He studied me with a bemused expression. “Do you have any remaining friends that you could stay with for a while?”
“I’m not letting someone drive me from my home! Anyway, at least it’s clear now that my mother didn’t kill Hugh, so you can let her out. She couldn’t have snuck into the house today, nor would she make voodoo dolls.”
“You sound just like her.”
Did a sense of humor lurk under that expensive suit?
“However,” he continued, “that doesn’t mean that you’re right. We will release your mother when we are satisfied there is no further reason to hold her. We will investigate the dolls’ possible relationship to Dr. Woodward’s death. In the meantime, we would prefer you didn’t do anything rash.”
If only he weren’t so damn good-looking.
The next morning, I called Bailey. I was the one writing the checks until Mother got out, which might buy me some answers. Plus, I could figure out if any of my friends were trying to scare me half to death.
But Bailey had a different agenda.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the Winters campaign offices?”
Shoot. I’d forgotten. “I’m going to be late.”
“Get your butt over here. I’m supposed to show you the ropes, and I have to be in court in an hour.”
In town, the streets were filling with an assault of early shoppers. Stores strove to outdo each other with festive displays, their red, green and gold spilling into vaguely menacing elf and Santa statues on the sidewalk. The hat on one had slipped down over his eye, turning him into a Santa cat burglar.
The headquarters consisted of two ugly, mint-green rooms on the second floor of a brick office building across from the train station. Nowhere in this town qualified as “the other side of the tracks,” even the other side of the tracks, which was filled with chic coffeehouses, done-in-a-day dry cleaners, shoe repair, and gourmet take-out for New York commuters.
When I pulled the door open, the office was in full swing—or at least as in full swing as four people can be. Maybe more were hiding out “in the field,” like spies. Mary Ellen, wearing a black suit and cream silk blouse so lustrous it glowed from across the room, was talking on her cell phone. So much for Uggs. Jennifer Winters, Andrew’s wife, in jeans and a red L.L. Bean sweater, stood at the copier. Andrew himself talked into the office phone, while a young woman of about twenty-two hovered next to him holding a stack of file folders. No one paid me any attention.
“Sometime today are you going to move into the room and do something?”
I turned.
Bailey Womack flipped her briefcase onto the closest desk and gestured to a chair. “It’s about time. How’d you fall into this nest of vipers anyway?” She grinned.
“Nice way to talk about your boss.”
“All political campaigns are nests of vipers. Winters might make a good congressman, even if he’s somewhat, uh, personally distasteful. Besides, my firm assigned me, and I’m oh-so-close to making partner.” She pinched two fingers together. “Then, no more scut work, like babysitting the campaign while the election law partner skis for two weeks in Vail.”
“Convincing. I hope you’re not making fundraising phone calls.” I sat down.
She looked as if she were gauging my sincerity, then burst out laughing. “Damn, Clara. I forgot how much I missed you.”
It was hard to imagine her sneaking into my house with voodoo dolls. “How about a drink after work tonight to catch up?”
“We do have some history to review,” she said, “like your stealing Ethan Olsen from me sophomore year.”
“You’re not still pining after Ethan, are you? Well, then, I owe you a drink for sure.” Maybe she’d know if someone else in town held a grudge.
She hesitated. “It’ll depend on work, Clara. I’ll let you know at the end of the day?”
It seemed like an excuse, but I couldn’t force her. “What do you do here, anyway?”
“Make sure they file everything by deadline and play by the rules, blah, blah.” She waved her hand, dismissing the work as inconsequential. “The most important thing a candidate has to do is raise money. Andrew wants you to arrange a bunch of fundraisers. You have event-planning experience?”
I nodded.
“I thought you grew up to be a gardener like your dad and Ernie.”
“Some of that, too.”
She swung her skinny hip onto a corner of the desk and lowered her voice. “You probably should have stayed with that. You don’t want to associate with this side of town, you know what I mean?”
“I thought he was a popular candidate.”
“That doesn’t mean people like him. Why are you here anyway?”
She leaned in and I felt myself pull back. “I needed something to do.”
“Last I knew, you weren’t a Republican.”
“Still true.”
“So…”
“Is there a problem?” Why was she giving me the third degree? Was she trying to help me or scare me off?
“Are you the best fit for this campaign, given your circumstances?”
“I should stay home?”
“You could tell them your situation demands more time than you anticipated.”
“Having a mother in jail is the reason I’m here.” I kept my voice low to match hers. Maybe she would get the message behind my words. While she appeared completely relaxed, something underneath was coiled. I reached out to touch her, to reassure her, but as I did, I got a jolt, and tasted blood at the back of my throat. I felt a sudden frisson of fear. Where had that come from?
Bailey said, “You will not interfere with either this campaign or the investigation into Hugh’s murder. You don’t know this family, Clara, so stay out of it, okay?” She paused. “Please.”
I set my bag on the desk. “I have to do whatever I can to help Mother.”
“Suit yourself.” She raised her voice. “So Mary Ellen and Andrew thought an auction—art, bachelors, whatever—and another concert and dinner event. Both would appeal to the local demographic, and maybe even draw in younger people. What
