurred to me while I was in my office. “I suppose, but I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“If someone took your mother to get access to that account, I want her to be able to do that. They might let her go if they get the money. It would also give the police some evidence to go on, such as where they made the withdrawal. I gave them permission to monitor the account.”

“Oh, but you could loose all your campaign money. Turn right.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I directed the Aviator around a corner. “I can always raise more money. I’d rather have your mother back.”

She sniffed. “Me too.”

“There’s something else I want to talk to you about,” I said, trying not to sound too serious. “Detective West thinks I should be careful.”

“Careful?”

“You know, about my safety. He thinks that whatever happened to your mother may be directed at me. I don’t know if that’s true. If it is, why would anyone . . . go to your house instead of mine? But my point is this: I think you should be careful, too.”

“I will.”

“You know you’re welcome to stay with me as long as you like. In fact, I’d like it if you stayed a few days.”

“Okay.”

A couple turns more led us to a small single-story apartment building that had only eight units.

“Honk the horn. She said she’d be right down.”

I did and a moment later a bouncy blond appeared at one of the doors. She waved, then trotted toward us. She was tall and thin, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that bobbed with every step. Like Celeste, she wore jeans and Nikes. Above that she wore a hooded green sweatshirt.

Before Michele could reach the car, Celeste was out. They met and embraced, Michele taking her friend in her arms. I waited and was willing to wait a long time. Celeste needed a friend and Michele was her choice. A minute passed before either moved. Finally Celeste pulled away and ran a hand under her eyes, then under her nose. Michele was carrying a small purse with a thin leather strap. She opened it and gave Celeste a tissue. Both came to the car. Michele opened the back door, and I expected Celeste to return to the front seat. Instead she followed her friend into the back.

“Is it okay if I sit back here?”

“Sure, I can be chauffeur, but it’s customary to tip.”

She laughed politely. “This is Michele. We go to college together. I’ve known her since middle school.”

“Hi, my name is Maddy.”

“She’s the mayor,” Celeste said.

“No way!” Michele exclaimed. “The mayor of what?”

“Mayor of Santa Rita,” Celeste said. “How did you get into college?”

“I didn’t know.”

“That’s all right,” I interjected. “A lot of people don’t know who their mayor is.”

“Where are we going?” Michele asked.

“The Fish Kettle,” I said. “Is that okay?”

“I love that place. I’ve only been a couple times but I love it.”

“Great,” I said. “I know the owner. He’ll treat us right.”

“Is it just the three of us?”

I could tell Michele was the inquisitive type. “My aide, Randi, is joining us.”

“Is he nice?” Michele asked.

“He is a she,” I said. “R–A–N–D–I. You’ll like her. She’s smart and pretty.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know about you two, but I’m hungry, so buckle up.” I pressed the pedal down and pulled away from the curb.

T
he Santa Rita pier is a quarter-mile-long construction of heavy wood planks and beams. Built in the early sixties, it has endured the decades with grace despite battles with storms and waves. On more than one occasion a storm has undermined portions of the structure, caving in a corner here and there. Each time the city and county have rebuilt it. It is one of the few landmarks of our city and a profound source of pride. The Fish Kettle sits in the middle of the pier.

The restaurant itself looks like a ramshackle fishing shack. The owner paid the architect a lot of money to make the building look a century older than it is. Dark, ocean-stained wood covers the exterior. Streaks of rust run from nails in the siding. A careful eye can see galvanized nails holding the siding in place. The other nails, which have aged and weathered, are there for effect. The roof appears to be made of tar paper, but it too is facade, mere architectural illusion.

The interior is a maritime experience. Walls that are not filled with expansive windows are covered in shiplap siding heavily painted with a dark-blue enamel. Woodcarvings of various species of fish hang from the ceiling and dance in the gentle breeze made by the slowly spinning ceiling fans. The smell of fish cooking hangs heavy in the air. Booths sit around the perimeter wall, and freestanding tables are scattered across the floor like mushrooms on a grass field.

When we walked in at ten minutes to noon, the place was already half full. Soon hungry office workers, laborers, and others would pack the place. At the Fish Kettle a patron can buy a good meal at a reasonable price, but that is only part of the draw. A view of the ocean is available from every table. Atmosphere—the place is loaded with atmosphere.

I had only taken two steps when the owner, Paul Shedd, greeted us. Paul was in his early fifties and had been owner of the restaurant for the last ten years. A former banker, he turned his ledger in for a mass of pots and pans and, according to him, has never been happier. At least his midlife crisis involved changing jobs instead of wives. He was trim and sported the kind of deep tan that made one worry about skin cancer. He kept his salt-and-pepper hair cut close to the scalp. He bounded our way, flashing a smile bright enough to light the room. I’ve known Paul since he bought the place. He was a favorite of my husband. A deeply spiritual man, he let his faith speak for itself, although on one wall he did put up a large picture of the disciples in a Galilean fishing boat. Jesus is walking on the water nearby. There are days I wish I could do that.

Paul’s wife was a winner. She was a few inches shorter than me and round like a barrel. Her eyes were like blue lenses that focused an inner light. She often served as hostess during the dinner hour.

“Madam Mayor,” Paul said with a flourish. “We’re honored to have you.”

“Oh, knock it off, Paul. I eat here at least once a week.”

“In that case, you know where the kitchen is. Fix your own lunch.”

“It would never measure up to your standards.”

He led us to a large booth in the front corner of the restaurant. The sun was high overhead, shinning through a now cloudless sky. The remaining fragments of rain clouds had gone wherever clouds go. The sky was bright and the ocean vivid blue. The air, scrubbed clean by the driving rain, was untainted by smog or haze. California knew how to dress up.

The three of us took our seats, joining Randi, who had beaten us there. I introduced the girls to my aide and they all shook hands. I noticed that Randi let her eyes linger on Celeste a moment or two.

Paul handed us menus and then took our drink orders. I asked for tea, Randi asked for water with a slice of lemon, and the girls each requested a Coke. Paul then scurried away. He always scurried. No wonder he was thin.

The conversation remained light while we perused the menus. I glanced at the items, which included various seafood dishes and some traditional lunch fare like hamburgers and sandwiches.

“Get whatever you want, girls; it’s my treat,” I said as I set my menu down. Looking at it had been a waste of time. I knew what I wanted before I left the office.

“Cool,” Michele said.

Celeste sat quietly, staring at the menu. I doubted she was at all hungry.

Paul returned with our drinks and set them down with practiced precision. “Is everybody ready?”

I looked around the table and everyone but Celeste nodded. She had, however, set her menu down. “I would like a shrimp salad and a cup of the gumbo,” I said, then turned to the others. “I love the gumbo.”

Randi ordered a bowl of clam chowder and Michele asked for shrimp fettuccine. I looked at Celeste, fearing that she would say she wasn’t hungry. Emotions could be taxing, and she had expended a lot of emotion over the last eighteen hours. She needed to eat.

“Can I have a hamburger?” she asked. “I don’t much care for fish stuff.”

“It’ll be a blessing,” Paul said and then trotted off.

“He’s weird,” Michele said with a giggle.

“He’s one of the nicest people you will ever meet,” I said. “He is a little weird, though, but only a little. My husband used to go fishing with him.”

“Really?” Randi said. “I didn’t know that, and I know everything about you.”

“You don’t know as much as you think, woman. My husband went through a stage, one of those back-to-nature-regain-the-masculine- role things. At least that’s how it appeared to me. About once a month he and Paul would go out on a half-day boat. Other businessmen would go with them. Peter used to tell me that he was fishing for business as much as bass or yellowtail or whatever they fish for.”

As if on cue, two elderly men walked by our window, fishing poles in hand, and headed toward the distant end of the pier. Others were walking in the opposite direction. The pier is a place of constant activity. Inside, the chatter of the crowd filled the air as thoroughly as the aroma from the kitchen. A mix of humanity occupied the room: men in shirts and ties discussed the day’s business next to men in faded jeans and torn work shirts, and mothers with young children sat lost in conversation. Each table or booth was a world unto itself, a galaxy that floated in isolation from all the galaxies around it. There was laughter and there were whispers and at our table there was awkward silence.