Sweet Poison (4 page)

A
fter Jane’s meeting at the Lyme House with her business partner, Judah Johanson, on Sunday morning, she gave her neighbor, Evelyn Bratrude, a call. Jane hadn’t slept well and hoped that Evelyn would be able to put her mind at rest by explaining why she’d been in Jane’s house the night before. But Evelyn wasn’t home. Jane left two messages. By the time she left for a second meeting, she still hadn’t heard from her.

Jane had been attempting to get all her ducks in a row before next Thursday, when Kenzie Mulroy, her partner, planned to drive up to spend the weekend. Jane and Kenzie had been together for two years, Jane’s longest relationship since her partner of ten years, Christine Kane, had died of cancer when Jane was in her early thirties.

Kenzie taught cultural anthropology at Chadwick State College and lived outside of town in an old farmhouse on twenty-six acres. The land was necessary because she owned horses. The long-distance romance had been working so far, although it had its moments.

Jane and Kenzie had both had busy summers. Kenzie had stayed with Jane for most of June and two weeks in July, partly because she wanted to work at the campaign office, but mostly because summer
was her only real free time. Jane was grateful for the commitment Kenzie had made to her father’s bid for governor. But Kenzie was like that. When she got excited about something, she was tireless. She’d spent all of August in China on a cultural/history/archaeology tour that started in Beijing, continued to Xi’an, where she was able to view the Terra-Cotta Warriors, and then on to Kashgar, the city that lay at the junction of four branches of the Silk Road.

All along the way, Kenzie had sent long dispatches to Jane detailing what she was seeing and learning. The letters were fascinating, explaining as much about Kenzie as they did about China. Over the period of a month, Jane had fallen even more deeply in love with Kenzie, impressed by the thoughtful way she analyzed her experiences, as well as her writing skills. She’d made her trip come alive for Jane, so much so that when combined with the photos she’d sent back, Jane almost felt as if she’d been there. Kenzie was so absorbed by her August trip that she’d begun taking a class in Mandarin as soon as she got back to Nebraska. She was also writing up some of the notes she’d taken into articles she intended to send to various anthropology journals. As she so often pointed out, as a college professor, she needed to publish or perish.

Due to the length of Jane’s morning meeting and road construction on I-94, she missed the brunch rush at the Lyme House. She didn’t arrive until shortly after two. The main dining room was on the second level, overlooking the lake. As she came up the stairs from the pub, the cashier, Sandra Cushing, a longtime employee, caught her eye.

“There was a guy here who wanted to talk to you. He stayed for brunch, but left about half an hour ago.”

Jane wondered it if was the same man who’d left the message last night. “Did you get a name?”

“I think he said it was Kershaw. Ned or Neil or something like that. He left a note.” She reached under the counter and handed it to Jane.

“Did he say anything about why he wanted to talk to me?”

“Sorry, nothing. But he raved about the food, and he mentioned that he liked the log walls, said they reminded him of his parents’ cabin up north.”

“So, maybe he’s a Minnesotan.” Who taught at Harvard. And who was back in Minnesota for some reason. “If you see him again when I’m not around, try to get a phone number where I can reach him.”

“Will do.”

Jane spent the afternoon working in her office.

Just after four, Cordelia phoned. “So, was it Evelyn?”

“I don’t know,” said Jane, tossing her pen down. “I haven’t been able to reach her.”

“Heard anything more from your dad?”

“No. Why?”

“I assume you didn’t read today’s
Star Tribune.”

“Did I miss something?”

“Not really. It’s just more of the same. A political year.” Lowering her voice, she continued, “But … there’s a drumbeat out there, Janey. It’s like we’re standing in the deepest jungle with glowing eyes all around us. Headhunters. Lions. Tigers. Everyone’s coming after your father with sabers rattling, hammers cocked, bayonets set. And on that note, I think I better go before I start hyperventilating.”

“Are you at the theater?”

“Where else? Meeting with a new director in ten minutes. Think Princess Kay of the Milky Way meets Christopher Hitchens and you’d be in the right personality ballpark. Call me later. Ta.”

By five, Jane was about to leave and drive over to the campaign office when her cell phone began vibrating inside the pocket of her jeans. She pulled it out and said hello, thinking it was probably her dad. She knew he had a speech in town tonight. It was only an hour’s drive from St. Cloud back to the cities.

“Ah, hi. This is Stan Masters at Flying Cloud airport. Is this Ray Lawless’s daughter?”

“Yes?”

“We have a Cessna here that belongs to your dad. It was flown in yesterday afternoon—”

“Yesterday afternoon? Are you sure about that?”

“Very sure. Anyway, it’s sitting near one of the back runways, and we need to have it moved ASAP. Not quite sure how it got there, but I wasn’t working yesterday, so it didn’t happen on my watch.”

“Who flew it back from St. Cloud?”

“Um … Byron Jostein. He logged in at 5:14
PM
. You know him?”

“No.” Jane couldn’t believe the plane could be thoroughly examined and repaired so quickly.

“Well, whatever,” said Masters. “We need to get it moved. Your name’s on the hangar, too, so I thought—”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Jane.

“Great. Appreciate it. And hey, FYI, I’m voting for your dad.”

“Thanks. He’ll be happy to hear it.”

That same afternoon, Corey raked his aunt’s yard, put away the garden tools in the garage, and finished up by covering her rosebushes for the winter. He spent a few minutes repairing the lock on the back gate and then went inside and took a shower. Mary would be at church until six. Feeling at loose ends, he hopped on his cycle and rode to St. Paul.

As the light began to fade, Corey stood in Raymond Lawless’s campaign office, surveying the whirl of activity. He’d talked to a woman at the reception desk and learned that Lawless wasn’t around, although his picture was plastered on every wall. If nothing else, it made for a sort of Andy Warhol—esque moment. Raymond Lawless as pop icon. No doubt a piece of irony lost on the enthusiastic minions.

Examining a life-sized cardboard cutout a little more closely, Corey discovered that the great man had grown older and thinner since their last meeting. His silver hair was less shaggy, more styled, although his smile was every bit as phony and high octane.

Corey sucked in a breath. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. It
was unlikely that Lawless would remember a guy he’d met only a few times nine years ago. But Corey remembered him. He realized that he was disappointed. He was sorry he wouldn’t get to see the next governor in person.

“Can I help you?” asked a female voice.

Corey turned around to find a gray-haired woman peering at him through her bifocals. She was elegantly dressed in a yellow suit, the half ton rock on her finger the exclamation point at the end of an unspoken sentence.

She gave him a friendly smile “Are you looking for information on Raymond Lawless?”

He’d expected a cultured voice, but her tone was pure Minnesotan.

“No, not really,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m … um … I thought maybe I’d offer to help.”

“You want to volunteer?”

“Yeah.” He pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “I’m a Lawless man, one hundred percent.”

“That’s good to hear, Mr.—”

“Hodge. Corey Hodge. Call me Corey.”

Before she could respond, a guy came out of one of the small offices in the back of the main room. He was dressed like a clown—striped cotton shirt, polka dot tie, red suspenders. He introduced himself as Luke Durrant, the IT manager.

“You here to work?” asked the clown.

Corey nodded, introduced himself.

The clown gave him a crooked stare. “Hodge? Have we met?”

“Not that I remember.” And I’d remember meeting an asswipe like you, Corey thought.

The clown regarded him briefly, then asked, “Know anything about computers?”

“Me? Not a thing.”

“Too bad.” Turning to the woman, he said, “He’s all yours, Viv.”

As he walked away, Corey said under his breath, “Dickhead.” Uh-oh, he thought again. Not a socially appropriate thought. What would his anger management therapist think?

“You’ve got a couple options, Corey,” said Viv. “You could work our phone banks, although we like to give you a short tutorial if you’re going to do that. You’d have to come back tomorrow afternoon at one.”

“Can’t.”

“Okay, well, then why don’t you join us at that table.” She nodded to a group of women sitting next to a series of windows. “You could help stuff envelopes.”

“Sure. That’s perfect.”

“Wonderful,” said Viv, leading the way through the room. “We’ll be getting another delivery of lawn signs next Tuesday. If you’d like to help deliver them, you could come by late in the afternoon—as long as you have transportation of some kind.”

“I’ll think about it. Is our next governor going to be here before his speech tonight?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Too bad. I was hoping to say hi.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, we’ve met.”

“He’s in and out,” said Viv, pulling out a chair for Corey and getting him all set up. “But you’ll get a chance if you continue to volunteer, I’m sure of it. He’s very friendly, always comes out and talks to us.”

Gosh, thought Corey. What a guy.

The woman he sat down next to was young, maybe midtwenties, with a sweet, schoolgirl kind of look, all freckles and straight brown bangs. Very little makeup. He nodded and smiled his most charming smile, the one he reserved for attractive women.

She glanced at him, smiled back.

He introduced himself.

“Charity Miller,” she said in response.

“You been volunteering here long?”

“Ever since the campaign began.”

“But you have a regular job?”

She nodded. “I’m an assistant account manager at a bank.”

He whistled. “Account manager. Very cool.”

“It’s a living. For the moment.”

“You wanna do something else?”

“I’m hoping to go to veterinary school at the U of M. It’s a hard program to get into, but my grades are good. And I’ve been volunteering at the zoo down in Apple Valley since I was sixteen.”

“How long you been at the bank?”

“A few years. I like the people but not the work.”

His gaze dropped to her hands. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “Where is this bank? I moved recently and I need to find one closer to where I live now.”

“Nicollet and Sixty-first. American Eagle Bank & Trust.”

“Perfect. Maybe I’ll come by one of these days and you can set up a checking account for me.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’d be happy to. Come by anytime.”

He fixed her with a smile of great sweetness and warmth. His eyes assured her that she was the only woman in the room worthy of his undivided attention. She returned her attention to the stack of envelopes in front of her, but he could tell she liked it, that she wouldn’t forget him.

Half an hour later, Corey felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find the clown standing behind him.

“Can I talk to you?”

“What about?”

“It’s … I just need some information.”

Corey had no idea what the guy wanted, but anything was better than staying at the table, listening to two of the women hog the conversation, talking nonstop about their kids. He was about to introduce a different topic—say, body piercings—but Durrant got to him first.

“It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” said the clown.

Corey shrugged and got up, followed him back to his office.

Durrant closed the door and then dropped down on his desk chair. It gave a loud squeak.

Corey pulled a beat-up folding chair away from the wall. “What?” he said, feeling impatient for no real reason.

“I know who you are.”

“Goody. Who am I?” He sat down.

“I thought I recognized your name. It took me a few minutes to put it together. Ray Lawless represented you in a rape case.”

“I served my time.”

“Yeah, but like most felons, you only served two-thirds of your sentence. Not much time for what you did.”

“Thanks to
Ray
, an innocent man went to jail.”

“Sure,” said Durrant.

“You don’t believe me. Fine. Why’d you call me in here?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were him.”

“Now you know.”

The clown was momentarily at a loss. “Takes a lot of guts to show up here and act like you’re just another guy.”

“I am just another guy.”

“Some people here might not be happy to know they were working alongside a rapist.”