Dead Politician Society (20 page)

Laura drained the last gulp from the giant, oversweetened coffee she had picked up on the way to the Star office tower. She smacked a thin pile of paperwork onto the desk.

“This is every single article I could find in your archives that connects all three politicians. We might actually get some sleep tonight.”

“Who's talking sleep? It's not even seven p.m.” Penny sipped at her own coffee, made from the automatic espresso machine in her office.

“I've been awake since sometime yesterday.”

“Right. Susannah. Have you heard from her yet?”

“No.”

“She's young.” Penny picked up Laura's stack of articles. “She needs to stew.”

“She isn't young. She's thirty-five.”

“We're fifty.” Penny waved the stack. “Did you find anything interesting in here?”

“Too much, if anything. The article on top is the one I'd look at first.”

Penny glanced down. “Health care?”

“Manuel Ruiz and Hayden were on the city's Board of Health together. That was twelve to fourteen years ago.”

“What about Leighton?”

Laura shook her head. “I can't connect her yet. But she was a city councilor at the time, so she was on the scene.”

Penny frowned. “What else did you find?”

“Ruiz introduced a tough welfare bill a few years later. I liked it. But as you can guess, it was not in keeping with the bleeding heart position my husband and Libby took.”

“I thought you were a bleeding heart.”

Laura smiled. “I am, usually. But not when it comes to welfare.”

“Anything about housing?”

“I found a statement from Hayden, condemning Libby for capitalizing on a photo op for a successful public housing project she'd tried to quash in its development.”

“Hayden?” Penny's thin eyebrows shot up. “But he and Leighton were in the same party. Weren't they friends?”

“Not friends, no. But they normally got along. I think he was personally outraged about this project. It was a public co-op in a high-end neighborhood — remember when those were all the rage? None of the residents wanted it built, but Hayden had supported the concept from the beginning.” Laura recalled the days when her husband had been willing to take a stand other than the safe, electable viewpoint. They hadn't lasted long. “Libby had been against it, but when the co-op proved to be working well, she rushed in to cash in on the glory. I can see why Utopia Girl chose her.”

“Laura!” Penny laughed gleefully. “You can't say things like that.”

“Why not?” Laura stuck out her chin. “The police think I'm a suspect; I might as well have the pleasure of behaving like one.”

Penny took her head between her hands. “I've created a monster.”

“Oh, ha ha. So were you able to find out more about the secret society?”

Penny nodded. “Affirmative. It's a university group, like we suspected.” Penny told Laura about the Elise Marchand case, and the other not-so-legal causes the
SPU
was said to have championed. “One year — supposedly, because although their business card was left, they were never caught — they managed to break into the Humane Society and let out all the dogs. They did it right after Christmas.”

“The poor animals must have frozen to death, half of them. What could their motivation have been?”

“You got me.” Penny shrugged.

Laura slouched in her chair. Her heart sank to think of Susannah belonging to such an organization. Even if she wasn't guilty of these particular murders, what kind of radical things was she doing with her spare time?

“I also had the chance to phone one of my police sources.” Penny leaned closer, as if protecting a secret, though they were the only two people in the room. “They confirmed the card that you found, but couldn't find anything about the one Sam Cray allegedly found in his wife's belongings.”

“Why would Susie lie?”

“I have no idea.” Penny couldn't seem to care less. “Would you like a glass of wine? I have a white Burgundy chilling in the fridge.”

“Sounds delicious,” Laura said.

Penny moved to the bar by the window, and pulled the wine from her built-in cooler.

Laura had an idea. “Can we email Utopia Girl?”

“I've tried. Little bitch wants nothing to do with me.”

“No response at all?” Laura admired the view behind Penny, of the harbourfront and Toronto Island beyond.

“Worse.” Penny set two stemless wine glasses on top of the bar and went to work with the corkscrew. “She says I'm a self-serving whore and she'd rather no one hear her story than I get credit for it.”

“She must know you.”

“Funny.” Penny handed Laura her glass of wine.

“What about the girl on the obituary desk?” Laura sipped her wine and decided she liked it a lot.

“Annabel?” Penny sneered. “She'd only mess things up. Besides, if I allowed her any contact with the killer, she'd think the story should be hers.”

“Which I take it would be a bad thing?”

“Terrible,” Penny said. “She's aching to get moved off of that obituary desk. She wants to be an investigative journalist.”

“So isn't this the perfect test case for her? With Utopia Girl knocking at her door.”

“It would be,” Penny said. “Except that she gave me her portfolio — you know, to show me that she should be moved up the ladder or into a more journalistic role — and I think she's one of the worst writers I've ever come across.”

“Ouch. Did you tell her that?”

“Of course not! Do you think I like to hurt people?”

Laura shrugged. “It might be kinder in the long run.”

“At any rate, what I told her was the truth. She has an extremely organized mind, and she is excellent at her current job. I said I needed her to keep plugging away at that for now, and I'd keep my eye out for assignments that might suit her style.” Penny paused briefly. “So are you still a lesbian?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, was Susannah your wild oats because you never experimented in college? Or do you think you'll keep dating women?”

“Uh . . .” Laura supposed it was a good enough question. “I hadn't thought about that. I've always considered it a permanent conversion. But then, in many ways I guess I traded one marriage for another. You fall in love with the person, don't you?”

“Hmm.” Penny tapped the desk with her fingers.

“Did you experiment in college?” Laura would not normally ask such a thing, but Penny had opened the floor.

“Extensively.” Penny grinned. “But that's top secret intelligence.”

“It's in the vault.” Laura didn't know where this conversation could be going, so she changed it. “Do you think these old archives of yours hold our answer? Or are we lunatics for trying to make a logical connection where none exists?”

Penny topped up Laura's wine. “How could no connection exist? The murders are real. There must be a motive.”

“Maybe the motivation isn't political.” Laura took a long sip.

“Maybe the pope is going to give all his money to charity.”

Jessica nearly took out a waiter in her haste to find her family's table.

“Ach. Finally. I'm sorry we're late. It's totally my fault.

This is Clare.”

“You didn't miss much.” A young man at the table offered Clare a wry grin. “Just some overdressed watercress and a few choice words from the Honorable John Alton. I'm Rory.”

Clare hoped she didn't look as awkward as she felt.

“Ha.” Jessica snorted. “Mr. Alton is a walking speech. Gramps, thank you so much for getting these tickets.”

“My pleasure, sweetie. Happy birthday. Clare, you take that seat beside Rory.”

Clare sat, and Harry Dunne introduced himself and his wife. Barbara Dunne looked about as pleased to meet Clare as she would have been to learn that Ragu was on sale at the Superstore. Clare returned the smile, though she hoped hers held more warmth.

“How was your politics class today?” Mr. Dunne asked. The question was directed at both of them.

“Which one?” Jessica said. “It's our major.”

“That one you're always talking about. Where you get to change the world.”

“Poli Real World,” Jessica said.

“Isn't that the prof who, like, dates his students?” Rory asked.

“Do you go to U of T?” Clare wondered how Rory might know this.

“Used to,” Rory said. “Until I realized that school isn't for me.”

“What do you do instead?”

“I'm a snowboard instructor at Blue Mountain.”

“It's summer,” Jessica said. “You're unemployed.”

“Yeah, but come on. Chicks don't want to go out with some unemployed dude who lives with his grandparents.”

“Clare wouldn't date you even if you had a job. Stop hitting on my friends.”

Mr. Dunne smiled thinly. “Clare can make up her own mind. I'm interested in your thoughts about the utopia class, Clare.”

Clare took a breath, reminded herself of what Matthew had said: they're just people.

“I'm enjoying it. I love the structure of the course. We filled in these questionnaires to determine which party we belong to ideologically, rather than what party we support in real life.” Wow, she'd sounded like a moron.

But Mr. Dunne continued as if she'd actually been lucid. “Jessica mentioned that you were surprised with your result.”

“Yeah. I mean, I've always considered myself more conservative.” Had she? Clare had no idea. “But it's interesting to look at things from the other side. I mean, the point of utopia isn't partisan politics anyway.”

“And Jessica, you came out as a Tree-Hugger.”

Clare let out her breath as the spotlight moved away from her.

Jessica gave her grandfather a sheepish grin. “I kind of guessed the point of the exercise, so I answered in a way that I knew would lead me to the Tree-Huggers.”

Her grandmother eyed her critically. “Sometimes, Jessica, it helps to put some faith in someone else's ideas, rather than try to ram through life on your own.”

Jessica exchanged a look with Rory. “Grandma, this is one course where my having opinions is an asset.”

“And that's wonderful, dear. But I think you lose out when you refuse to entertain a notion other than your own. That professor had a fabulous idea for party assignment, and he gave you the chance to learn something about yourself in the process. See what your friend Clare learned? You should take a lesson from her.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “This is my education, Grandma. I'm sorry you never had yours.”

“All right, that's enough.” Mr. Dunne's voice was soft, reasonable. “Jessica probably had a good reason to fix the questionnaire.”

“A few reasons.” Jessica nodded assent as the same waiter with whom she'd nearly collided offered to fill her wine glass with red. “The Tree-Huggers are as fiscally responsible as the Rednecks, and as into low taxes, but instead of focusing on big business, their primary goal is to keep the world alive.”

“Hear hear.” A spectacled man clapped Mr. Dunne on the shoulder. “That's a smart kid you raised, Harry.” He turned to Jessica. “Although I prefer the term Conservative to Redneck, if it were up to me, we'd be merging with those Greens to soak up what wisdom they can offer us.”

Jessica smiled brightly. “Hi, Mr. Alton. Sorry I was late, and missed your speech. Congratulations on your cabinet post.”

“Yeah, congratulations,” Rory said. “What's your new job, Minister of Forestry and Trees?”

“Finance Minister.” He peered at Rory as if checking for signs of drug use. “At least you got one kid right, Harry. Thanks again for your generous campaign contribution. Barbara, lovely to see you.”

When John Alton had flitted off to his next contact, Jessica took a sip of wine. “Blegh. Why do they always have to serve Ontario wines at these dinners?”

“It's about promoting local industry,” her grandfather said.

“Which I support. But until we have a consistently decent vineyard in the province, we're embarrassing ourselves by pretending. Is this what we serve to visiting ambassadors?”

“Ontario makes some beautiful wines,” Mrs. Dunne said. “Our ice wines are world renowned.”

Rory snorted. “We should drink ice wine with our steak.”

“Oh, not you, too.” Mr. Dunne shook his head. “When I was in university, my definition of fine wine was anything that didn't make you blind.”

“You've spoiled us with that cellar of yours.” Rory took a gulp from his glass and smiled with obviously fake appreciation. “But you're right. Who am I to knock an open bar?”

“Is that Diane?” Clare pointed out a waitress serving one of the tables across the room.

Jessica turned to look. “Looks like her.”

“What would she be doing here?”

“Um, working. Putting herself through school, you know.”

Of course. Dr. Easton's band of merry servers. And all the society members had gigs, so Clare couldn't narrow her list of suspects that way.

“Do you have a part-time job, Clare?” Mrs. Dunne asked.

“No.” This was an easier question, because she'd rehearsed it. “Just student loans until I'm eighty.”

“Have you always been passionate about politics?”

Clare figured she might as well give the Dunnes their money's worth on her dinner ticket. “Not until recently. My dad always called politics the rich person's sport.”

“What did he mean by that?” Harry inclined his head toward Clare.

“He meant it was another thing to follow, like hockey or football. He thinks that people get all riled up over loving their candidate and hating the other guy, but it doesn't make too much difference who gets into power.”

Rory leaned back in his chair and shoved his salad plate toward a waiter who had come to clear it away. “So what made you choose poli sci? Was it total and utter rebellion?”

Clare laughed. “I started in general arts, but then a bunch of people told me poli sci would help when I applied to law school, so I changed majors, as well as universities, this year. I have some catching up to do, but so far, it's been surprisingly interesting.”

The main course arrived. Boneless chicken breast with mashed sweet potatoes and ratatouille. Clare eyed hers with amusement. At least the money from the tickets was going to the cause, instead of being squandered on the food. She picked up her fork once she saw that Mrs. Dunne had taken the lead.

“And what made you choose law?” Mr. Dunne asked. “I assume that's not a common choice in the trailer park.”

Clare smiled blandly. Educate a Fool, huh? “It was when I was fifteen. My dad's business partner screwed him over massively. It took everything my dad had to sue the guy — and win — but the guy couldn't pay out, and my dad had to declare bankruptcy and go work for the competition. The only people who gained were the lawyers.”

“Fucking typical.” Rory poked at his vegetables. “Is that how you ended up in the trailer park?”

“Rory!” His grandmother gasped.

“What? I can't ask an honest question?”

“It's fine,” Clare said, though she wanted the attention as far away from her real self as possible. She had to work more on her cover story, so the truth didn't slip out by default. “No, we already lived in the trailer park. It was a nice place — lots of trees, a river with great fishing. It was more like a campground, but almost everyone was a permanent resident.”

“So are you gonna be one of those do-gooder lawyers, you know, fighting for the common man? Or are you attracted by the money those fuckers are making?”

“A bit of each.” The thought of being stuck in uncomfortable clothes and a law office all day made Clare's heart sink, but she reminded herself that she already had a job; the ambition was a cover. “Do you have a part-time job, Jessica?”

Jessica sipped her wine and made another face. “Yeah. In catering. I was actually on the schedule for this party, but then my wonderful grandfather landed me this role as guest.”

“I'm glad he did.” Clare was enjoying the meal more than she had planned to. The sweet potatoes were surprisingly flavorful. But she set her fork down quickly when she remembered that somewhere in the room, someone's plate could be laced with something fatal. “So who else from the class works with you?”

“Diane and Jonathan both work a lot of shifts. Susannah does the odd one. And I think Brian took my shift tonight.” Jessica sipped her wine one more time, then set it down with a scowl. “We should ask Diane if they're hiding anything imported in the back.”

“For the bigwigs.” Rory nodded knowingly. “No way the prime minister's drinking this piss.”

“The prime minister
only
drinks Canadian wine,” Mrs. Dunne said. “He's quite patriotic, you know.”

Jessica waved in Diane's direction. “I think she sees us. Let's ask.”

“You guys!” Rory pointed toward the podium. “Get a load of Mr. Alton.”

The Finance Minister, who had seemed fine when he had been at their table minutes ago, was staggering around on the stage with a handful of papers in his hand.

“Do you think he wants to make another speech?” Jessica's mouth fell open.

“Course he does,” Rory said. “A bit of the sauce makes anyone like the sound of their own voice.”

Harry pushed his seat back and went over to John Alton, who had dropped all of the papers and was clutching his stomach in pain. Harry knelt beside him, then rose and spoke into the microphone, which screeched. “Damn it. Isn't anyone here a doctor?”