Vicky Banning (13 page)

“Oh,
oui
, Madame.
Suivez-moi
,
s’il
vous
plait
,” he said with a bow as he turned to lead the way. Vicky recognized his accent as early high school, much the same as her own. She learned accents with ease, but was hopeless at languages. Rather pretentious, anyway, she thought, speaking French in a
Pennsylvania
restaurant at lunchtime. She stalked determinedly behind him, admiring the coats-of-arms lining the dark wood paneled walls, as he marched through the dining room.

Nearing the curtained-off anteroom, Vicky realized that she’d nearly forgotten her props. She reached into her bag and withdrew the pair of eyeglasses she’d borrowed from
Doris
, then propped them on her nose. They were so large that she felt as if she were masked from hairline to lips, but they did add a certain touch to her costume—that of a no-nonsense reporter.

But the room took on a hazy blue, making her feel as if she were viewing the world from inside a dirty fishbowl. A yellow pencil slipped above her ear—a Roz Russell touch—and her notepad clutched protectively at her side, rounded out her ensemble. She was ready, sorry only that she didn’t have a PRESS card to slip into the sweatband of her hat—if she had a sweatband on her hat.

The curtain was swept aside with a flourish by the maître d’, and Vicky entered the private dining room displaying great confidence, to be greeted by a tall, gray-haired man, who she couldn’t quite see. Because of the glasses, she couldn’t tell what he looked like, but could determine that he was smiling at her—a gleam reaching her from the blur above his necktie. “Pleased
ta
meetcha
, Governor,” Vicky said, wishing she’d remembered to bring some chewing gum. She marched forward, hand extended straight ahead, to clutch his large, firm hand in her own. “I’m Vicky Banning.”

“How do you do, Ms. Banning,” the governor said. His voice was deep and dark.

“
Cawl
me Vicky,” she said. “All my friends at
Tha
Noo
Yawk
Toimes
do.” Closer up, she could see his deep-set, dark eyes that she recognized from the newspapers, the hairline receding at the temples, forming a V in the center.

“Vicky,” he said. “Would you kindly do me a favor?”

“
Soitenly
,” Vicky said. “
Whatcha
need?”

The governor’s cheeks narrowed as a slight grin softened his lips. “Would you please drop that awful
Noo
Yawk
accent? No one has spoken that badly since the Bowery Boys stopped making movies, and it was irritating even then. Also, you can drop
Tha
Noo
Yawk
Toimes
business, too.”

Vicky grinned girlishly up at him, pressing his hand warmly. “You checked?”

“I checked. Or at least I had my private secretary check. You remember her, the one with ‘such executive capabilities,’ with whom you spoke earlier today?”

“Well, how about the
London Times
, then?” she asked brightly. “I do a frightfully good British…”

“You must have something pretty important on your mind,” the governor said, “for you to go through all this rigmarole. I’d like to hear it…from the
real
Vicky Banning, if there really is such a person.”

“Oh, there is!” Vicky exclaimed, suddenly at a loss. “It’s just that it has been such a while since I’ve
been
her that I’m not quite sure how she speaks anymore.”

“Try,” said the governor with a smile.

Vicky laughed. “I assumed you would have me checked out, and I’m glad you did. Now we can get down to business.” She slipped off the glasses and looked closely at him, seeing him clearly for the first time. A Cary Grant he wasn’t—
then again, who was?
—but he had an open, friendly expression that made you trust him instinctively, a warm smile, and eyes that seemed to see straight into your thoughts with understanding—a natural politician.

“Please sit down,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time, but I’d like to know what is so urgent that you felt you had to make this such a production. I’m really quite available to the public, you know. Within reason, of course.”

Vicky set her handbag beside her on the banquette, crossed her hands on the table before her, and looked seriously into his eyes. “It’s about the proposed country club that’s to be built in Jamesville,” she said.

“Yes, what about it?” the governor said. “I’ve brought along the few bits of correspondence that I’ve received…”

“But first,” Vicky interrupted. “I’d like to ask you a few short questions. Aren’t building permits mandatory in
Pennsylvania
when major construction is being done? So that property can be reassessed for tax purposes?”

“Why, yes…”

“And that the law applies to everyone?”

“Yes, of course. But what…”

“I see,” Vicky said, looking pleased with herself. “Governor, what kind of car do you drive?”

The governor was growing noticeably perturbed. “Most of the time,” he said, “I use the chauffeur-driven limousine that comes with my office. Otherwise, I drive a Buick. Why?”

“A governor’s salary is, I presume, higher than a small-town mayor’s, isn’t it?”

“Usually, yes,” the governor answered, impatiently. “Now, would you mind telling me where all these questions are leading?”

“They’re leading to a question of
pay-offs,
” Vicky said. She leaned toward him. “The
Jamesville
Park
, according to my sources—which include the wife of the late mayor of Jamesville, incidentally—is being sold to a suspicious-sounding organization that intends to build a private club. An exclusive, expensive club, from what I understand, that will bar most of the middle-class townspeople from joining, since most of them wouldn’t be able to afford the dues. Supposedly, the park, which is a
public
park, is being sold for needed tax revenue.”

The governor gave no response, but listened attentively.

“If that were true,” Vicky continued, “I would understand it. But, according to the records, there is no tax shortage. In the meantime, the mayor is having an extension built onto his house—and I needn’t tell you how much that must be costing—with no building permit in evidence. Interesting, don’t you think? Increasing the value of your property with money from some undeclared source, and paying no extra taxes on it? Strange, too, if he is declaring that the town is in such need.

“And the extension is being built in part to house his new luxury car. So, tell me, if you earn more than he does and drive a Buick, how may I ask can he afford those construction costs and drive a forty-thousand dollar
Porsche
911?”

The governor was silent, but his eyes were quite alert. “Many politicians have private incomes. The mayor’s lifestyle might be due to family ties.”

“Granted,” Vicky said. “But his wealth seems to have come about quite suddenly. He also says that he has tried to contact you regarding the sale of the park, but that you claim to be too busy to bother getting involved.”
That ought to get him
, she thought.

The governor’s eyes narrowed to feral slits, his lips set in a white line. “Let me check my notes,” he said, opening a folder that had been lying on the table. He leafed through the papers inside and flipped the folder shut. “According to this,” he said, “that ‘park’ you keep talking about is nothing more than a vacant lot that people are using as a dumping ground for garbage. Mayor Lambert’s memos claim that it’s an eyesore and a health hazard.”

“A
dumping
ground?” Vicky yelped. “That
vacant lot
, as he calls it, is a beautiful recreational park ground! It has trees, playgrounds, even a lake with ducks and swans. It’s used by the town every day! The county fair is being held in that
dump
at this very minute, with people from all over the state enjoying the festivities. I’m well aware that you’re a very busy man, governor, but you really should see more of the state that you’re governing than just
Harrisburg
!”

Her hands trembled while her voice grew higher in pitch. “Or at least send someone over to Jamesville to see what our
garbage dump
looks like. If it gets turned over to a private group, it will deprive the town of a beautiful open-air space for families and individuals alike, to join with nature and God.”
God? Did I really say that? No, I couldn’t have. I don’t believe I said that. I never say things like that!

The governor leafed through his folder again, with rapid movements, searching. “I know the fairgrounds,” he said, obviously not finding what he was looking for. “Lambert didn’t state what parcel of land he intended to sell.” He looked up at her. “You’re sure it’s the fairgrounds?”

“Very sure,” Vicky said, adding. “If the sale goes through, and it’s discovered that the mayor was on the take, how will it make you look, especially in an election year? If he’s getting a pay-off and the records show that you knew about the deal, but took no action to stop it, won’t people wonder if you, too, didn’t get some of the ‘revenue?’”

“Now, just—”

“I don’t believe it,” Vicky said, quickly. “Honestly. From your record, and the fact that you consented to see me at all, knowing that I wasn’t with
The Times
, tells me that you’re an interested, concerned official. But, if your associates are doing things like this right under your nose, well…”

“I’ll look into it,” the governor said. He closed the folder, ending the discussion. “Somehow,” he added, “I don’t see you as the sort of woman who spends much time in a bucolic park, with or without ducks and swans.”

Vicky cocked her head, glancing sidelong at him. “I’m a woman of many tastes and interests,” she said, smiling. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to hear my British accent? It really is quite good, you know.”

* * * *

“I don’t think we have to worry about the park any longer,” Vicky said to
Dori
, as they drove out of
Harrisburg
. “The governor wouldn’t commit himself, of course, being a smart politician, and I don’t blame him since he had only my word at this stage. But I think the sale will be stopped cold.” She giggled. “I wonder how His Honor, the Mayor, will manage to pay off the car and the new garage when his additional ‘revenue’ stops. Which reminds me, may I borrow your car tonight? There’s something I’d like to do in town.”

“Sure,”
Doris
answered. “Would you like me to drive you?”

“No, no thank you,” Vicky replied.
No sense getting anyone else involved.
“There’s something I have to do alone. Oh, and also, where do you keep your arts and crafts supplies?”

* * * *

Vicky slipped behind the wheel of
Doris
’s car, placing her package on the passenger’s seat. She turned on the ignition, revved up the motor, and braced herself. She hadn’t driven for years, not since she and Gerald had toured the country. Gerald loved to drive, but whenever he got tired Vicky would take the wheel. They’d crossed mountains and deserts, singing to each other as they drove—stopping now and again, for a little hanky-panky in the back seat—until the accident, seventeen years ago. Whether the stroke had caused the accident, or the accident had caused the stroke could never be determined. Vicky, asleep in the back seat at the time, had survived unhurt, but Gerald…Vicky shook away the memory and drove carefully from the parking lot.

The feel of driving came quickly back to her as she eased along the darkened streets. She grew comfortable and confident, deciding that one of these days she’d apply for a driver’s license. As familiar as she had become with Jamesville, she still had to watch the streets carefully. She’d always been a passenger before now and never paid much attention to landmarks, or in which direction the streets ran but, eventually, she found the block she was seeking. It was dark, the trees masking the lights from the few streetlamps along the way. Vicky dimmed the headlights and coasted along the street, which was empty, but for the lone car that wasn’t garaged; a
Porsche 911
.

* * * *

The next morning, the lead news item in the
Jamesville Journal
read:

Mayor’s Car Vandalized.
Late last night, vandals attacked Mayor Lambert’s sports car, a Porsche 911, defacing its finish with streaks of brightly colored finger-paint. A long, yellow stripe was marked down its back and, in red, the words PAYOLA and GRAFT GRABBER were painted on its doors and hood. In deep shock this morning, our esteemed Mayor…