Sweet Dreams, Irene (9 page)

W
ELL, WELL, WELL
—I can guess what kind of emergency you had at home.” Lydia’s comment made me blush to my roots.

She laughed and said, “The gods must be watching over you, Irene. No one noticed you were gone. John’s been tied up in meetings about the Montgomery fiasco all morning, and Brady Scott called to say there would be a press conference this afternoon. Otherwise, all’s quiet.”

I allowed myself a sigh of relief. “I was sure this was going to be the day City Hall caught on fire.”

We talked for a moment and then I walked back over to my desk. I looked over some notes that Stacee had left for me. I didn’t like admitting that she was doing a good job, but she was. I wondered why someone with her brains and abilities would ever get next to Wrigley. She had talent, why use her skirts? I grinned to myself, thinking maybe that was a talent in itself.

I never have been much of a flirter. I don’t consider myself an ugly duckling, but I’m not Miss America, either. I’m not the kind of woman who gets her way by batting her eyelashes. If I did bat my eyelashes, someone would probably hand me a bottle of eyewash. For a moment, I wondered if I might be jealous of the Stacees of this world.

Another moment’s thought, and I knew I didn’t envy her. She was going to have to put up with the attentions of the likes of Wrigley. When I had talked to her a few days ago, she had said something about Wrigley making a fool out of her. She would have to live not only with his whims, but with the kind of lack of respect from her coworkers that had made her run from the newsroom that day.

I sat back in my chair and looked up at the holes in the ceiling, imagining a self-help group called “Flirters Anonymous.” “Hi, my name’s Buffy and I’m a flirter. I once whored my way to the top of a large corporation, and woke up in the gutter.” Murmurs of sympathy in the group. Flirters are featured on afternoon talk shows. Pretty soon, offshoot groups start—Adult Children of Flirters.

“What’s so funny?”

I sat up so suddenly, I nearly rolled the chair out from under me.

Stacee was standing next to me, puzzled by my suddenly crimson cheeks.

“Nothing, nothing. How’s it going?”

“Fine. I got some of those quotes you wanted on various people’s predictions of the election outcome. Did everything go okay at home?”

Her obvious concern further shamed me. “Things are much better. I appreciate your taking over for me. Want to go to the Montgomery press conference with me?”

“Sure.”

As further penance for my daydream, I asked her to join me for lunch as well. We drove down to the Galley and ordered a couple of sandwiches.

“This sure is better than the deli downtown,” she said, delicately biting into a chicken salad sandwich.

“Yeah, Frank turned me on to this place. Someday you’ll have to try the pastrami. Out of this world.”

“Is Frank your boyfriend?”

I cringed. I’ve never liked the term “boyfriend.”

“He’s the man I’m seeing now, yes,” I answered coolly.

She was unfazed. “He’s a cop?”

“He’s a homicide detective.” Don’t ask me why I felt like I had to keep refining her vocabulary on the matter.

Her eyes grew wider. “Homicide?”

“Yes.”

“That must be exciting!”

Good grief, she was starting to squeal. I was regretting my decision to bring her along. But you can’t go back on your penance. Against Catholic Hoyle.

“I suppose sometimes it is exciting,” I replied. “But it can also be pretty hard on a person. They see the handiwork of some very cruel people. Frank just finished working on the Gillespie case.”

Her face fell, all the silliness of a moment ago leaving her. She swallowed hard and said, “The little girl?”

I nodded, and somehow, my appetite was gone. I pushed a dollop of potato salad around on my plate for a while, then gave up.

“I’m sorry. I’ve upset you, haven’t I?”

“No, no—I just feel badly for the family. Crazy, really—I never met them, just read about them. And I could tell that this case really bothered Frank.”

“I can see why. It must be awful, having to investigate something like that.”

I didn’t answer, just thought about Frank, how lost he seemed lately.

“Irene?”

I focused back on Stacee. “Yeah.”

“I don’t think you’re being treated very fairly at the paper.”

I had to laugh. “You don’t, huh?”

She blushed. “I mean, the way people talk. And being taken off crime stories. It doesn’t seem right to me.”

“I can handle it. A friend of mine once told me that having people talk about you is an indication of how much more exciting your life is than theirs.” I smiled, thinking of O’Connor, who didn’t hesitate to outrage the newsroom every now and then.

“Not necessarily,” she said glumly, obviously aware that she was as much—if not more—the focus of newsroom gossip.

I wasn’t going to pursue it. She had, so to speak, made her own bed.

“Let’s go,” I said, and we made our way to the press conference.

The room was crowded. The accusations about Satanism and the high drama of the last twenty-four hours had attracted press from outside of Las Piernas, and many L.A. radio, TV, and newspaper reporters had shown up. I saw one of the photographers from the
Express,
and nodded to her. Brady Scott walked out and said that Mr. Montgomery and his daughter would be with us in a moment to read prepared statements. Following the statements, Brady would be available for questions, but Mr. Montgomery and his daughter would not. Mr. Montgomery had a very busy schedule to meet, on this the last day of campaigning, and he appreciated our understanding.

This sent a rumble of commentary through the room. Although I knew she had been released, I hadn’t expected Montgomery to put Julie up to a public recanting of her confession. Apparently, my cohorts were equally surprised.

The room was suddenly filled with flashes and the sound of camera motors as Monty Montgomery and Julie walked into the room. Monty was all smiles. Julie, on the other hand, was solemn. She carried herself proudly, but she was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes to attest to what must have been a long night.

Montgomery spoke briefly, saying he regretted that the public had been given a false impression by an unfortunate childish prank on the part of his daughter. “The police have never charged her with any crime, and there is absolutely no reason to believe she was in any way involved in any cases under investigation by the Las Piernas Police. It would indeed be a travesty if the premature publication of a scurrilous report in the
Las Piernas News Express
influenced the outcome of the election.”

He sat down, and Julie slowly made her way to the podium. She cast a quick look at me, then began to speak, reading from a text. “I apologize to the Las Piernas Police for misdirecting their time and energy, and appreciate their understanding.” She stopped, and looked back at me. “I also owe an apology to certain people at the
Las Piernas News Express,
who became unwittingly involved in my—escapade.” I could see Monty Montgomery and Brady Scott grow nervous at her departure from the text. Scott stood up and watched her anxiously.

“The text Mr. Scott has given me says that I’m to tell you that this was merely a prank on my part, of which I am ashamed. I do regret the pain it has caused my father. However, I could not condone my father’s own prank, his lie that Brian Henderson’s son is a Satanist. I wanted to even things out …” By now Brady Scott had made his way over to the podium and turned off the microphone. Montgomery was right behind him, looking for all the world like a snake oil salesman who has had to swallow his own merchandise. Shouts and questions went up from the reporters, making it impossible to distinguish anything anyone said. Julie was ushered out by her father, and Brady Scott returned to the podium. He turned the microphone back on and motioned to everyone to sit back down.

“Miss Montgomery has a teenager’s loyalty to her friend Jacob Henderson, and unfortunately lacks judgment. I apologize for her behavior here before you today. In light of what has happened here, we will not be taking questions. Good day.”

Another chorus of shouts went up. I thought Brady was making a tactical error by not taking questions, but I have to say I was enjoying the effect it made on the reporters. He had frustrated them, and I could well imagine how this campaign fiasco would be served up in the media. Far from being his worst enemy, the back-pedaling
Express
would probably give Montgomery fairer treatment than the others. Not that I wasn’t going to make the most of Julie’s statements in my own write-up.

“Wow,” was all a flabbergasted Stacee could manage.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get some reaction from Henderson.” We ended up following a contingent of reporters that apparently had the same idea, and soon there was a good-sized group of us at Henderson campaign headquarters. By luck or design, Jacob Henderson was in his dad’s office, and they walked out to meet the reporters together. I started to favor design.

Brian Henderson had been given word about the Montgomery press conference—obviously someone had called him. He put an arm around Jacob’s shoulder, who was looking shy but not cowed by the sudden attention. I smiled at him, and noticed that he was wearing a long-sleeved light blue shirt and a nice pair of slacks. He didn’t look preppy, but the effect was one which would make you think the best rather than the worst of this kid.

He smiled back at me, and I was happy to see that the photographer from the
Express
had come along—she caught the smile and started clicking away. That father and son took pride in each other was plain to see. A striking contrast to the Montgomery ordeal.

The questions came at them, and they calmly fielded them. No, Brian had never believed his son was a Satanist, and he was sorry Mr. Montgomery’s daughter had felt compelled to take such a drastic action to draw attention to Jacob’s innocence. He added that he thought she was, nevertheless, a courageous young woman. He said he laid the blame for her desperate act squarely on the shoulders of Mr. Montgomery, who was reaping the rewards of his dishonest campaign tactics. Jacob said that he was concerned for Julie and hoped people would not form bad opinions of her. He was proud to have Julie as his friend.

He explained again that the photo in the flyer was taken when he was trying to get a friend to leave the coven. This time, the attitude of those present was clearly sympathetic toward him.

As things wound down and reporters began to leave, Jacob sought me out. I introduced him to Stacee, and was amused that he seemed immune to her charms, unlike 90 percent of the men who had been eyeballing her that afternoon. “Did you save a copy of the school paper for me?” I asked.

He looked sheepish, but said yes. “Have you heard from Sammy?” he asked.

I told him of the call on the machine Friday, but when I said I hadn’t heard from her since then, his brows knitted together.

“I’m really worried about her, Miss Kelly. This isn’t like her. She usually gets in touch with me every day. I haven’t heard from her in so long. I’m kind of scared for her.”

“Well, to be honest, I’m worried about her, too. I’ve got a friend or two with the Las Piernas Police. Maybe I’ll talk to them about her.”

“Do you think she’s mad at me because I had her talk to you?”

“No, she wouldn’t have called me if she was mad about that. You don’t have any ideas on where she might hide out?”

“A few maybe. But I’ve gone by those places four or five times now, and there’s no sign of her.”

“Well, you’ve got enough to worry about. By the way, you look great. And you handled yourself very well with the reporters.”

“Thanks. I kept imagining what it would be like to be the one asking the questions.”

Just then, Brian Henderson walked over. “Hello, Irene. I understand you’re the one who got my son interested in journalism.”

“I hope you weren’t planning to send him to law school. He seems to have been bitten by the bug.”

“Whatever makes him happy. We’re quite proud of him. You should see the story he wrote for the school paper.”

He might as well have given the kid a million bucks.

We chatted for a minute or two about the election. His campaign manager came by and hustled him out the door to an appointment, and we took our leave as well.

“W
HO’S
S
AMMY
?” Stacee asked when we were in the car, driving back to the paper.

“A friend of his. She ran away last Wednesday.”

“On Halloween?”

She had asked a simple question, but it stayed with me, making me feel a chill down my spine.

What could scare a witch on Halloween?

B
Y THE TIME
I had finished writing my story, it was late afternoon. I called Frank and arranged to meet him for dinner, then sat thinking about Sammy. An idea came to me.

I called Mrs. Riley at Casa de Esperanza. Luckily, she remembered me. She told me that everything had been a little disorganized at the shelter since Mrs. Fremont’s death, and she started crying.

I tried to calm her down and commiserated with her. She said the kids at the shelter weren’t taking Mrs. Fremont’s death very well, and there had been a lot of behavior problems as a result. She asked me if I was going to Mrs. Fremont’s funeral the next morning, and when I told her I was, she broke up again. This didn’t make what I was about to do any easier, but I went right ahead.

“Sammy Garden is going to be staying with me for a couple of days and she asked me to come by and pick up a few of the things she left behind.” It was a bald-faced lie, of course. If she hadn’t been coping with the aftermath of Mrs. Fremont’s death, I’ve no doubt Mrs. Riley’s suspicions would have been raised. Instead, she told me how relieved she was to hear that Sammy was safe and with someone who cared about her, and invited me to come on over.

I felt like a first-class heel as I drove over to the shelter, but I didn’t see any other way to try and search through Sammy’s belongings for some clue as to where she might have gone or what might have frightened her away.

As Mrs. Riley led me back to Sammy’s room, she said she was about to leave the shelter to make a run to the grocery store, but Paul Fremont would be around if I needed anything. I wasn’t necessarily comfortable with this news, because I wasn’t so sure I could fool Paul as easily.

When we reached the door of the room, a tanned young blonde with a street-hardened look scrutinized me. Mrs. Riley introduced her as Sarah, and told her I was there to collect some of Sammy’s things. If there wasn’t such obvious animosity between Mrs. Riley and Sarah, perhaps the older woman might have caught the look of pure skepticism on the girl’s face.

As soon as Mrs. Riley left us, Sarah closed the door to the room and leaned up against it. “You’re a liar,” she said, giving me the kind of look that starts fistfights.

I ignored her and went over to the closet. “You might as well show me which of these things are yours, so I don’t take them by mistake.”

“If Sammy asked you to get her things for her, she must have told you what they looked like.”

I shrugged and moved my face closer to the clothes and started pulling out some of the ones that smelled most of incense and herbal oils. I was careful to shield my bloodhound act from Sarah, and the look on her face as I turned around with Sammy’s clothes told me I had appeased her to some degree.

“Where is the little bag of bones?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Are you worried about her?”

“Are you kidding? She’s a pain in the ass.” But she started helping me gather shoes and underwear. I was glad I didn’t have to sort Sammy’s underwear out the way I had picked the clothes.

“Something tells me you
are
worried about her,” I said.

She stopped what she was doing and gave me the eyeball again.

“You don’t know where she is, do you? You made up some story so you could search her stuff. Are you a cop?”

“Reporter,” I said, pissed to be busted by a smart-mouthed kid.

But Sarah had dropped the hard act and was looking at me in wonder. “You’re the reporter she talked to? She told me she was going to get her name in the paper, but I didn’t believe her.” I watched as she reconsidered me in this new light. For all I knew, she could go running down the hall and fink on me to Paul Fremont.

Instead, she said, “Where do you think she is?”

“I don’t know, but I’m worried enough to come in here and lie to some pretty nice people in order to try and find out. Did she say anything to you?”

She shook her head, then said vehemently, “Sammy is such a fucking idiot!”

I knew better than to take that at face value. “She didn’t mention anything that might have been scaring her?”

“She told me that something had gone wrong in the coven, that people weren’t what they said they were. She was really upset about it. But I wasn’t into her dumb witchcraft thing. You know what? I really thought she was gonna drop that bullshit. She even talked about it. Halloween night, she said she was going to get away from those nutcases and find new friends.”

She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and turned away from me. I didn’t want to insult her by acknowledging that I saw she wasn’t so tough, so I turned to the desk and looked through some papers.

“Hey! There’s some personal stuff there—nothing of Sammy’s.”

I stopped and turned around. “Where’s her journal?”

“What journal?”

I was banking on the hope that teenage girls still kept diaries and journals. Sarah had backed me down once; I wasn’t going to let her do it a second time.

“You know what journal.”

She shrugged and put out the cigarette, much to my lungs’ relief, and flopped stomach-down on one of the beds. I thought she was just ignoring me, but then I saw she was reaching under the mattress. She tugged at something and brought out a small, spiral-bound notebook about the size of her hand. She held it out to me. “There’s nothing in it about where she went. I already read it.”

Just then there was a knock at the door, and she quickly sat on the notebook. “Who is it?”

The door opened as a voice said, “It’s me, Paul.”

“I asked, ‘Who is it?’ “she said angrily. “I didn’t say, ‘Come on in.’”

“Hello, Irene,” he said to me, ignoring Sarah. “Mrs. Riley tells me you’ve heard from Sammy. That really is a relief. I’ve been worried about her. Of course, with everything else …”

His voice trailed off and he looked away. I felt awful. I wanted to just confess what I was up to—I couldn’t do this to Mrs. Fremont’s grandson. But before I could say anything, Sarah was up off the bed, and to my shock, embracing me.

“Everything’s such a mess now!”

She was sobbing onto my chest. My hands were full of Sammy’s clothes, and here I was being hugged tightly by this kid who, moments before, had been ready to spit in my face. It was only when I felt her slip the journal between the clothes and my chest that I realized what she was up to. I freed one hand and put an arm around her, and picked up my cue.

“There, there, Sarah, it’s hard on all of us.”

Paul Fremont was watching us, puzzled but immobile.

Sarah looked up at me and said softly, “Well, at least Sammy’s safe.” As she spoke, tears welled up in her eyes, so that by the time she turned to face Paul, she didn’t have to fake her crying.

I studied him as he looked between us, but couldn’t figure out why Sarah had reacted to him as she did.

“Paul, maybe you could find one of the other girls to comfort Sarah. I really have to be going. I can find my way out.”

He nodded, but put a hand on my elbow as I passed him in the doorway. For a moment, my heart leapt into my throat, but he only asked, “Will you be at Grandmother’s funeral tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said, once again feeling shame for being so underhanded.

“And Frank, I hope?”

“Yes, of course.”

“She thought so much of both of you. Thank you for looking after Sammy.”

I couldn’t look him in the eye, so I turned to Sarah. “Will you be all right?”

“Sure.”

On the way out, I walked through a living room full of teenagers, most of whom watched me. Near the door, two tall, muscular men that I hadn’t seen on my last visit stepped out in front of me, blocking my way. They looked enough alike to be brothers. They were both dressed completely in black, and I noticed their left wrists were each tattooed with a chain of skulls.

I can’t say I felt right at home with these gents. It wasn’t so much the tattoos as the look in their eyes. I got the feeling I meant about as much to them as a pesky fly would, and might be dealt with in a similar manner. There was something more—ruthlessness? Yes. They would first pull the wings off the fly.

“Where do you think you’re going?” one said. He was the taller of the two, and he was rolling a toothpick around in his mouth.

“Out. Let me by.” No use bothering with please and thank you with this type. I became aware that the other kids were leaving the room. Great. I was going to face Heckle and Jeckle by myself.

“What if we say you’re staying?” the other said. He didn’t look as if he solved chess problems in his spare time.

I was about to come up with an answer, when I heard a voice say, “Let her go.”

It was Paul Fremont, and his eyes were blazing with anger. They slowly stepped back, no less insolent, but at least they did as he asked. I thanked Paul and left.

B
OTH
C
ODY AND
F
RANK
were waiting for me when I got home. “Hello, boys,” I said as I met them at the door.

Frank looked with curiosity at the mound of black clothes in my arms and said, “Going for a new look?”

Before I could answer, he wrinkled his nose and said, “And a new fragrance?”

I wondered if he would forgive me if I told him I had hoodwinked Mrs. Fremont’s grandson. I decided to delay telling him. I set the bundle down on the couch, where Cody immediately took a very strong interest in the new smells. I turned to Frank and gave him a kiss. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, I’m hungry.”

With a mischievous look in his eye, he held on to me and said, “Damn, I’ll bet you mean you want food.”

“I wonder if Carlson would be willing to add a couple more days on to that suspension.”

“You may have a good idea there. But I’ve got a better one.”

Okay, so we ate a little later than I had planned.

O
VER DINNER
, I told him about Sammy’s disappearance and the stunt I had pulled at the shelter. As I spoke, he started to sit up in that way he does when the business side of him appears. All cop. He asked me a lot of questions, most of which I couldn’t answer, about the coven and the kids she might have known at Casa de Esperanza.

“I don’t like it, Irene.”

“I don’t like it either, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“What if she’s involved in Mrs. Fremont’s murder? You’ve gone in and taken things that might be evidence.”

“She didn’t kill Mrs. Fremont.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. I just know.”

He sighed. “She disappeared the night of the murder, right?”

“Well, maybe. She talked to Sarah on Halloween night, but I’m not sure when. At the most, I think she might know who the killer is. I think she’s in danger.”

“I don’t suppose it ever crossed your mind to share these thoughts with the police?” The tone was sarcastic in the extreme.

“I
am
sharing these thoughts with the police.”

“You know I’m not on that case.”

“Well, then, goddamn it, Frank, tell someone who is. What am I supposed to do? Call up Robbery-Homicide and say, ‘Jeez, guys, I’m worried about a kid who took off from a runaway shelter. She’s never mentioned the murder itself, but I just have a gut feeling that the two might be connected’? Do you think they’ll listen?”

“I’m listening, aren’t I?”

I grasped my head in my hands. “Tell whoever you want to.”

“Irene.”

“What?”

“Don’t be angry with me. You know you can’t give me this kind of information and not have me act on it.”

“I’m not angry, Frank. I’m just frustrated. Tired. I don’t know, something. But not angry with you.”

“Even if they look for her because they think she’s killed Mrs. Fremont, at least they’ll find out where she is.”

“I hope so.” But even as I said it, those hopes were sinking.

“Mind if I go with you tonight?”

I was surprised. “Do you have any idea how boring this last-minute grandstanding gets to be?”

He ignored that. “Which race are you covering tonight?”

“District Attorney. John put other people on the mayor’s race and city council.”

“Well, I have a real interest in who becomes District Attorney,” he said with a grin.

“You’re going to have to work with both of them anyway, and you know it.”

“I just don’t want to sit around by myself.”

“Thank God you told me the real reason, Frank. I thought you had lost your mind. I’d love to have your company.”

W
E WENT
to the Montgomery gathering, which was noticeably subdued. Stacee had covered Henderson that night, and we met up with her later at the
Express
offices. Stacee took an immediate interest in Frank, who—damn his gray-green eyes—was not as immune as Jacob Henderson to her powers. It was all I could do to get her attention away from him long enough to talk about the business at hand. I wanted to strangle her.

I pounded on the keys as I wrote my story and noticed that whenever I looked up, Frank was watching her sashay hither and thither. He would feel my eyes on him somehow, and look down at me and smile. It would be a double homicide, I decided.

I stood up and cleared my desk, and left without so much as a “toodleloo” to Stacee. Frank got up and followed in my wake, puzzled.

When we got to the car, he said, “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You
are
jealous!” The bastard was laughing.

I started up the car. “I am not jealous! I’m embarrassed that a man who is close to forty sat there and mooned over a twenty-year-old twit.”

At this, he only laughed harder. I fumed silently.

Eventually he was subdued enough to find his voice. “Irene, she can’t hold a candle to you.”

My jaw was clenched too tightly to respond.

*   *   *

W
E PULLED UP
in front of the house, and I looked over to see he was still very much amused, but was wisely maintaining silence. Outside the car, the air was chilly and clouds rolling past the moon threatened rain.

I stomped up the walk, but came to a halt about five feet from my front porch. There was blood on the steps. And there was some object on the porch itself, a lump. I felt fear clawing at me, taking me down into some welcomed oblivion.