Andrew was a little older than Mary Ellen, but equally well-preserved. Gold and platinum hair, thick and solid, but not yet fat, an oval face, clean shaven, as all politicians were, so the voters could convince themselves he was telling the truth. He had discarded his suit jacket in favor of the rolled-up-shirtsleeves look, and fine hairs glimmered on his pale arm. “Clara. How lovely to see you. Your mother and I were so…close.”
That was news. I watched him assess my hair, my chin, my breasts, waiting for a reaction, and stilled my revulsion.
“My sister has suggested that you would be an asset to my campaign.” One of his arms slithered across my shoulders like a boa constrictor. “When can you start?”
Pretty short interview. “Whenever you want.”
“How about Monday? It’s only part-time for now, but as the campaign heats up, there will be room for promotion.” He dragged the word out. I wondered what he thought I would be willing to do for eight-fifty an hour.
“Sounds good,” I said. Mary Ellen gave me a sharp look, but didn’t say anything. The boa constrictor slid to the middle of my back.
“Tell me about your skills.” The gin on his breath should have killed the boa dead of alcohol poisoning.
“I have solid research skills from my Ph.D. at Harvard. I worked in France for—oh,” I waved my hand languidly through the air as if the companies were of no consequence and my tenure at each far longer than the few months it had actually been, “Moët, Chanel, Versailles—doing event and PR work.” I moved slightly away from him, but that turned out to be a mistake, as the boa constrictor slid still further south, almost below the equator.
“Perfect. Just what we need. I think I’d like you to start by reviewing our donor files. Mary Ellen, don’t you think she’d be great at planning fundraisers?”
Mary Ellen nodded, her right eyebrow slightly quirked.
Just as the boa started to head south of the border, two things happened simultaneously: I turned to face him, pulling myself free, and someone grabbed my shoulders and tugged me backwards, almost making me lose my balance.
“Miz Montague. I’ve been looking for you.”
Kyle DuPont inserted his bulk between me and Andrew, slapping the maybe-senator’s shoulder. Andrew winced. “Mr. Winters. How are you?”
Andrew said to me, “I see you’ve met our new chief of police.”
“Chief of police?” My surprise showed like red underwear under white pants. This town had changed if they’d hired a black man to lead their police force.
Andrew cocked his head and Kyle DuPont rescued me. “I gave Miz Montague directions the other day. I think she thought I was a detective.”
I nodded, grateful. Everyone knew my mother was in jail, but who wanted it said aloud? “You were looking for me?”
“Only if you’re done with Mr. Winters.”
I looked a question at Andrew. He gave a hearty slap to DuPont’s shoulder, a gesture that backfired, as DuPont didn’t seem to feel it, but Andrew looked as if his arm was vibrating. “No, we’re done. A pleasure to meet you, Clara, and I’ll see you in the office on Monday at ten.”
Chief DuPont guided me to a secluded corner. French doors framed the view of a stone patio lightly brushed with snow. The trees, wound with little white lights, glowed. “You okay?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I’d gotten what I wanted, but it settled uneasily on me.
“Guy has a reputation. Moved in on you pretty fast.”
“I’m not fifteen, for god’s sake.”
He nodded, his eyes focused on Winters across the room. “You should watch out for him anyway.” The coterie of blondes had returned, goldfish around an outstretched hand. Before I could ask him what he meant, he said, “Isn’t that Hetty Gardner?”
“Where?” I turned.
“The one not dressed like anyone else.”
Hetty stood just outside the circle, her long woolen skirt and heavy clogs a thick counterpoint to the other women’s delicate couture. The silver-haired man from Mother’s fête lounged casually on a hot pink loveseat behind her. His eyes were watchful.
“Yes, why?”
“It’s rumored she holds some kind of weird pagan ritual out at that farm of hers. Fire and sheep guts under the dark of the new moon.”
“Is the chief of police supposed to spread rumors about his residents? And to a virtual stranger?”
He focused on me. “You’re not a stranger. I know everything there is to know about you.”
“You’ve researched me?” I think I squeaked. The light through the windows played across the planes of his face, deepening the shadows around his nose and mouth. “You arrested my mother. Why would you research me?”
“I have files on a lot of people.”
“I didn’t do anything.” From squeaking I moved on to sputtering.
“We’ll see.”
My laugh came out like a cough. The muscles in my torso had contracted to a pinpoint, making it difficult to breathe. “Just when I was warming up to you, you had to ruin it by adding me to your suspect list.”
He shrugged. “It’s my job.”
“So you rescue me from Slimebag Winters there just so you can throw me in the lockup?”
“‘In the lockup’?” he mimicked, grinning suddenly. “What is this, a bad episode of CSI?” He leaned in. “And I wouldn’t use that pet name of yours for Mr. Winters too loudly.” He flicked his finger in a half circle. “Lots of ears in this room.”
“Speaking of, how did you get invited?”
“Campaign has to court the town officials.”
“This is the town-est of the town officials, all right.” Nat Mueller, the mayor, sidled up to us and shook DuPont’s hand. Mueller was thirty pounds overweight in a square, bulldog sort of way, but he carried it like a boxer, light on
