====================== Brannon's Choice by Richard W. Browne ====================== Copyright (c)2001 by Richard W. Browne First published by Hard Shell Word Factory, 2001 Hard Shell Word Factory www.hardshell.com Mystery/Suspense --------------------------------- NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. --------------------------------- For my wife, Vicki. -------- *Chapter 1* A YELLOW porch light winked on, cutting through the night. Locks snapped open, the door popped free of the jamb. "Mr. Mizelle?" said the visitor in a timid voice. "Yes. And you must be Mr. Brannon." The man behind the door started to smile. "Ahh ... No." The heavyset visitor shuffled his feet and ran fingers through his wet red hair. He tried to wipe his hand dry on his pants. Mizelle frowned. The man outside forced a smile. "Ahh ... Yes. No. That is..." One eyebrow arching and hands turning palms up said "which is it?" for Mizelle. "Yes ... and no ... I am, uh, Brannon, it's just..." The potential Brannon opened his wet raincoat and pulled a business card from the tweed jacket he wore underneath. The card said "The Fan Detective Agency" in big blue, Old English letters, and "Broughton J. Brannon IV, Principal" in smaller, Courier type in the lower right corner. The "IV" had been inked over the "III." Mizelle took the card. He coughed. "So you are Brannon?" Brannon nodded with enough vigor to spray some of the night's rain onto Mizelle's feet. "I thought you might be expecting my uncle." Mizelle moved back a step. "Your uncle is dead. Miss Graham explained that on the phone. She said you're the detective now." Brannon thrust his hands back in his pockets. "Yeah." He waited. "Well, you're here. C'mon in. Better late than never, I suppose." Brannon entered and didn't offer his wet hand. "I'm sorry about the mix up on the dates -- and about being late tonight," said Brannon in a quavering voice. He held his head low, reinforcing the contrition and stood on the rubber mat inside Mizelle's front door. He dripped less. "Oh, I'm not complaining, Mr. Brannon. I'm glad you're here safe and sound," Mizelle held up his hand. "Me and the Missus are just grateful you came all this way, especially after your uncle died." Mizelle expressed his condolences. Brannon nodded. "Take your coat?" "Thanks." Brannon shrugged off the tan raincoat he'd owned since college. After handing it to Mizelle, he tugged at the belt on his brown gabardine pants, trying to tuck his white shirt down. He tugged the loosened tie at his open collar. Mizelle hung the garment on a wire hanger that still had the strip of cardboard used to protect pants. The draft from the closing closet door brought a refreshing whiff to Brannon's nose. "Cedar paneling?" "Yup. Don't make 'em like that anymore," said Mizelle. He sighed and rubbed his hands together. "Come this way, Mr. Brannon. My wife is in the den. We're having hot tea. I assume you would appreciate some yourself after such a long journey." Mizelle headed for the living room. "Thanks. I would." Brannon's usual tenor voice returned. Not knowing what he should do next, Brannon decided he'd better observe his client. An older man, Mizelle stood taller than Brannon's nearly six feet by several inches although Brannon outweighed his host by thirty pounds. Coal black hair emphasized the bald patch at the top of Mizelle's skull. Wire rim glasses worn low on the nose indicated vision whose powers had not completely waned. A worn but neat gray cardigan sweater, two buttons fastened, plaid shirt and navy blue slacks completed the retiree appearance. Brannon first assumed the sadness etched on Mizelle's face came from its obloid shape and droopy jowls, until he saw the man's eyes. Two dark tunnels sunk deep in the skull led to a soul of profound weariness. Brannon shuddered, the chill not off him yet. A rumbling in his stomach told him to run. He burped. "Pardon me." Mizelle didn't look back. Brannon wondered if the man were hard of hearing. Brannon took a roll of chalky white disks from his pants and popped two in his mouth. The mint taste brought saliva back to his mouth. He thumbed his shirt into his pants again as he took in an interior that was bigger than he expected: a large hall with a well-lit stairway leading to a second floor. Several archways led to other rooms. The odors of dinners past permeated the house; not sharp odors, but soft pleasant ones. The Mizelles rarely ate out, Brannon would bet. In the living room, doilies covered an oversized sofa and the arm rests of big soft chairs, the kind for naps. Brannon yawned, thought of the long drive he'd made. The couch beckoned, but he ignored its call. Next to it were lamp stands with little bits of glass blown to the shapes of birds and animals. Porcelain owls adorned dark pine cabinets. Off-white walls displayed counted cross-stitch scenes of Colonial Williamsburg. Brass fireplace tools guarded the small firebox. No TV, no photographs. He looked for a big, arching Philco, didn't see that, either. Brannon stifled another yawn, started to pat the natty couch material. Mizelle pressed on, though, and went through a door into what he called the den. A converted porch, actually; what had been an airy addition to the house back when it allowed people to osmose to the outdoors through screens, now dark and stuffy. Brannon sniffed, detected an open flame. "This is my wife, Mr. Brannon," said Mizelle. He motioned Brannon closer. Brannon couldn't tell where her flower print dress ended and the chair material began. A white shawl across her shoulders blended with her fluffy hair and kept off the April chill. Brannon shivered. "Welcome, Mr. Brannon." As she weakly clasped Brannon's hand with fingers colder than the rain-chilled air, her pale green eyes grabbed him with an appraiser's intensity. "Pleased to meet you," Brannon said, adding an awkward smile. She released his hand, then wiped it with a tissue drawn from her bosom. "Sorry, it's raining out." "I know." She folded her hands in her lap. Brannon didn't think he'd passed muster. "Please have a seat," said Mizelle, indicating a straight back chair. Brannon tried to get comfortable while Mizelle poured tea from a cracked pot shaped like an English cottage. "Sugar?" "No, thank you." Brannon scanned the room, the way he thought he should. Windows lined the three exterior walls while the interior wall to his left was covered with black and white photographs of young women, doubtless the Mizelle daughters. Grandparents by now. Why weren't there any color photographs of grandchildren? "Yes, Mr. Brannon," said Mizelle as he handed over a white cup of steaming amber liquid. "Those are all pictures of our Betty Ann. It's been over twenty years now." Brannon stopped the cup just before his lips. The dark, fuzzy frames of the pictures clarified into crepe drapery. Candles flickered in the far corner around a large, graduation portrait of a young woman in a Sixties' hairstyle. The pictures loomed on the wall next to certificates for academic achievements. Other mementos and trophies stood on tables and cabinets, a shrine to the departed daughter. The walls of the room pressed in on him, like a Christian in a catacomb. One of the names from the multitude he'd passed on Route 13 rushed to the front of his memory. Chappateague Island. Betty Ann Mizelle and Chappateague Island. Brannon exhaled audibly. He set down the tea, cup rattling in the saucer. Mizelle coughed and excused himself. "I -- I'm sorry, folks," Brannon said. "I didn't know when I came here. I'm sorry. No one said anything. I really didn't know. I'm ... sorry." * * * * "I'M SORRY," Brannon said in an irritated tone, his embarrassment long since mutated into annoyance. "I can't help you. The whole world knows Mike Fitzhugh drove your daughter off the bridge to Chappateague Island. I'm sorry she drowned -- sorrier he lived. He was driving with an expired license and probably drunk, too. If you or I had done it, we'd just be finishing a twenty-year stretch. But Mike Fitzhugh was -- and is -- a U. S. Senator from a powerful family and he walked away with a slap on the wrist. You don't need me to prove that happened. That's all my unc ... I do, Mr. Mizelle. The Fan Detective Agency investigates accidents to find who was at fault. We don't get into punishment. The courts do that." Brannon paused. "Folks, there's no mystery here, no unanswered questions." Mrs. Mizelle cleared her throat, apologized, then fixed Brannon to the chair with her pale green eyes. "I've made myself realize that Mike Fitzhugh is going to go unpunished in this life. Many people believe this a country where tyranny and privilege have been banished. I know better. I do not hope to bring Mike Fitzhugh before a tribunal to answer for his crimes -- either in this world or the next." She glared at her husband in a way that said there was a disagreement in the Mizelle household over the latter source of retribution. "We have a different goal." She nodded to her husband to continue. Mr. Mizelle clasped his wife's hands, then took up the thread. "What we want you to accomplish is a simpler task. We want you to clear our daughter's good name." The two smiled as if they had asked Brannon to carry their grocery bag out to the car. He grinned awkwardly. They took it for encouragement. Mizelle continued. "You see, many people have the impression that there was a lot of drinking that night; a wild party. They said Betty Ann and Fitzhugh were heading to the shore for -- um, ah..." He groped for a word he could utter. "He was married then, you know. Betty Ann would never have acted like that with someone her own age, let alone a married Senator." "Betty Anne went there on _business_, Mr. Brannon," said Mrs. Mizelle. "She had worked for Mike Fitzhugh for several years -- since she graduated from Longwood. At first, she really enjoyed herself. She made lots of friends and enjoyed her work. She felt it was important and that she was making a difference; that she could change the world. Betty Anne used to bubble with excitement when she'd come home; it made her poor mother joyous to hear her daughter so happy. Then something happened. Betty Anne wouldn't tell me what it was, but I knew it troubled her deeply. She told me she was afraid to go to Fitzhugh with it, so I urged her to consult Pastor Itensohn about it, but you know how young people are." she trailed off, her intimate knowledge of the ways of young people having ended twenty years ago. Brannon picked up his tea. The cold, bitter liquid jarred him. He wanted to put it down, but his hands squeezed tightly on the saucer. "The week before _it_ happened, Betty Anne said she was going to speak to Senator Fitzhugh," said Mrs. Mizelle. "Did she?" "No, her boss put her off, said Fitzhugh was too busy with his presidential campaign." "He was running for President back then?" Brannon could tell you exactly how many games in front of the Yankees the Orioles had been that year, but drew a blank on the political details. "Wanted to," said Mizelle. He looked at the biggest portrait of Betty Anne, the one where she held a spray of cornflowers, and looked back over her shoulder at the camera. "Fitzhugh had a lot on his mind back then: President, Senator, the War...." He paused and turned to face his wife. "And the terrible tragedies of his brothers. We can't forget the personal tragedies of others, can we, Florence?" He looked at his wife. She glared back at him, lips tight, muscles twitching in her jaw. Brannon rose. He needed to flee the shrine room, get away from the Mizelles. "It's getting late. I don't want to keep you folks up. I'd better be going." Mizelle turned his weary eyes to Brannon. He mumbled about inconvenience, then said, "I'll see you to the door." He patted his wife's hands and then leaned over and kissed her wispy white forehead. Mizelle led Brannon to the front door, fetched his raincoat and said, "It's not raining any more and I could use a smoke. Mind if I walk you to your car?" "Fine." Mizelle flipped on an outside light and opened the door. He grabbed a thin jacket from the closet and put it on. Taking a crushed packet of Marlboros out of the jacket, Mizelle tapped the bottom, then offered it to Brannon. "No thanks. I don't smoke." Mizelle nodded. "Nasty habit, my wife says." He lit up as soon as they left the porch. There weren't any traces of tobacco in the house, not a smell or burn. Mizelle's fingers tips were yellowed and Brannon remembered the cough. The man must take a lot of evening walks, he thought The cold wind that pushed away the storm drove more chill into Brannon. He thrust his hands into the raincoat pockets. Frogs croaked in the distance and a dog barked once. He looked at the flower beds bordering the house that displayed the care only the recently retired could provide. Brannon inhaled the cool smell of wet pavement. In the dark street, only a few neighbors' windows shone yellow through muting shades. They strolled to Brannon's white Plymouth in silence. "Sorry I can't help you, Mr. Mizelle," said Brannon, sticking out a dry hand. Mizelle took two last drags into his lungs and out his nose. He dropped the cigarette, crushed the red glow into the grass and looked up at the sky. "Clearing up." Dropping his hand to his side, Brannon looked up at the moonless gloom. If Mizelle meant his daughter's death, he'd have been exaggerating about that, too. "I don't see how I can help, Mr. Mizelle. The newspapers have been all over this case. Dozens of books have been written; several TV shows. They've all come to the same conclusion -- the conclusion you don't like. What makes you think I can turn up something new?" Mizelle nodded and admitted he couldn't realistically expect Brannon to do that. He walked to Brannon's side and threw an arm on his shoulder. Mizelle spoke softly, barely audible over the night noises. "You don't have to because I've got something new," He dropped his hand from Brannon's shoulder and peered directly at him. The weary sorrow in the old man's eyes contained a glimmer of hope, a flash from a sword of retribution. "I'd like you to talk to a man named Hank Sauer." -------- *Chapter 2* "MR. BRANNON?" "Good morning, Mr. Sauer." Brannon said in clarion tones brought on by the determination to perform his new job in a professional manner. He handed Sauer another altered business card. The old man glanced at it and stuck it in his sweater pocket. "Never met a big city detective before. C'mon in." He waved, a big swooping motion. Brannon took two steps inside and waited while Sauer closed the door with agonizing precision. As he walked inside, his too-big, gray corduroy slippers first slapped the linoleum, then sang a soft purr across the worn wall-to-wall carpet of the living room. Brannon took the hint and followed the gray haired man. Stoop-shouldered, Sauer walked bent forward and shimmied from side-to-side. Brannon looked for a cane. As they approached the sway back couch under the front bow window, Brannon stepped around the coffee table made from glass and driftwood and inlaid with scenes of wrecks off Cape Hatteras. A half dozen well-thumbed TV Guides were stacked on the table, no other reading matter visible. Brannon heard a tinny radio voice coming from another room. A large, old RCA Colorvision TV squatted darkly opposite a lounge chair covered with cracked imitation vinyl. The rabbit ears of the set had been augmented with yards of aluminum foil. Vestigial aluminum foil, because a cable box sat on top of the set. A stack of coasters received as lagniappe with a purchase of Iron City Beer long ago, graced an end table. Metal TV trays, rusting and rickety, supported two lamps trimmed with fringed shades. Red clay flower pots sat in the window filled with barren dirt long since devoid of plant life. The musty smell of the house was punctuated by the sharp smell of dog food. Bric-a-brac festooned the small house. A cabinet held dozens of painted glasses from every major tourist stop on the East Coast -- Niagara Falls, the Statue of Liberty, The Liberty Bell, Cooperstown's Baseball Hall of Fame, Atlantic City (before the casinos, from the era of the surf leaping horse), Ocean City, Hershey Park, The Old Man in the Mountain. Brannon lost track. "My brother used to send me those, before he died," said Sauer, pride of ownership in his voice. Then he shuffled off. Brannon followed into the kitchen, past a large red dish of water and a blue one heaped with moist dog food. The morning sun streamed in through the side window, its brightness revealing the cracks in the linoleum floor, like some artist's conception of Martian surface geology in a 1950s pulp Sci-Fi magazine. Sauer snapped off the radio in mid-weather forecast (no more rain) and pulled a tubular metal chair out from under a breakfast dish-cluttered table for his visitor. Brannon sat on the red leatherette cushion, while Sauer mumbled about the beverage service commencing. Brannon's stomach rumbled. He'd stayed in a cheap motel out on 13, and hadn't stopped for breakfast, only coffee and a small donut. When Sauer poured an ardent spirit from a large, unmarked bottle, he declined the invitation, but accepted a Mountain Dew, instead. "So, you're working for Mizelle." "He hired me last night," said Brannon. His stomach fluttered and he squirmed on the stool. "He wanted me to talk to you about what happened to his daughter. Said you had new developments on the case." "Not really new. Mostly overlooked. Ignored, actually." Sauer looked down at his seated visitor. "It's a long story and it happened a long time ago." Brannon took that for fair warning, but decided to give Sauer ten minutes or so, and then leave. He'd call Mizelle from back in Richmond, tell him there's nothing to Sauer, let Mizelle down gently. He urged the old man to begin. Sauer did, but quickly bounded after a shaggy dog, or so Brannon thought. "Imagine, he didn't know it was a four-twenty KV line!" Sauer delivered the punch line with a twinkle in his deep blue eyes. Brannon woke himself in time and gave a man-to-man nod of appreciation. "Thought you'd like that one, Brannon." The old man stroked his unshaven chin. "Maybe you need a little more background before I can really begin, though." "Background?" Said Brannon. His voice rose and cracked. He wanted to mention the time. Sauer frowned and his head shook. "Background, maybe some history. History _and_ background, I suppose." "Don't know much about history." Brannon barely avoided singing. "Well, I'll tell you then." Sauer held a mason jar containing a clear white liquid of obvious potency. Frequently he interrupted his story to raise the jar to his lips. Brannon studied the thin, rattle-boned man whose brown skin resembled tanned epidermis from a varmint animal, and estimated he had only a small reserve of lucidity to go. He looked at his pocket watch. Ten in the morning and Hank Sauer was well on his way to another insensible drunk. Brannon tapped the watch with heavy pokes. Sauer would take no hints, it was his story -- rather his brother's -- and he was going to tell it his way. "Harry was working late that night. He loved overtime, took all he could get. He was saving up for a new motor for our boat." Hank Sauer drifted off to dreams of fishing the Bay before a stray memory snapped him back. "There had been a real bad thunderstorm during dinner -- wind, lightning hits and all. Swooped up the coast from Carolina, the way the real bad storms do. Knocked out power all over. They called out the crews to clear fallen trees, check transformers, all that stuff. Harry's truck had been working since seven or so. They'd fixed all the main lines and brought back the juice to most people. There were only a few scattered calls that hadn't been answered yet. The dispatcher told Harry to head for the road leading out to Chappateague Island. Since the other two guys on his crew lived in Cape Charles, Harry told them to go home; he'd fix things himself if he could and if he couldn't it would wait until morning. Not many folks out that way in those days." Sauer paused to empty more of the mason jar down his throat. Reflexively, Brannon sucked on the Mountain Dew while peeking at Sauer. Pushing back the sleeves of his worn, brown cardigan sweater, Sauer displayed forearms lean with sinew and shrunken muscle. He never sat down, rather he stooped forward as he talked, one arm on the table or chair, the other holding the Mason jar. Reading glasses for his tired, bloodshot eyes hung on a lanyard round his neck. Two sunken cheeks ran like fault lines into the upthrust of his hawk-like nose. Pulled tight around baggy, tan trousers was a belt whose buckle was fixed in a hole he'd punched through himself. Either Hank Sauer wasn't much of a shopper or he'd lost quite a bit of weight since he'd bought it, Brannon surmised. Sauer belched, put the jar down, and continued. "Harry had climbed to the top of a pole near the bridge leading out to Chappateague. He was just about to reset the transformer when he noticed some headlights coming down the road. The car was going too fast, way too fast. And it was fishtailing -- you know moving like this," Sauer wriggled his hand and fingers. "Did I mention it was a dirt road back then? Didn't pave it until after the accident. All the tourists, I guess." Sauer grew silent thinking about the influx of tourism to the Eastern Shore, Brannon assumed. After the old man remained silent for several minutes, Brannon thought he'd lost him. He pushed away from the table to leave, but the movement kick started Hank Sauer. "First, Harry thought the guy was gonna hit the pole. He shut his eyes, grabbed that pole and hung on for lack of anything better to do," Sauer shut his eyes himself. "But the car roared past and Harry heard it going towards the bridge. He opened his eyes and watched the guy, expecting the brake lights to flash -- the driver had to turn left onto the bridge -- did I tell you that?". Brannon nodded. "Damn car missed the turn and shot right past the bridge. Then the brake lights come on," Sauer said in tone that implied only miscreant's brake lights blinked red. "He backed up right quick and turned onto the bridge. Started up it fine, too. But then he gave the car some gas -- gunned it?" Sauer looked at Brannon to see if he understood this colloquialism. Brannon nodded again. "Car shot right off the bridge into the bay." Sauer skimmed his hands together quickly, the right veering off to demonstrate the plunge of the car into the water. "Well old Harry scampered down that pole -- he was good at it, used to win competitions. He ran to the edge of the water where the car had gone in. Must have dropped fifteen, twenty foot into the water. Water must have been maybe twenty, twenty-five foot there, too. Watched the air bubbles come up. Small ones; big ones." Brannon felt the tingly carbonation on his tongue and swallowed the rest of his drink. Sauer continued: "He was wondering what to do, if he should radio for an ambulance first or the Sheriff, when two people come out of the water. Broke the surface like two seals. A man and a woman it was. Some up out of the Bay like in a monster movie. Sure startled ole' Harry. He stared at 'em as they walked ashore. The man looked sort of familiar -- I suppose you know it was Mike Fitzhugh, but Harry couldn't keep his eyes off the woman. Not that she was all that pretty or anything. No sirree, don't get me wrong on that. What caught Harry's eyes was the way her dress was clinging to her. Wasn't much he couldn't see. Nowadays they all dress worse'n that at Ocean City. Wasn't like that back then." Sauer smacked his lips, over what, Brannon didn't care to guess. "Betty Anne, Mr. Sauer," said Brannon. "Can we get back to Betty Anne?" "I'm coming to that part," said Sauer. Brannon settled in, unable to leave without hearing the old man out. "The man hugged the woman. Just hugged her mind, you. No kissing or anything. They was dripping wet, of course. Fitzhugh was shivering. The woman? I don't think so," Sauer said as he slowly shook his head. "She looked like she was born cold. Then Mike, he checked his pockets and discovered he'd lost his wallet. He wanted to go back down and get it but the woman didn't want him to. She just wanted to get the hell out of there and kept looking at Harry like she wished he wasn't there, either. They argued about it awhile, but Fitzhugh wouldn't go without that wallet of his. Finally he looked at Harry and said 'If you'll go down and get my wallet for me, there's a hundred dollars in it for you'. Well a hundred dollars was a lot of money in those days," Sauer's habitat indicated that one hundred dollars was still a lot of money these days. "So Harry takes off his clothes and dives into the water." Sauer shuffled over to the kitchen counter, heels flapping, and set the empty jar down next to a clear glass gallon jug. The jug had the white remnants of a label outside and about a pint of liquid inside. He poured some more into the mason jar. His hand quivered as he raised the drink to his lips. After three gulps, he looked at the jar and the gallon jug, splashed in the rest, didn't bother to wipe the overflow. He shuffled back over to the table, hovering, not looking at his visitor. "This was maybe thirty minutes after the car run off the bridge. The bubbles had stopped coming up to the surface, so Harry figured he would have trouble finding the car under the water. Locating it, I mean?" Again, Brannon nodded. "Took eight, nine tries to find the car. Then he had to find the door and get it open, which he did. Powerful tiring work it was -- he'd been working overtime since seven -- did I mention that?" "Yes." Brannon ran a hand through his red hair. "He came back up to the surface for one more lung full of air and dove back down. He was feeling around in the dark for the wallet, when he felt something on his back," Sauer pointed to his own back and pantomimed his brother's movements to turn around in the sunken car and grab the object. "It was a hand, a woman's hand reaching over from the back seat. Scared life's own stuffing out of Harry, it did, until he remembered the woman from the accident. Thought she'd got impatient and dove down to help out. Then he saw the face." Sauer stopped, his own jaw dropped and bloodshot eyes widened. "It was hideous, that face. The face of a drown-dead woman. The face of Betty Ann Mizelle." Sauer gulped down the rest of the mason jar's contents and looked for more in the kitchen cabinets. He trembled as he teetered across the floor. Whether the shakes were from years of pouring potent spirits into his liver or the thought of Betty Ann Mizelle, Brannon couldn't tell. "What did Fitzhugh and the other girl do? Were they shocked? Did they know Betty Ann had been in the back seat?" Sauer screwed up his face and looked at Brannon like he was a rude child. "Of course they was shocked. Why there was a dead girl down there," Sauer shouted. "That's what I told the Mizelles, too. Mike Fitzhugh couldn't a been trying to fool around with Betty Ann. For one thing, he had that other girl -- though Betty Ann was a mite prettier than that one. I mean, what would Mike Fitzhugh want with two girls out there that night?" Brannon leered at Sauer. "I mean back then, Mr. Brannon. A man didn't even think of two women in those days. We was just happy to have one. Two women," he spat. "It's all that cable TV and VCR's, that's what it is," he lapsed into silence, then poured more of the clear liquid. Brannon hadn't noticed where the fresh supply had come from. Staring at the ceiling, Brannon edged the kitchen stool up onto its back two legs. A three prong fan hung limply, a wire pulled out and dangling. He tried counting the dead bugs in the glass saucer surrounding the ceiling light. Sauer's story didn't explain how Betty Ann Mizelle ended up in the back seat of Mike Fitzhugh's car, but it did clear Betty Ann's reputation. Sort of. The whole thing was so ancient, though. He rubbed his face. Brannon needed to focus, needed to talk to someone else about it. Hobie Pickett was in Richmond, a four-hour drive away. He looked hard at Sauer, trying to fathom the wizened old man. "I never heard that story before. How come it never came out at the inquest? How come nobody ever wrote about it?" He tried not to sound too accusing to the frail man lest he clam up. He need not have worried. "Oh, Harry never told anybody about it. Didn't mention a thing about it to anyone. Never came forward at the inquest. I imagine he was paid off by Fitzhugh, that I do," Sauer's voice had begun to slur. "No sirree, he never said anything to anyone about what he saw out on Chappateague, right up until the day he died. Except to me, of course. I did mention he told me, didn't I?" Brannon allowed as how he had figured that part out. "Good," said Sauer. "I thought you was a clever detective. You look like a clever detective." Sauer shuffled and clopped over to the new gallon jug. He missed Brannon's blush. "What about the girl, the other girl, the one who came out of the water with Mike Fitzhugh? What happened to her? Why didn't she ever come forward?" Sauer shrugged. "My guess is those Fitzhughs paid her off, too. If Harry was smart enough to get hush money out of the Fitzhughs, she must have been too. Makes sense, don't you think?" Brannon wanted to say nothing made any particular sense right now, including him sitting in this man's kitchen on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. Instead, he said, "Yeah, I guess so. Why did you wait all this time to tell the Mizelles? Nobody paid _you_ off, did they?" He motioned to the contents of Sauer's house to prove the point. Sauer stroked his chin. "No, I earned all this over the years." Sauer stepped out of the kitchen and motioned to the glass collection, too sacred to be employed as vessels for his moonshine. "No. Nobody paid me off," Sauer said softly. He fiddled with the knick-knacks, shifting them in random patterns, then rejoined Brannon. "Got me the cancer now, though. Don't have long to live. This helps the pain." He toasted his illness with the mason jar, now full. "When I'm gone, nobody would know what happened out there, nobody at all." Brannon fidgeted with his watch. Sauer ambled slowly back to the table. His trembling hand grabbed the chair and, with visible pain, he sat himself down. "I never believed a nice girl like Betty Ann Mizelle could have become fast and loose; start running around with Mike Fitzhugh, him being married and all. Did I mention that the Mizelles go to the same church my wife and I used to go to?" Brannon admitted that was a new piece of information. Sauer smiled with satisfaction. He saw no sign of Mrs. Sauer. Or the dog, come to think of it. Brannon suddenly spun around expecting to find a hound somewhere. He didn't. "I never liked that Mike Fitzhugh. He never did anything for the Eastern Shore. Spent all his time in Washington and Richmond -- West Coast places like that," Sauer believed Easton was as far West as any respectable man would ever have need of going. "Mike Fitzhugh got his come-uppance when that TV feller, that Mudhen, asked him right out loud on national TV what happened that night. Cost him the Ovaltine office, too, it did. Right there on TV." Sauer reflected that there was a touch of justice in this terrible tale, after all. "Where would I find this girl, this second girl, Mr. Sauer?" Seemed like a good to place to start. "No idea. It's been twenty years." Sauer stuttered the last, like a lawnmower with only a slosh of gas in the tank. Brannon winced at the possibility of tracking down a woman after two decades. The glass trembled in Sauer's hand, liquid splashing his chin as his quivering lips sought relief. Brannon waited for more clues. "Times up," Brannon said. Sauer didn't hear him. "I'll let myself out, Mr. Sauer." Brannon rose and walked out of the kitchen, wondering what it all meant. "Mr. Brannon," called Sauer from the kitchen. Brannon had one foot out the front door. "Yes?" He walked back to the living room. Sauer slap-clomped in. "Are you going to clear Betty Ann's name, Mr. Brannon? That's why I told all this to the Mizelle's. It's about time people knew the truth about her." Sauer's eyes pleaded with Brannon. "Yes, Mr. Sauer. I do believe I'm going to do my best to clear her name," Brannon said. He pursed his lips and nodded in a confident manner. His stomach fluttered from the deception. Sauer reached out with both his gnarly brown hands and shook Brannon's. "God bless you, Mr. Brannon." Then, he thought a moment and added, "Good luck, too." -------- *Chapter 3* BRANNON'S HAND fumbled, then flicked off Noah Adams' voice. The left eyelid cracked open. Surroundings not yet familiar pressed against his brain, gradually breaking through. His own bed. He yawned, stretched under the blankets, then kicked off the covers. The other eye opened. Bare feet dragged him, stretching and yawning, to the window where the hand pulled down on the shade. It shot up about, exposing dirty glass. Streams of sunshine pummeled his eyes, like some feisty lightweight. Battered, Brannon grabbed the windowsill for support, and let his pupils adjust to daytime. Outside, traffic worked smoothly round the circle, which avoids Robert E. Lee's statue. Brannon admired his excellent view of Traveler's bronze butt. He yawned and made for the bathroom, stepping over a six square foot map of Northern Virginia covered with gray and blue cardboard counters. Accomack County seemed a weird dream as he showered and shaved. His mind jack hammered at Sauer's tale of Betty Ann Mizelle and Mike Fitzhugh, trying to reduce the thick layers of the past to portable chunks. No neat theories popped out. Not that he expected any. Plus he had more important matters to consider, matters that would render the Mizelle problem moot. A short stint on the porcelain throne produced no movement on that front, either. A desultory trip through his wardrobe produced a serviceable outfit for the day, brown pants and a beige dress shirt. As he started to put shoes on unstockinged feet, Brannon caught himself. A quick check for underwear was positive. Black socks were found and donned, tweed sports coat slung over his shoulder; an orange and tan plaid tie discarded, then shoved in a jacket pocket. He foraged in his kitchen. No coffee, stale rye bread. No pastries. A box of Entenmann's chocolate donuts he remembered buying on Washington's Birthday. He tried to cut into one with a white, plastic knife, but the disposable cutlery snapped instead. Opening the refrigerator, he ran a finger over condiment bottles in the refrigerator door, but found no real food. He reached inside. Behind the beer cans and soda bottles stood a cardboard container of pineapple-orange juice that retained a fresh citrus smell. He drank from the carton, a small slosh, swirling it over his tongue and gums and chewing as if it were fine wine. The tangy fizz was Stepmother Nature's way of warning him off. He dumped the rest down the drain and tossed the container onto an overflowing trash can under the sink. It clattered to the floor where he left it to resume his search. Ice cubes and ice cream in the freezer, no frozen waffles. His stomach rumbled. He decided to walk to work, pick up something on the way in. Coming out the front door, the bright morning sun glistened off the restored finish of Lee and Traveler. The thought of all those VCU students carefully polishing the bronze during long, hot days gave him a strange sense of pride. He didn't belong to VCU, or any Confederate descendant group, didn't even feel a true resident of Richmond; but his traffic circle had a well-kept statue and most people didn't. Dashing across the street to the grass surrounding Lee, he dodged the few cars mustering for rush hour on Monument. He looked back east toward downtown and saw another horseman rising from the center of Stuart Circle, guarding the hospital of that name. Unreconstructed Richmonders made a big deal about Lee's statue facing south; how he's turned his back to the hated North. Then they changed the subject when asked why, one block away, Jeb Stuart doesn't mind looking forever North. The current wisdom attributes the difference to Stuart's death in battle and Lee's in old age, but Brannon couldn't see compass points as an explanation. He walked briskly across the grassy circle. He paused to look west down the wide median strip that gave Monument Avenue much of its charm and utility. The blooming trees tried their best to block his view of the Davis Memorial. Disparaging Yankees call Monument Avenue "The World's Largest Collection of Second Place Trophies." Brannon wondered why the winners didn't treat their heritage with equal care. He made his way to Allen Street, with its aging, but neat, houses in assorted architectural styles. The trees had the right density to keep the street cool, yet sunny. Brannon hummed "The Voices of Spring," stopping when his fast gait broke into skipping. At Park, he walked past the triangle containing the First Virginia Monument, a buckskin clad pioneer on guard for redskins of the non-Washington variety, to a corner shop. There he bought a cup of coffee -- large, no sugar, plenty of milk -- and a glazed donut. Brannon let the coffee steam his sunglasses, then wiped off the dust with the paper napkin. He sipped and strolled slowly, munching the donut, then licking his fingers. He smiled at his sunny morning, not wanting to find work, content in his thoughts and simple food. He let foot follow foot, arriving at the Fan Detective Agency before he'd downed the last of the coffee. He found the front door unlocked, so he slurped the rest of the coffee, and bounded up the steps over the architect's office. "Good morning, Bruff" said Miss Graham in a tone of cheerful efficiency. "And good morning to you, Honey," he smiled back. "Coffee?" she asked. He held up the empty Styrofoam cup. "You do like you need more, Bruff Brannon." Brannon nodded and watched her fetch it, still marveling at her voice. When he'd first spoken to her from Baltimore, his imagination had gone wild; a creamy satin voice, lightly seasoned with a soft Southern accent. The scent of magnolias seemed to waft from the phone. He couldn't wait to meet her. Visions of afternoon dictation sessions stretching into soft summer evenings rustled gently in his mind. He was a few decades too late. Not that Honey didn't squeeze a pert package into her ruffled blouse, black A-line skirt and patent leather heels; enough clothing to hide the effects of time and gravity without descending to drapery. A turned up nose and almond eyes topped full lips swathed in bright red lipstick. Only the crinkled skin of her heart-shaped face betrayed the weathering of age and the dings of a hard-run life. Honey's fragrance matched the mellifluous sweep of her pale yellow hair and its flowing, upturned styling. Lynn Beaumont said it was tinted, of course. Lynn also told Brannon that Honey and Uncle Bruff had a "thing" going. She stomped away when Brannon said he hoped to die with a smile on his face, too. Pleasant to strangers and other small animals, the only blight on Honey Graham's life was the W. K. Kellogg company. When they came out with that cereal, she took it personally. Janes Johnson swore she spoke to lawyers about a defamation suit. Needless to say, none dared eat boxed breakfast foods in the office. "Your new license came in yesterday," Honey said as she walked over to the wall. "I put it in a frame and hung it right next to Bruff's." "Actually a little lower," he said with a smile, as she brought the coffee. "What was that, dear?" "Nothing." Brannon took a sip. Cream, no sugar. perfect. "When Garnett comes in, tell him I'd like to talk with him. I need to pick his brains," Brannon said as he accepted the porcelain mug. It had a tomahawk logo on one side and "Richmond Braves" on the other. "Sure, Bruff." Her tone sounded a little disappointed. "What's wrong?" He asked. Brannon held the hot mug with two fingers of his right hand on the handle, while balancing the rim against as little of his left index finger as possible. "I put all the old records on your desk. You promised you'd go through them this week. I was hoping we could do that today." Brannon answered by walking into his office, where, sure enough, the desk was stacked with musty old books and ledgers. The far wall supported a pile, too. "What am I supposed to do with these, again?" He said the words with obvious distaste. Honey entered the office with arms folded tightly across her chest and gave him a frosty look. "This is your history, Bruff, the Brannon family history. Over one hundred years are in these books." Honey picked up the nearest volume and held it under his nose. "These are why Bruff left you his business. They'll tell you why he wanted you to carry on," she said with evident pride. "Aren't you the least bit curious about these?" Brannon nodded. He was curious about the books, but not this morning. He said so, while his mind drifted. "Is Garnett going to be here today?" "Yes, he is," she said firmly as she left the room, knowing she had answered that question not sixty seconds ago. "At least that is what he told me yesterday." Left alone, Brannon stood beside the desk and ran one hand over the top volumes. A rough material covered the tan books, while use had worn the green to a pool table finish. The leather trimming on the volumes along the wall gleamed in the morning sunlight. The coffee odor reminded him he still held the mug, so he sipped and looked at the piles of unopened volumes. Hobie Pickett could tell him what they would bring from collectors, if he decided to sell. He moved a stack to clear a spot for the cup, which revealed a tome covered in black leather inlaid with diamonds of dark red. He ran his hand over the front cover and turned the book to the side. Thick reinforcing spines down the side created five separate rectangles. Someone had written "May, 1893 to March, 1896" in thick white ink in the top panel. Gently opening the book, Brannon revealed stiff, parchment-like pages, brown with age. A messy, yet florid, handwriting flooded the pages, here and there marred by blotches of India ink. Dated entries consisted of meeting times and notes of people long dead, places renamed and fees collected and spent. Dull stuff, he thought, riffling the pages with his right thumb. Even with the coffee, Brannon couldn't help yawning. He put the book down and covered his mouth. What in God's name did Honey Graham think he would do with these? What had Uncle Broughton done with them? Tossing his brown tweed coat onto a stack of books, he plopped down into the big, soft chair behind the desk. He didn't put his feet up on the desk right away, not until after he clasped his hands behind his neck for support. Uncle Broughton. Broughton J. Brannon III. The third owner of the name to die. He'd be the fourth, when his time came. In school, friends were jealous of him. He didn't have to share his name with anyone, only one Bruff. Lots of Joes and Bills; Cathys and Sues. There were even two Mike Joneses in high school. Hated each other, hated sharing a name. One was tall, dark and skinny; the kind of kid you could rip a rebound away from. The other was blonde and Brannon's height, not athletic at all. The two didn't look or act alike. Classmates seldom confused the two in conversation, the topic implied the boy. They had no common interests, no shared friends. Despite the age difference, uncle and nephew had a lot in common, including looks that went beyond mere family resemblance. Lay down an old picture of Uncle Bruff as a boy next to one of his, and you couldn't tell the difference. Same chubby cheeks, same way of standing with all their weight on the left foot. The red hair and freckles did a lot, most red heads looking the same to non-redheads, he'd learned. The Howdy Doody syndrome, he called it. They shared a lot of the same interests, too. Uncle Bruff was the only adult who'd play "Stratego" with him. He'd given his nephew the set for Christmas one year, then sat down and taught him the rules. When Uncle Bruff visited, they played, as traditional as the Thanksgiving turkey Bruff's mother prepared, or the football game they watched. Uncle Bruff had christened the Thanksgiving Day game "The Broughton J. Brannon Invitational Tournament." Bruff Brannons, only. After the game, they'd write each year's result using Bruff's father's quill pen and India ink. They kept it in the box and took it out each year, reminiscing about the prior games. "Remember the first year?" Uncle Bruff always began. "You charged your Marshall right into my bombs. Lost it right off the bat and started to cry. I had to give you a 'do over', let you have your Marshall back. I still won." Uncle Bruff never let Brannon forget that 'do over' game. Brannon reached across the desk for his Braves mug and drained the rest of the coffee. Didn't seem possible Uncle Bruff was dead. There would never be another "Broughton J. Brannon Invitational Tournament." Bruff had won the last three years. He'd almost pulled even with his uncle, needed one more victory. This year Bruff was certain he would have done it, too. But Uncle Bruff had driven to Accomack, instead. Bruff wanted a 'do over'. "Honey said y'all wanted to see me about some new case?" Garnett Davis walked into the office with a confident stride. Brannon snapped up in the chair. The older man smiled. "The ledgers." Davis picked up one, then sat down next to Brannon's desk. "Bruff sure did love these, he did. Used to shut the door and read them when he was pissed. Sometimes for hours. Once he stayed in here for three whole days, _reading_." Davis winked. "Never figured out what he did with 'em. He taught Honey about them, though." He chuckled at that, and winked again. Brannon listened, his fingers tightening on the chair. "Honey said you have a new case." Davis spoke with the Richmond accent that is a Southern lilt implanted with Canadian "O's", as in "oot" and "aboot" for "out" and "about". Yet a lifetime of Virginia living did not show on Davis' skin, the winter having faded his tan back nearly to the day he was born. Taller than his new boss by several inches, he stretched out his long legs and folded his big hands across a belly recently grown large with prosperity. His thinning hair retained its jet-black luster. Green eyes flecked with yellow danced with delight at the prospects of a new case. Davis wore a white shirt open, without a tie and a sports coat somewhere on the line between green and khaki. His pants were tan and didn't really go with the jacket, but Brannon wouldn't say anything. Davis took out a cigarette and fired it up. Brannon acquiesced. In Richmond, folks don't ask to smoke, they do it. Brannon found the little copper ashtray his uncle had left behind, and balanced it on top of the pile of books nearest Davis. The older man ignored the copper tray and tapped his ashes into his coffee mug ("YOUR lack of planning is not MY emergency"). Brannon wouldn't swear to it, but he thought Davis took a few more sips as Brannon sketched in details about Accomack. "Did you bring back a retainer check?" Davis broke in. The younger man looked blank. "The client is supposed to pay us. Did you forget that again?" Davis had him there, Bruff hadn't ever discussed money with the Mizelles. "Well I'm not sure I want to take the case. That's what I want to talk to you about." said Brannon, thinking he had covered up quite well. Davis raised his eyebrows, exhaled more smoke than Brannon had ever seen come out of a lung before, and said, "Spent two days on the Eastern Shore, one night in a motel and you're chalking it up to your experience. No billables, right?" "If I take the case, we send the bill." "Well, I have something for you, too," Davis said, brushing aside the rest of Brannon's story. "I've noticed that you don't really like this business and I'm not sure you're cut out for it." They sat silently for a few moments. Brannon didn't understand Davis, yet the older man seemed to read him as easily as the sports page. "No harm in trying something new, but not everyone is cut out for security work." Davis gave Brannon an appraising look. "I know you're thinking of selling out, but we don't want to work for Morgan. What would you say to a leveraged employee buy-out?" Brannon didn't have to play dumb, he was. "A What?" Davis plopped the cigarette into the coffee mug and rose. Standing by the window, he assumed a pose that said he was looking for the right words. "Look, I know you've had a bid from Clive Morgan to buy this place. My sources have even told me the figure." Davis named the exact amount Morgan had offered. Brannon wondered who his sources were. "Honey and I and some of the others have been thinking about our futures, too." He paused to light another cigarette. Smoke billowed toward Brannon, Davis watching, expecting some conversational impact. Brannon coughed. "We all like it here, always have. We don't want to work for Morgan, but we don't think you want to stick it out." Brannon squirmed. "Go on." Davis shrugged and said, "We decided to put together an offer. None of us has enough money, on our own. But I was reading in Fortune magazine about these things called ESOPs. Employee Stock Ownership Plans. It's when the employees buy the company from the owners to save their jobs. Happens a lot these days." He trailed more smoke. "Leveraged ESOPs. That's what the Wall Street types like best. What we'd do is this: you and I agree on a price. Then we'd take the stock to the bank and get a loan for the sale price. The bank would keep the stock as collateral for the loan. We'd pay the loan off with cash from the business. You'd get your money, and we'd keep our company." Davis exhaled more smoke and smiled. "It's a win-win situation. What do you say?" Brannon thought for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Do you have any projections, any figures?" Davis tried to shake off the idea like a veteran pitcher does a rookie catcher. "Who needs projections? We agree on a price and we pay you." "Not for me." Brannon smiled. "For the bankers. They won't give you a loan unless you can show them how you're going to repay it. For that you'll need financial projections; balance sheets, pro forma income statements, cash flow statements," Brannon said, certain Davis had nothing of the kind. "I don't need that stuff. Got me a friend down at the bank. Old Fred Claiborne. He's a good ol' boy. He'll give me the loan. And he won't hassle me with paper work neither." The good ol' boy network. Brannon had forgotten about them. Garnett Davis had probably gone skinny-dipping in the James with Fred Claiborne and was there when Fred did what Fred's mother still wasn't to know about. Which is okay by Fred because Fred knows all about Garnett and the colored girl in Petersburg right after they got out of the Army. No loan ever was considered unsecured when backed by a Richmond friendship. The morning sun had risen, its rays angling down rather than barging straight through the blinds. The bright sunlight caught Davis' sports coat and highlighted every hideous hue of green and brown in it. Brannon hadn't noticed the faint attempt at a Glen Plaid pattern before, a worse detail than the colors. Davis smiled, self satisfaction spread over his face like jam on a two-year-old. Bruff had one more objection. "Let me see if I've got this straight," he began. Davis brightened with a helpful look. "You are going to secure the loan with stock?" "Right." "What stock?" Davis looked at the younger man like he hadn't been paying attention. "Your stock. The company stock. The Fan Detective Agency stock." Brannon shook his head quickly. "The stock your uncle Bruff left you, boy. That stock." Now Brannon could smile. "You are laboring under a gross misapprehension." He'd always wanted to say that. "There is no Fan Detective Agency stock. This is an unincorporated business. Uncle Bruff simply owned it. Now I own it." "But Bruff never told me..." Davis blurted. "I was his right hand man." "Sorry, no stock, no collateral. Think of something else." Bruff rose and walked over to Davis, patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, you've got plenty of time. I'm not selling any time soon." "Well, I'm glad to hear that," Davis said. His frown said otherwise. He turned to look at Brannon. "You're exactly like him, you know. Keep it all to yourself, not let the rest of us know what's going on." Brannon didn't know what to make of that obvious statement, so he returned a fixed grin, then said, "Why don't you go check your messages and let me make a phone call. Then I'll finish telling you about the Mizelles." Davis left Brannon's office in silence, without so much as a nod. He walked quickly past Honey, avoiding her eyes and ducked into his office where he paced and wondered what had happened to his carefully crafted plan. As he rummaged in the desk for Clive Morgan's phone number, Brannon wondered why in Hell Uncle Bruff had never incorporated. -------- *Chapter 4* "THEY AGREED to our standard rates?" "Yup," answered Davis, his mind occupied with maneuvering his LeSabre past two Sevilles piloted by geriatric cases, neither of whom risked incarceration by approaching the speed limit. "And a one thousand dollar retainer check?" Brannon's admiration for Honey Graham's telephone skills lit his face with wonder. "What she said," answered Davis, his laconic drawl contrasting with the burst of speed that shot the LeSabre beyond the Caddies, bringing mild infractions to their drivers. "It's nice of you to take an interest in my case, Garnett," said Brannon, his sarcasm wasted on Davis. "Paying customers get the best service," said Garnett as he hung a quick left off Cary, headed up Seventh, and pulled into one of downtown's mostly vacant parking lots. "Street's cheaper," said Brannon. Davis pulled smoothly into the middle of three empty spaces, then firmly set the gear to park, snapped off the engine. He set the hand brake, cracked the windows to three-eighths of an inch with practiced skill, did some other fiddling with dashboard knobs of a type Brannon had never seen, and finally whisked off his aviator sun glasses with a grand flourish. "Don't park on the street downtown." Whether it was an admonition or statement of personal principle, Brannon couldn't tell. The two men set out up Seventh to Broad, Davis' long strides easily gobbling up pavement, Brannon's shorter legs causing him to pitch forward on the uphill trudge. He began to sweat. "Not much farther," said Davis, smiling at Brannon's exertion. He pointed across the street, and ambled over a Broad Street devoid of traffic. As Brannon watched Davis' confident stride, he resolved to sell the man's hide to Clive Morgan as soon as Morgan returned his call. A waiting Garnett Davis punched the elevator button as Brannon trudged into the lobby. "If you like, I can ask the questions. I've dealt with politicians in the past. I know what they think, what they're trying to hide." "I think I can handle it," said Brannon in a frosty tone. "Okay," said Davis, but the tight smirk on his lips said otherwise. They rode in silence in the otherwise empty cube, which disgorged them into a tiny hall where they followed dirty signs pointing to Fitzhugh's office. It depressed Brannon to realize that Fitzhugh had been in office long enough to have his signs grow yellow and filthy. The reception area furnishings consisted of '60's vintage chairs made of naugahyde and aluminum, and a low, round table strewn with wrinkled magazines. The nameplate on the vacant receptionist's desk said "Miss Ownby." A woman in a black jacket and white slacks sat crossed-legged reading the morning's Washington _Post_. "Hello, Lou," Brannon said. Louisa Ferncliff looked up from her paper. She raised an eyebrow at Brannon. "Business," he answered, as if that were a concept she could not comprehend. "How about you?" "Reporters work, too," she said and returned to the _Post_, only her dark hair peaking over the headlines. "Lou, this is Garnett Davis, he works for me," said Brannon. Davis glared briefly at Brannon. Ferncliff looked over the edge of the newspaper and nodded at Davis, ignoring his outstretched hand. Brannon turned to Davis. "This is Louisa Ferncliff, the _Examiner_ columnist. We go back a long, long way." Davis said, "Ma'am" to the younger woman, and Ferncliff cringed behind the paper. Satisfied he'd put them both in their places, Brannon picked up a year old Newsweek and began skimming it. Davis lit up and tried to remember who he knew in Fitzhugh's office. He tested a few names on Brannon, who didn't recognize any and wasn't impressed that Davis did. He wouldn't put it past Davis to have made them up. Ferncliff stayed behind her paper. They held the tableau until Miss Ownby hove into view at end of the carpeted hall, up on her toes, almost jogging. Hair dyed blonde, unashamedly showing signs of the underlying dark follicles, she had the Richmond lady office worker look down perfectly. A blue and red paisley pattern rambled over her dark gold dress. Cut from a heavy material, the skirt hung well below her knees, with padded shoulders big enough for boy's football. Brannon thought of these as "couch" dresses since the material reminded him of his grandmothers' couches. Upon reaching the waiting area, she slowed, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Up the hall, barking typing instructions, a short, blonde man hailed her. An older woman in a flower print dress appeared behind him, rolled her eyes in disgust, and shook a fist full of papers. "She'll have to retype it _now_," shouted the man. "Why hello, Rick," said Ferncliff, rising and trying to get the short man's attention by signaling with the Post. "Finally got some time for me?" Rick Skelton, press assistant for Mike Fitzhugh, gave Lou an angry look. "Can't you see I'm busy, Ferncliff. Make an appointment and come back later." "She has an appointment, Mr. Skelton," said Miss Ownby trying to deflect attention from the typing fiasco. "It was for ten o'clock, remember? I told you about it forty minutes ago." "Yeah, I forgot. I'm sorry, Ferncliff." There wasn't a trace of contrition in his voice. "Things are real busy today." "Are you working on a press release? Is Fitzhugh going to back O'Dowd in time for the New Jersey primary?" Skelton slammed the papers down on the receptionist's desk. "As I am sure you are aware, Mizz Ferncliff," he said in a patronizing tone. "Senator Fitzhugh will not issue his endorsement before the Southern primaries." "Is New Jersey in the South?" asked Louisa in an exaggerated Southern Belle voice, fluttering her eyes and fanning herself with the folded newspaper. "I'm sure I don't have to remind you those states hold their primaries the week after New Jersey. If O'Dowd does well in those, the Senator may have something to say." As Skelton started to walk away, Louisa called out after him, "Come on, Skelton, not only is Fitzhugh not campaigning, he isn't even working the back rooms for his buddy, O'Dowd. What gives?" "It's still too early, Ferncliff. Wait and see like everyone else." Ferncliff and Skelton exchanged some further unpleasantries before Louisa gathered up her purse and notebook and rushed out the door. Brannon mumbled something about omitting to kiss her good-bye, but she didn't hear it. Davis said "What?" and Skelton started back down the hall without looking at the men. Brannon called out, "Betty Ann Mizelle." Skelton spun on his heel and faced Brannon, one hand forming a fist. Like many small men, Skelton turned pugilistic too abruptly. In his early thirties and in race-biking shape, Skelton wore a pink-striped shirt with white cuffs. Taught suspenders held up light gray slacks over a flat stomach that emphasized the forty-pound difference between he and Brannon. Despite the thinning hair, Skelton was seven years younger. Unfortunately for Skelton, he looked up to Brannon by five inches. Brannon chuckled as the bald spot in the middle of Skelton's pale wispy hair grew red. Skelton calmed himself with a few deep breaths. "It's in very poor taste to mention that name in this office," he said with a scolding tone. He would have shaken a finger, too, if the typing debacle hadn't started to tumble. "It was in very poor taste to murder her." Skelton gave him a "Fuck you, too" smile. Brannon shrugged. "If you don't want to hear what I have to say, I'll go tell the news reporters." He motioned toward the door through which Ferncliff had bolted. "That's yesterday's news, Mr....?" Brannon answered with one of his inked-in cards. Skelton struggled with the type for a moment. "So, Mr. Brannon, quad, what brings you here to waste my time?" Brannon bristled. "I said I'm interested in Betty Ann Mizelle's death. What do you know?" Skelton did not hide his exasperation. "That's old hat, Brannon. No news. For Chrissake, first some reporter comes in and asks about things Fitzhugh is not doing, and now you ask me about things the Senator didn't do twenty-five years ago. This Betty Ann Mizelle thing happened while I was in grade school. I know what I've read, nothing more. Senator Fitzhugh paid society's price for what he did. The people of Virginia feel that was enough, that's why he's been re-elected four times." Skelton began a litany of the laws Fitzhugh took credit for down through the years. Brannon waited for Skelton's steam to diminish, then said, "I saw a man named Sauer out in Accomack." Skelton gave Bruff a hard look. "He's dead." Brannon smiled. "So you know Mr. Sauer?" asked Davis, now interested. They moved to bracket Skelton. Skelton's eyes glared at Davis, them darted back to Brannon. "I knew of him. He was some kind of minor witness back then, wasn't he? And so what? He's dead." "Funny you know that." Brannon kept his smile frozen, while he looked at his fingernails in a way that foreshadowed fisticuffs. Then he said, "Harry Sauer is dead. His brother, Hank, isn't. That's who I talked to. Hank Sauer told me there was a second girl with Mike Fitzhugh that night. Seems she and Fitzhugh both survived the crash. Know anything about her, Skelton?" "I've heard a lot of rubbish about that night, but that's a new one on me," Skelton chuckled derisively. "What's your interest in all this anyway, gentlemen?" "We represent the Mizelles. They'd like to see Betty Ann's name cleared, once and for all," Brannon said. "Yep," said Davis, looking down his nose at Skelton. "What's to clear?" said Skelton, his voice not hiding his annoyance. "The girl got sozzled at the party and went to find a place to sleep it off. She picked the back seat of Mike Fitzhugh's car. If she'd picked any other bed in the whole state, she'd be alive and Mike Fitzhugh would be in the White House for a second term." Skelton paused as his deep breaths fired the indignation in his belly. "If there is anyone whose name needs clearing here, its Mike Fitzhugh. He wasn't having an affair with the girl. They didn't drive off to have an evening on the beach. He didn't even know she was back there. The Senator got drunk, went for a drive and ran his car off a bridge. That's all he's guilty of. It's too bad about the girl, but that's the breaks." Skelton's red face matched the top of his balding head. He pointed his finger first at Davis, then at Brannon and continued, "Mike Fitzhugh had no reason to go back to that car because he didn't think,_ he knew_, no one else was in it. When they found the girl's body when they pulled the car out of the Bay, he collapsed from the shock. He had no idea she'd been back there, Brannon. None what so ever. Yet he's paid the price of malicious gossip, political innuendo, and super market sleaze-rag headlines for all these years. That man has been torn up so long." Skelton shook his head. "Bit defensive, aren't we, boy?" Davis said with soft malice. Skelton reclenched his fists and drew back his right hand. Davis dropped his hands to his sides and jutted out his jaw, daring the shorter man to strike. Brannon stepped between them, holding up both his arms, palms out. "Whoa, Skelton. No need for that today. Maybe some other time." He told Garnett to cool it. Brannon pushed Davis towards the door past Miss Ownby's desk. She had called building security. Brannon pushed Davis out the door, the tall man sneering at Skelton. As he pounded the elevator button several times, Brannon looked daggers at Davis. "What?" said Davis, straightening his tie. "Thanks. Now we'll never get anything out of Fitzhugh. I never should have brought you." Davis tapped his chest. "This is the thanks I get? For solving the case?" Brannon clenched his fists and looked at the ceiling. "Jesus X. Christ." Davis used his height to stare into Brannon's eyes. "Listen to me, boy. Didn't you hear what that skinny little Rump Ranger said in there? He said Fitzhugh wasn't porking Betty Ann. They had nothing going on. She got loaded and passed out in back. She's in the clear. No sex. That's what's the parents wanted you to prove, wasn't it? Easiest three grand I ever made. You oughta thank me, but I'll take a small bonus check instead." Brannon shook his head slowly. "Are you for real? That's the story Fitzhugh's handlers made up the day Betty Ann died. Nobody believed it then, nobody believes it now." The men got in the elevator. "Garnett, I'm gonna get to the bottom of this and show you who the real detective is. And then I'm sell your sorry ass to Clive Morgan for chump change." -------- *Chapter 5* "HOW'S YOUR sandwich?" "Fine," Brannon said. "Just like up North," said Davis with a wave of his hand. Whether he meant the sandwiches or the decor of the deli, Brannon thought him wrong on both counts. "Mighty interesting case," continued Davis in the face of Brannon's speechless munching. The threat of working for Morgan had brought out an act of contrition that had lasted through lunch. Davis could fawn with the best of them, and teach graduate courses, too. He stared at the check. Brannon nodded, his mouth not so full of pastrami that he couldn't add a forkful of cole slaw. He thought Davis wrong about that, too. Reaching into his shirt pocket, Davis found a pack of unfiltered Camels and reduced one to gray ash in three deep lung pulls. He tossed the butt into his glass of iced tea. "Finished?" While chewing, Brannon held the rump of his pastrami sandwich in one hand, and lifted his tea with the other. He shook his head, swallowed, and said, "What's the hurry?" "We've got see Old Dominion Bank & Trust at two." Davis tapped his wristwatch. "Why?" said Brannon, sandwich poised in front of his teeth. "They're our biggest client," he said with evident pride. "We provide backup security guards, fingerprinting services, and handle all the sensitive investigations. I've had this account for years. Your uncle left it to me to run...." Brannon nodded, understood Davis completely. He'd left Davis and Old Dominion alone, just as Davis wanted it. "I don't think you understand what a big job it is, how much time it takes for a client this size," said Davis, folding his hands and leaning forward the way life insurance salesmen do when they talk about surviving spouses and children. "I think I do. Uncle Bruff told me how much he trusted you," said Brannon, straight faced. Bank work involved tedious rent-a-cop chores that Uncle Bruff had found too dull for himself. So he let Garnett handle the routine work, schmooze with his cronies, and Uncle Bruff got to concentrate on the more interesting and challenging clients that came his way. "I got the check," said Garnett, waving the slip of paper until the credit clinked in Brannon's mind. Out in the gravel parking lot behind Cary Street, as Davis redonned his aviator glasses, he said, "I've been trying to get you to visit our security clients for a while now." "Like Honey wants me to browse Uncle Bruff's journals?" Davis frowned at Brannon as he turned around to back out of the parking space. "No. Not like those books. This is real business." "Oh, Real business," mumbled Brannon. He knew Davis wanted to impress him with client rapport and his indispensability to the security business. For all Brannon knew Davis might be, but he anticipated Clag Bryant of Old Dominion would have lots of bombastic stories emphasizing Davis' investigatory acumen, show Davis as more than Big Chief Rent-A-Cop. He sunk back into the seat and silence. * * * * THE FIRST hour consisted of Davis and Bryant reminiscing about their military police days. The point of this eluded Brannon, who yawned, stretched and stared at the ceiling. When the intensity of his irritation finally penetrated the fog of their nostalgia, Davis cleared his throat and told Clag they'd better get down to "bidness." "How did the meeting go with ol' Tucker Robinson? Did you have to show him the tapes?" inquired Davis. Brannon got the impression from Garnett's little wink that he already knew Tucker Robinson had seen the tapes. Clag Bryant's laughter flowed like an open sewage pipe. He swung his legs down from his vacant desktop and hoisted himself to his feet, his hands grabbing his great gut and swinging it off the chair like a dock crane unloading bales of tobacco down at Port Richmond. He smelled of tobacco, too. Bryant was no more than five-eight, weight well over two hundred pounds. Retired Military Police, he kept his gray hair in a bristling crew cut. Without much of a forehead, Bryant's hairline almost reached his eyebrows. His head, large and oval, glistened in sweat despite the air conditioning. A thick neck burst out of a white shirt open at the collar, around which a fat red tie, long out of fashion, dangled above the upper curve of his stomach. Tan pants were gird round his waist by a thick black belt fastened with a buckle roughly the size of a trash can lid. Bryant waddled over to a TV set and VCR mounted on a wheeled steel frame. His fat, yellow-with-nicotine-stains fingers picked up a black cassette. "Yeah, we showed him this." Bryant stared at the tape, his thick lips pursed in an insalubrious smile. "Want to see it, Brannon?" The sinking sensation in Brannon's gut was more than the greasy pastrami working its way through his colon. He trembled, but said, "Sure." The bank security chief began to push buttons on the TV and VCR resulting in a screen of Carolina blue. Davis coughed, then said, "Maybe we ought to review the background with Bruff so he'll appreciate our handy work, Clag." Bryant expressed surprise that Davis hadn't regaled Brannon with the pertinent details. However, he was more than willing to do so himself. "Got a call from Cassy Lee Warner six, seven weeks ago. She was all het up about what Tucker Robinson had done. Seems a female bank customer had called to complain that Tucker was making annoying calls to her. Started out by asking her to meet him for drinks to discuss her accounts. She didn't know what to make of that, she had no problems and wasn't interested in new services. It all seemed out of the ordinary to her. A bit flustered at first, Cassy said, but she was firm about not meeting him. That seemed to stop Mr. Robinson, so she didn't tell anyone else at the time. Divorced lady, right attractive, eh, Garnett?" They winked at each other and then at Brannon. He nodded. "A couple weeks after that, he started again, only this time he didn't ask her out," Clag paused and looked knowingly at Garnett. "Instead he started to tell her what she was missing. Describing himself, you might say." Garnett Davis guffawed and slapped his knee. "Cassy Lee was stumped, didn't know what to do next. Never had anything like this happen before. It was her word against Robinson's and he would deny everything, of course. Asked me to investigate, catch him. So I asked Garnett, here, to help out." Davis took his cue and nodded gravely to his boss. "First thing we needed to know was: was she telling the truth? Maybe she and Robinson had something going on the side and he tried to break it off. He's married, you know. Wouldn't be the first woman tried to ruin a man's career because he dumped her." Brannon wasn't the least bit surprised at the pair's first reaction. "We were checking out the woman's background, neighborhood reputation, co-workers, you know, when Cassy called Clag again." Bryant picked up his cue. "Seems she'd gotten two more complaints that morning. Robinson had called two more bank customers. Both were professional women. Skipped the going out part with both of them; got right down to his intentions. Cassy told me the bank had to do something, couldn't have these women going around telling everybody Old Dominion officers were making smutty calls to them. Bad public relations." "I understand bad public relations," Brannon said. They snorted and winked at him. "It was still their word against his though, so I needed to get evidence that Robinson couldn't deny. And fast, before he could do more damage to the bank's reputation. So I asked Garnett to bug his phone. He did better than that. Tell him, buddy." "I thought about bugging his phone, recording the conversations, then playing the tapes back for him. But there was something else the ladies had told us about the calls, something that might be, you know, hard evidence." Davis looked at Bryant. They both broke out in belly laughter. "So I rigged up a video recorder in Robinson's office. Put it in the ceiling space where the wiring goes. You know, the space between floors where the phone lines, power lines, computer connections go?" Brannon nodded. He didn't think Garnett had done this himself, as he was trying to imply. Probably got Janes Johnson to do the technical work. "Rigged it so it pointed down from overhead right alongside his desk. We could see him in his chair when he called. Set up the camera so it would come on when he used his speakerphone. He liked to make the calls on the speaker, didn't he, Clag?" More guffaws. "I'd say it was indispensable," said Bryant. "Why don't we show Bruff what we taped?" Brannon had the picture, he didn't need to see the tape. He looked at Davis, who ignored his raised eyebrow and motioned Bryant to continue. Bryant put the cassette in the VCR and pushed "Play". The blue screen dissolved into an ordinary office scene. The camera looked down from above and to the side of a man sitting with his chair pushed under his desk. He was leaning forward and talking into a speakerphone. The audio hadn't kicked in yet. " -- er Robinson calling. Is she in?" A female voice from the speakerphone said "yes," and connected the call. The man twiddled his thumbs. "We told the women to take his calls, that we were taping them to gather evidence. They all said they'd cooperate," said Bryant in a documentary tone of voice. "Tucker?" The speakerphone made the female voice sound shrill and tinny. Robinson made a half turn toward the camera and leaned his left ear toward the speaker. His eyes widened. A satisfied smile came to his lips as he greeted her like an old friend. There were a few innocuous inquiries into the state of the woman's business. Suddenly, he placed both hands on the edge of his desk and pushed himself back on his rolling chair. Robinson was naked from the waist down. The family jewels in his hands had not come from a safety deposit box. Davis and Bryant howled with laughter. The banker told the woman, in surprising detail for one with an accounting degree, the priapic wonders he would perform for her delectation. He did all this with his eyes closed, bringing the conversation to a climax. Davis and Bryant wiped tears from their eyes as they chortled. The tape ended and the screen returned to blue. Bryant clutched his jiggling gut and howled. "Can you imagine what old Tucker must have thought when he see'd this movie? With Cassy in the room?" If the two old buddies had been alone together, Brannon imagined Clag would have brought a bottle of Southern Comfort. Instead, he gave Brannon a commercial. "Couldn't have done it without Garnett Davis, Mr. Brannon," said Bryant. He thumped Davis on the shoulder blade. "Solid police work, Mr. Brannon. Solid police work." Bryant pointed a finger at Brannon. "What happened to Robinson?" Bruff asked. Bryant turned his hands palms up. "The bank had to fire him, of course. Can't have branch managers whacking off on bank time, now can we?" "Sad way to end a man's career," Brannon said. "Well, the bank did give him some severance. Paid for him to see a psychiatrist, too," Bryant said in a tone that wondered why Brannon would ask. Brannon paid tribute to the generosity of Old Dominion Bank & Trust, then suggested to Davis it was time to leave. He pumped Bryant's hand twice, added a fixed grin and bolted through the door before Davis could stop him. Davis caught up to Brannon at the car. "Christ, Bruff. The guy was only a branch manager. They're a dime a dozen. They move around all the time; bank to bank; state to state. I hear Tucker's moved to Florida and got a job with a Jacksonville bank. He's doing okay." "I'm glad for him," Brannon said. If this was the type of work Garnett Davis did to earn his living, Brannon was sure he wanted no part of it. "How about checking out the tobacco warehouses? You need to see how I've arranged the security over there," said Davis, trying desperately to throw himself in a good light. "I can't now. There's things I have to do back at the office." Davis frowned. "Can't it wait? I really need to get down to the warehouses, fast." He looked at his watch. Brannon wanted to ask why, but knew there wasn't a good reason. To avoid an argument he said, "Drive me back to the office, then head back on down to the warehouses. I'll have Honey phone ahead to tell them you're running a little late." Davis grumbled, but acquiesced. The men drove in silence for fifteen minutes, Brannon easing out of the Buick in front of the office. He said thanks and was careful not to slam the door. -------- *Chapter 6* "I'M SORRY, sir, but we simply don't handle divorce cases," Honey said to the caller. As Brannon walked by, she handed him the little pink message sheet with the notation that Clive Morgan had returned his call, but would be unreachable for the rest of the day. A moot point since Brannon had frittered away the last of his afternoon gathering wool as he meandered through Carytown. Only a desire to answer nature's call in the closest familiar confines had brought him back to the office. Honey covered the phone with her hand as she said, "Where have you been?" Brannon didn't stop. "Garnett showed me how indispensable he is." Honey nodded, happy that was settled. She returned to dispatching the cuckold, purse on her desk, ready to leave. Brannon strolled through the office, content with the after-five stillness. After the morning with Garnett, he'd resolved to sell to Clive Morgan, but at what price and when? The perfect answer eluded him as he entered the back room. Lynn Beaumont looked up from the computer screen and waved, unable to talk because of the pencil clamped between her teeth. She listened to the phone scrunched between her shoulder and ear, grunting in agreement, and typed away at a report. Brannon watched as Beaumont took the yellow stick out of her mouth, eraser-end down, pause, then grabbed the mouse to make the correction. He waited for her to get off the phone, his eyes wandering across the back of her shear white blouse and lingering on the narrow strap of the yellow halter top she wore underneath. "I'll call back tomorrow," Lynn said as she cradled the phone. "I didn't mean to interrupt you," said Brannon. Lynn waved off the notion. "It's just a case. I wrapped it up this morning." Brannon nodded. "Disability?" "Phony," Lynn said. He watched as her fingers flew over the keyboard. About five foot six, trim with good muscle tone in her arms and legs, Brannon didn't consider Lynn drop dead good looking, an asset in Lynn's line of work, where it paid not to be memorable. Head turning features are a definite liability when a woman needs to sink into the background. Brannon leaned in over her shoulder, being careful not to touch her. He read off the screen. "Depression again?" "Uh-huh," Lynn said with the pencil firmly clenched in her mouth. "That's your specialty isn't it?" said Brannon. She removed the pencil. "That's what they say," Lynn said, her mind occupied by completing the report, not chitchat. "Let me guess," said Brannon. "This guy's boss hated him; profits are down; there's layoffs coming. He decides to stay home, can't get out of bed. The employer makes a few calls; why hasn't he been at work? His shrink calls back, says its all work related and warns them they'll inflict further damage on the poor slob's psyche if they continue to demand he return to work. His new attorney howls, 'harassment', and ups the ante." "Pretty much," Lynn said, fingers still flying. "What did you do?" Lynn turned around and set down the pencil. "It's all in the report, that's why I'm here late typing it. So you can read it tomorrow." Brannon pointed at the screen and said, "Lot of leg work on this case?" He tried to inject just the right amount of employer sympathy and understanding. She nodded. "How do you do it? Catch them out, I mean," Brannon added with genuine interest. "Do you grill them?" Lynn smiled. "Actually I only need to ask them two questions. It's finding them in the right time at the right place to ask that's exhausting." "Two questions? Maybe this detective game is easier than I thought," he said. Lynn pushed her chair away from the computer and laughed. "Two big questions, but sometimes I need to talk a lot before I ask them. Let me explain." She rubbed her palms on her dark blue gabardine slacks. Brannon nodded, stepped over to a wheeled desk chair in the next cubicle, pulled it over and plopped down next to her. "All set." "I need to get close to the guy -- its always a guy -- and catch him alone. Some times I see them on the lawn, but I've found grocery store aisles work best. Seven-Elevens, too. Pumping gas was good once, but they're usually too busy to notice me." "I can't imagine anyone too busy to notice you," he said. "Thanks, but I go in disguise, mostly. I can be yuppie or high fashion," she said as she pulled her blonde hair straight back and then off to the side. "Remarkable," said Brannon. "Just the hair bit makes you look so different." "Would you like to see tobacco road? I need a little dirt for that, though." She messed up her locks, twisted her mouth and pretended the pencil was a corn cob pipe. "Ok, Daisy Mae, I get the picture. What then?" "I like to sidle up to them while they're picking out cereal," she said, twisting her hips in the seat, enough to make Brannon wish she was standing up. "I should do market research for Kellogg's. Do you know which cereal they usually eat?" she asked him. "Fruit Loops?" "No," she said in a tone that indicated her disappointment. "Rice Krispies." Brannon looked blank and held up his palms. "Most people buy Rice Krispies." He shifted his legs and looked away. Lynn giggled. "Oh, Fruit Loops was a joke." Brannon managed a brief smile. "Anyway, I usually walk over to the guy, pick up a box of Rice Krispies like this, and say, 'Hi! How y'all doin'?', and smile at him." Lynn demonstrated the smile. Brannon leaned back in his chair, the recipient of a full force, Lynn Beaumont perfect porcelain special, irresistible to bipeds of the male persuasion. Sane ones, that is. "If the guy's clinically depressed -- severely depressed -- he won't smile back. He can't." "So 'How y'all doin'?' is the first Big Question?" said Brannon. "Yup." Brannon tried to whistle, couldn't succeed, but put his hands behind his neck for support. "What's the second Big Question?" "Planning a big weekend?" she said. Brannon repeated the phrase. "That's it?" "Well, it's the way I say it, I suppose." "Show me." Lynn lifted her chin up, swished her hair about with quick, short flicks of her neck and opened some buttons on her blouse. Then she pushed her chair up close to Brannon. She inhaled a deep, long breath, pulling the air out of Brannon's lungs, savoring it like fine wine. Brannon's eyes opened wide as two taut breasts strained against the yellow halter-top and silky skin peaking out from the white blouse. "Planning a big weekend?" The "P" burst out of her full, round lips, sending a soft spray across this brow. Then she touched his patella with the very tip of her fingernail. Brannon hit the roof, like Curly after Moe pops him one. "Wh-what did you have in mind?" he said, his forehead a Mississippi Delta of sweat. She rode her chair back away from him, like a Three Mile Island scientist worried about prolonged radiation exposure. "That's what they usually say," she said. Brannon stared back, eyes like fried eggs, heart pounding, frantically pumping blood to aroused extremities. "The depressed ones don't have plans for lunch, let alone Saturday night," she explained. "I get invited to a lot of beer blasts I don't go to. I send Janes with the video camera. He gets good shots of the guy partying." She pointed to her computer screen. Another Severe Depression was planning a beer blast for his friends this Saturday. Brannon's pulse rate whined back to normal. He wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve. "I'll have this on your desk before I go home tonight," she said, fastening buttons as she turned back to the computer. "I didn't know you ever spent any time at home." She smiled. Brannon caught its reflection in the monitor. "Sometimes I do. No rehearsal tonight. The director is vacationing with her family in Nag's Head this week. Laundry and studying lines for me." A script wrinkled and branded with the brown, round stains of the Circle Caffeine Ranch lay open on her desk. Brannon nodded and headed back to his office. "Drop the report off on your way out. I'm staying late tonight. I've a lot of thinking to do." "About Morgan's offer?" she asked. He raised an eyebrow. "That. And the other one," He said with as much mystery as he could while smiling. "Other one?" she asked, her voice rising with interest. "You mean the great detective Lynn Beaumont doesn't know about the new offer? Even though it materialized right under her nose?" She crinkled the upturned item in question. He crossed his arms and waited for her response. Lynn didn't disappoint him. "_Garnett_," she said.. "I should have known he was up to something. What's he trying to do, buy the place himself?" "Not all by himself," Brannon said. "He says the employees want to do a leveraged buy out." He plopped into the chair along side Lynn's desk, briefly outlining Garnett's plan and miscalculation. "Funny, but I've always thought of you as one of my employees. Aren't you a part of this thing?" "No, I'm not. Neither is Janes. I'm sure he would have told me if he was. For that matter, Ray Bogar and Moon Pie haven't said anything, either," she crossed her legs and cupped her chin in her left hand. "If I had to say, I'd say the deal is Garnett all by himself. Maybe Honey, too," she said, then straightened up and crossed her arms to mirror Brannon's posture. "Definitely Honey. I've been wondering about those two, since your uncle died." "What about those two?" She turned her shoulder away from him and said with a coy wink, "You know." She pretended to sort the papers on her desk. Brannon shrugged, rose and headed to his office. Just a hint of jealousy, likely for his uncle, flushed his face. "You're not taking Garnett's offer seriously, are you?" she said in a tone that more accused than queried, her head sticking out around the partitions. "I'll consider all reasonable options, including continuing to run the agency. Business as usual." She laughed at the latter, holding her hand over her open mouth as her mother had taught her. "You? Run the agency? That's a good one." Brannon's face grew red as his hair. "I'll manage." That didn't come out as forcefully as he'd wanted. "By that I don't mean I'll scrape by. I mean I'll _manage_. Manage the place. That's what I do best. Manage people and processes. I've done it all my career, you know." "Yeah, I'll bet," she giggled. "What did you manage, a Burger King?" "No, I didn't manage a Burger King. I've managed lots of things, lots of departments, lots of people. Lots of things, too." "Well you won't have any people working for you if you put Garnett in charge, I'll tell you that. And then what are you going to sell to Clive Morgan, those old ledgers? When you get right down to it, we are what Morgan wants to buy, aren't we?" He shrugged. Lynn laughed. "Just like your uncle. He never said anything either. Must run in the family." She reached out and patted his cheek. Brannon blushed a different shade of red. "So what are you going to do? I mean really." "I haven't decided," he said softly, looking down at his feet. "It's not something I can talk about." Lynn stood, smoothing her blue slacks as she did so. "Would you like to talk it over with me? I can see its troubling you." Brannon frowned. "Its not like I have no interest in this; I do work here. Maybe I can help?" He shook his head, but his mouth said, "Maybe you can." "Here, maybe a carrot stick will get you going. They say carrots are good brain food." She moved quickly back to her desk, pulled out a ziplock bag of rabbit food, and offered it to him. "That's fish. Fish is brain food. Carrots are good for eye sight," he said. He grabbed the plastic bag and pulled out a stick. "So what are you going to do?" Lynn knew the value of persistence. He chomped another carrot stick as he passed Lynn's cubicle to the window. Outside, a woman walked with her two small children. The older had one hand on a stroller and the other stretched out for balance. The other held onto his mother with both hands. Both plowed on, tiny steps gradually leading them home. That's what he needed now, some tiny steps forward. Lynn followed him to the window and passed her hand in front of his eyes, saying "yoo-hoo". "I hate it when people do that," he said. "Have you thought about an answer to my question, yet? It's almost six," she said with her arms crossed. "Yes." "Well?" He swallowed the rest of the carrot, tossed the plastic bag into the waste paper basket, and said, "Ah, I see. When you asked me if I'd thought about the question, you really meant had I thought about it and formulated a reply and would I now share that reply with you?" Lynn kicked him, not ungently, in the shin. "I take it that is the Beaumont method of indicating agreement," he said while rubbing. Then he looked into her eyes, noticing for the first time they were a solid mixture of blue and gray, like a law firm's stationary. He swallowed hard before saying, "Yes, I have thought about what I'm going to do. But I haven't decided, yet, so there's still nothing to tell you," "You said you wanted to talk things over with me, but all you've done so far is stare out the window," she said. "How about at least thinking out loud?" "I hate thinking out loud. It's so unnatural. It's not really thinking. How can you think and talk at the same time?" "How can I know what's going on inside that Brannon head of yours if you don't tell me, Bruff?" Lynn said, her tone changing to kindness and those gray-blue eyes thawing.. He shrugged. "I'd like to help." Lynn reached out and took his hand, not as effective as the knee cap touch. "To sell, or not to sell?" "That's my question," smiled Lynn. "You know, I might turn out to be a good detective. I might learn to love it. After all, three other Broughton J. Brannons have done well at it, why not me?" he said out loud. "You should try," she patted his hand. He pulled away, rejecting the bribe. "I'm going to take my time, Lynn. I'm really not leaning either way right now. I want to find out more, find out if I like doing this." Lynn brightened up "I understand. I feel that way myself. Trying to find out what I'd like to do, that is." "The acting." He nodded. "Exactly. I understand what you're going through and I only want to help. I promise I won't tell you what to do, cross my heart and hope to die." Her index finger traced an "X" across the yellow halter, leaving a few jiggles and bounces in its wake. Brannon hoped she wouldn't die any time soon. "I'll teach you how to be a detective, if you want," she said, her tongue peeping out behind her pearly whites as she smiled. "It'll be hard work for you, but I'm willing to try, if you will." Brannon's chuckled. "You'll teach me? I don't know if I want to team up like Nick and Nora Charles. I think I'm more the Raymond Chandler loner type." "Well, Lone Ranger," she said, grabbing her handbag and rummaging for her car keys. "If you decide you need my help, just call. You do know how to call me?" Lynn walked away from Brannon, slowly, hips sashaying. She shook her hair out, again, sending tremors through Brannon's rigid frame. Then, still walking out, she half-turned back to the silent man and said, "You do, don't you?" Brannon's head bobbed up and down thirty-four times, like one of those cheap dolls with a big head on a spring. "L-lynn." "Good night, loner." "G -- , um, good n-night." -------- *Chapter 7* BOUNTIFUL STREET side parking is one of the pleasant side effects of a general depression. Brannon selected a shady spot for his six-year-old Plymouth, plopped in several quarters and trotted up Foushee to Grace. "Hey, man. Diamond rings for sale. I gots "gem-u-wine" diamond rings for thirty-five dollars," cried out a street vendor. Brannon forswore the opportunity, which the man expected, since he didn't bother to take his hands out of his jacket pockets or stop leaning against the wall of the abandoned dry cleaning establishment. In a glance of urban precaution, Brannon noticed the man's red and green trimmed black wool cap clashed with his gold and purple Lakers jacket. The next block presented Brannon another commercial opportunity. However, he had no decorating scheme as yet, thus no compelling need for a portrait of a reputedly deceased rock and roll singer on velvet. This refusal did disappoint the vendor, who mentioned he had negotiated the sale of a smiling clown earlier in the week, a certain sign of Richmond's improving economy. Early morning rain left puddles on the cracked and broken sidewalk. A squat stack of damp, gray newspapers leaned against the crumbling concrete wall girding the entrance pavilion to the Richmond _Examiner_. The building itself hunkered like a murky nightmare, daring Brannon to enter. Which he did, into a dank, dark lobby. The one thing gloomier than the _Examiner's_ lobby was the _Examiner's_ future. The collapse of the newspaper industry had left the Richmond _Examiner_ teetering on a precipice supported solely by the Imboden family. Hobie Pickett's pithy summary of R. Devereux Imboden was_ Imboden's Prescription for Making a Small Fortune in The Market:_ "First you take a large fortune..." A predilection for small savings and loan institutions had left the Imboden fortune at its lowest ebb since 1865. With eyes adjusting to the lack of light, Brannon looked around for someone who could help, instead finding a uniformed guard behind a marble desk. The guard twisted the end of his droopy mustache whose limp curves were replicated in the man's hangdog face. A cardboard sign with "Information" printed in black, block letters was taped to the front of the desk. "Louisa Ferncliff?" asked Brannon. The guard unfolded his arms and slowly and silently pointed to a list of names on the wall behind Brannon. "Thanks." The man nodded his "Your Welcome." Brannon ran a finger over the "F's" in the directory and located "Ferncliff, L." on the seventh floor. He shuffled past the guard, now scrutinizing the entrance for mad bombers or less explosive radicals, and found the elevators. None of the arrow lights came on, so Brannon played "up/down" lotto and won. Mister Otis himself had hand-crafted this machine, thought Brannon as he scrunched into the cramped quarters. A broken, folding seat dangled in the corner below the floor lights, silent testimony to menial jobs past. The doors parted on seven, leaving Brannon to get his bearings. He spotted "National News" on a frosty glass door, his rubicund face expressing mild pleasure when the door handle did not come off in his hand. Inside, "National News" was an area designed by a man who truly understood the meaning of "cubicle". A maze of half walls painted whitish green sliced the floor into dozens of rectangles. The buzz of disembodied voices chattering on telephones jammed the air, blocking outside communication from entering the hive. Brannon spotted a large, black woman and said "Ferncliff?" in too loud a voice. "Back there," she answered, not bothering to remove the cigarette from her mouth. She did helpfully turn her head to a narrow gap in the phlegm hued walls, so Brannon thanked her and kicked the ash off his loafers. Spelunking his way through the twisted passage, Brannon dead-ended in front of a hand-lettered sign that said "Ferncliff." Louisa, back to Brannon, typed furiously at a computer keyboard whose amber glow gave her very white face a more outdoorsy look than her personal habits warranted. The tan suede jacket, white blouse and baggy black pants comprised her standard uniform, with the color scheme rotating with the days of the week. Brannon edged behind her in silence, watching the words flow across the screen: _"...are wondering why Mike Fitzhugh is avoiding Paul O'Dowd. Sources say the senior Senator from Virginia canceled his appearance at the Washington Press Club when he found out O'Dowd would also be there._ _When asked why he wasn't supporting O'Dowd's presidential bid, the Fitzhugh office issued a helpful "No Comment!"_ _This reporter...."_ He cleared his throat. Ferncliff spun around, turned-up nose pointing at Brannon's head. Her narrow lips lacked gloss, nonetheless standing out against her pale complexion. Cheekbones too large for the rest of her skull upthrust fleshy eggs beneath each blue eye. She brushed back her dark hair sprinkled with strands of silver, like a sparsely tinseled Christmas tree. The corners of her mouth drooped at the sight of her red headed visitor. "What brings you here, Bruff? I'm not used to seeing you twice a week any more. What are you up to?" "I'm interested in Mike Fitzhugh, the same as you," He tapped the amber screen. "Since when are you interested in politics, Bruff?" Louisa said with a trace of sarcasm. "Politics, no," he admitted. "I would like your help, though." She gave him a wary look. "Me?" "It's a case I'm working on, the one Uncle Bruff was doing when he died." "I didn't know he was working on a case when it happened. Sue told me about the accident," said Louisa. Her blue eyes moistened with a touch of sympathy. Brannon thought it was her contacts. "He was on his way to see the client when it happened," said Brannon. "The accident had nothing to do with the case." "So tell me." She leaned back in her chair, and put her hands behind her head, much as a man would. Brannon told her about the Mizelles. When I mentioned Hank Sauer, she said, "I never heard of him before. Why didn't he come forward earlier?" "He's dead, for one thing. His brother thinks the Fitzhugh people paid him to be quiet. It doesn't take much cash to live high on the hog in Accomac." "I can see that. What did Mr. Sauer tell you?" She leaned back in the chair, folding her arms across her chest. "He said there was a second girl that night." "A second girl?" "Well, maybe a first girl," Brannon said through a smile. Lou rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, started to say something that would not have added to the spirit of the matter, then thought silence was best. Brannon chuckled at her perplexity. "We think of her as a second girl, only Sauer saw her first. She came out of the sinking car with Fitzhugh." He described the scene. "Fitzhugh told Sauer there'd be a reward if he dove down and got Mike's wallet out of the car, so he did. That's when he discovered Betty Anne Mizelle had drowned in the back seat." "What happened to the second girl?" Brannon shrugged. "He couldn't remember. I asked him where I could find her and he didn't have any idea." Ferncliff sat up straight and shook her head from side to side. Brannon liked the way her black hair swished around her head, but didn't like the hard lines radiating from her clenched jaw. "I didn't mean her career choice, Brannon. I meant that night. What did Sauer say she did that night?" Brannon frowned. "He didn't say." "Didn't ask, did you?" "Well, no. He didn't seem to know," said Brannon, staring at her computer screen. "He did think the Fitzhughs paid her off, that's why nobody's heard of her." "Who was she?" Brannon shrugged. "Did she have a name?" "Sauer couldn't remember it," he said softly. Ferncliff fidgeted in her chair. She reached out toward Brannon's arm, then drew back, grabbing a pen to camouflage the motion. "Let's see if I understand this. Sauer told you his brother saw the accident from the pole, met the second girl, dove down to retrieve Mike Fitzhugh's wallet and found the body of Betty Anne Mizelle." Brannon nodded. Louisa held out her left hand, palm up, and began to tick off points by pulling down on succeeding fingers with her right index finger. "But he didn't remember the girls' name; didn't tell you what she did the rest of the night; didn't tell you what his brother did next; didn't tell you what Fitzhugh did next." Brannon stood up, paced, then turned back to her and said, "That's why I went to Fitzhugh's office." "To get Mike Fitzhugh to confess?" Her laughter stung Brannon. "No, to see if they knew anything about Harry Sauer. Rick Skelton seemed to," he said with a finger raised for significance. "Skelton wouldn't admit he knew anything about Betty Ann Mizelle but was awfully quick to say that Sauer was dead." "That's odd," Louisa frowned. "Why would Skelton know anything about Sauer? He's younger than we are, too young to have been with Fitzhugh back then," she paused for reflection. "I've never heard of the Sauer brothers, either. I thought I knew all the stories about Chappateague Island and Mike Fitzhugh. It's expected of reporters, sort of like priests having to know the Bible. But a second girl," she made a humming noise to indicate she was thinking, much like her computer keyboard made electronic clicking noises to indicate it was typing. "What do you make of it, Bruff? I can't see that it changes anything. So what if Fitzhugh took a second bimbo out to the island that night? It sounds like an even better reason for him not knowing Betty Ann was passed out in the back seat." Louisa thought out loud on the points of whether it was politically better for Mike Fitzhugh to have driven out with one girl -- lechery and vehicular homicide -- or two -- Grand Lechery, but accidental death, manslaughter at most. "Frankly, I don't give a shit. What's your point?" said Brannon. Lou requested Brannon perform an act of sexual self-sufficiency. He demurred. "_My_ point is," she said with heavy emphasis on the first word. "It might have been better for Fitzhugh if people knew about the second girl. Everybody would still think he was a drunken lech, but he could say he didn't know Betty Anne was passed out in the back seat because he had enough in the front seat to keep him occupied." "So why didn't they?" She shrugged. "Anybody's guess." She took one. "They took a gamble on the driving alone story, must have thought that was safer. The Fitzhugh flacks said he'd gone for a drive alone; that he'd lost control and plunged into the Bay; he didn't know Betty Anne was in the back seat. Completely innocent. No one believes that crap to this day. That's what they said, though." Ferncliff leaned back in her chair. Brannon thought her tummy poked out against her blouse more than he remembered. "The second girl would have been a witness. And witnesses can corroborate, but they can also crack under pressure, cross-examination. When you get right down to it, nobody would have believed her, either." She looked at her nails and bit at a cuticle. "It's a judgment call, I guess." She could have been discussing menu choices at a Chinese take-out. "So what do you think happened to the second girl?" said Brannon. "There's only one way for you to find that out, Bruff," she said. Brannon liked neither her tone nor the "one way" part. "Would you like me to tell you how to find that out?" "That's why I came here, to find out if you knew. Big name reporters are supposed to have secret dirt files on the politicians." "If I knew who this girl was, don't you think I would have printed it long ago?" Brannon mumbled about waiting for the right moment. "Right moment?" she said in an exasperated tone. "Right moment for what? Blackmail? This is a newspaper, I print facts. I spend a lot of time digging out details to get the real story. And I start out by looking in the right places, not asking my friends because I'm too lazy to do it." She calmed herself. "You want the answer to this, go back to Accomack and ask Sauer what his brother did after he came out of the water. _You_ -- " She poked Brannon in the sternum. "Ask Sauer to remember the girl's name. And _you_ trace her whereabouts." "That's what I was trying to do at Fitzhugh's office," he said, loud enough to hush the buzz in the catacombs. Lou shook her head. "You'll never find out anything here in Richmond. Accomack, Brannon. Go back to Accomack." -------- *Chapter 8* "WHY DO YOU want a picture of my brother?" Hank Sauer drew himself into a little ball, a little ball about to be kicked by a big foot. Brannon sat down beside Sauer on the couch facing the aluminum foil festooned TV set. Sauer had turned down the sound on a rerun of "Full House," but kept one eye on the singular Olsen sister frolicking on the screen. Brannon stood up again, torn between blocking Sauer's view of the TV and scaring the man with his hulking presence. Sauer's trembling hand lifted a half-filled Mason jar, the liquid's pale yellow tinge the only difference from the day before, and drank. Sauer wouldn't last long today, Brannon needed to hurry him. "To show people in Richmond," said Brannon. "I need to show your brother's picture to people in Richmond to see if they recognize him." "But Harry never went to Richmond in his whole dang life, Mr. Brannon. How could anyone in Richmond recognize Harry?" "They were in Accomack when they saw Harry. If they saw Harry. Then they went back to Richmond." "Oh, they saw him here. Makes sense when you put it that way." "So can I have a picture of Harry?" Brannon looked around the room for a family group portrait. He spotted a frame turned away from him, pushed himself out of the couch and grabbed the portrait before Sauer could stop him. "That's Ida Mae, my wife. She passed on three years ago this August." Brannon glanced at the faded photo to confirm it was a woman. He set it back on the end table. "I'm sure you miss her," was all he could drum up in the way of sympathy. "That I do, that I do." Sauer's mind drifted back to parts unknown. Brannon reached out to bring him back. "Your brother. I need a picture of your brother." Sauer crossed his legs, knocking off one slipper, then said, "Explain why again, Mr. Brannon." Brannon sighed. "To show people back in Richmond what he looked like back then. To jog their memories of what happened the night Betty Anne died. You do want to help Betty Anne, don't you, Mr. Sauer?" Sauer strummed fingers on his cheek, and turned away from Brannon. "You said to use what you told me to clear Betty Anne's name last time, remember? I can't do that unless you help me some more." Brannon stood in front of Sauer. "Right you are, Mr. Brannon. Right you are." Sauer put a hand on each knee, put the slipper back on, then slowly pushed himself up, but not erect, and slap-clomped across the floor to a cupboard. Brannon followed. Sauer bent down, body creaking, pain visible on his face, and tried to pull open a drawer. "Needs a jiggle," he said as he shimmied the drawer from side to side. "Lots of stuff inside. It gets caught." Brannon thought Sauer would use that as an excuse for not finding anything. "Here it comes," Sauer said as he extracted the drawer from its snug fit. He pushed aside commemorative glasses, mostly profiles of Jimmy Carter, and set the drawer down. Sauer rummaged through old Christmas cards, loose photos of cloud shots and thumbs, a thick pack of canceled checks from 1982, and calendars with holes cut out of some month's illustrations. "Take a look at this," said Sauer. He pushed an album at Brannon. "Take anything you want out of there. I don't need it any more." With that, Sauer returned to the couch, setting his rump precisely into its previous indentation. "Full House" resumed its spell. Brannon opened the album. Black and white photos, most small, had been carefully mounted on each page with the triangular holders that five and dimes used to sell for the purpose. On the first pages, blurry, tiny people went about daily chores with backs to the camera. As he turned the pages, the seasons changed and the photographer's courage grew. Strangers looked back at Brannon, weathered faces that had not smiled for the photographer. Adult men and women in their Sunday best, shovels and picks set against the barn wall for the Lord's day. Then children populated the pictures, and Brannon discerned the Sauer hawk nose on several. As the boys grew, a motherly hand had written dates in white crayon on the coal black pages. "1932." "May, 1933." "Salisbury, November 17, 1937." "Theresa's fifteenth birthday, August 2, 1938." "Harry, Hank and Uncle Jimmy at the Christening." "Harry and Hank." "Harry and Hank." Two hawk noses, two boys in Buster Brown suits. A thought started to form. Brannon shuddered. "Harry, Hank and Father." "Hank, Harry and Aunt Sarah." Noses and suits again. What was that thought? "Harry and Hank, High School graduation, June 18, 1948." Bingo. Brannon stuck a finger in the graduation page, and walked over to sit beside Sauer. He opened the string bound book and set the graduation picture in Sauer's lap. "Twins?" he asked. "Yes, Mr. Brannon. Harry and I were twins back then." He closed the album and rubbed a sleeve across moist eyes. "I suppose you know the rest." "Rest?" said Brannon, mind racing, but not beating Sauer to the obvious conclusion. "I know the rest?" "I knew you did," said Hank Sauer, missing the questioning tone in Brannon's voice. "That was me on the pole that night. I often worked OT as Harry. The Power Company thought a lot of him because of that. Said he used to do the work of two men," Sauer chuckled. "'Course he did. It was two men, just like you thought, Mr. Brannon." Sauer drained more of his yellow liquid. "You were on the pole? That night?" Brannon's mind raced to the hush money part, but the old man had his own speed. He sat down beside Sauer. "It was me up there that night, all right. But later that day when the Fitzhugh people asked me, I gave them Harry's name. Had to, didn't I? The Power Company always thought it was Harry. Never did figure out it was me all that time. We were identical twins, Mr. Brannon." Sauer tapped the old album in Brannon's lap. Brannon nodded, while his mind re-sorted the data, then said, "When did Fitzhugh's people figure out it wasn't your brother?" "Never did." Brannon raised an eyebrow. "Well that first day it had to be me, didn't it? I mean I didn't have the time to switch places and clue in Harry to everything so I had to be him that day," Sauer guzzled the rest of the jar's contents. "Even when the police talked to me." "Why don't you tell me what happened after you found Betty Ann, Mr. Sauer." "First I got to wet my whistle," Sauer chuckled as he raised his empty jar in a toast. "I'm hungry, too. Come on into the kitchen. It's much more comfortable and I can fix us a late breakfast -- brunch you city folks call it, don't you?" Brannon followed the leathery old man into the kitchen. He doubted he'd ever want any of Sauer's food and politely said he'd had a big breakfast. Sauer took a can of chili out of the cupboard, popped it into the electric can opener. The brownish contents were dumped into a metal pot, which he set on the stove. Soon the room was filled with the smell of past meals that had been fire-hardened onto the electric burners. "You sure you don't like Mexican?" Sauer prodded. Then the milieu from his burners got through even his anesthetized nose. "Whew! That sure is some smell. Damned burners are sure hard to keep clean. Everything just sticks on 'em. Wish I had gas like at my old place. Did I tell you I moved two, three years ago, Mr. Brannon?" Brannon said no and would Sauer get back to what happened out at Chappateague that morning. Reluctantly Sauer returned to his tale. He stirred the Mexican morass as he did so. "After I found the body, I came up to the surface and yelled at Fitzhugh. He couldn't believe that there was a girl in there. That other girl -- the live one -- she told Fitzhugh I must be drunk or crazy and that they should get out of there. Then I described the girl: blonde hair, white blouse and green skirt." Sauer tasted the food and commented it wasn't hot enough. When he pulled a bottle of Louisiana Red Sauce out of the cabinet, Brannon knew he was not worried about temperature. Several dashes of hot sauce were not enough. The old man picked up his mason jar, gave a quick flick of the wrist, and splashed yellow liquid into the pot. The lack of a flame-up both surprised and relieved Brannon. "Fitzhugh thinks a minute while the second girl is pulling on his arm, trying to get him out of there. Then he smacks his forehead," Sauer demonstrated a gesture not seen since the days of Lillian Gish, "and shouts, 'Betty Ann!'. Then he grabs the second girl and says 'we've got to get her out!'. But she falls down laughing. Not fun laughing, mind you, but crazy laughing. You know, man-something." "Maniacal?" "Yeah, that," Sauer nodded, stirred and drank out of his jar. "Why do they call it man-iacal when its always women who act like that?" Brannon treated the last as rhetorical. "So Fitzhugh knew Betty Ann was in the car?" "No, he didn't then. He did recognize my description, like I said. Anyway, me and him decided to dive back down to the car. He thought we could still save her. He asked me if I knew CPR. I said I did, but I thought the time was long gone for that. Still, he strips off his clothes and jumps into the water. I thought he was drunk, maybe, so I felt I needed to go in after him. He tried three times to get her out, I'll say that much for him. Man wasn't in very good shape back then, either." Sauer paused. Pleased with the progress of his food, he announced his intention to "go to the little boy's room to wash up" with a wink. Brannon stood and stretched, taking off his coat. He'd worn his navy blue pinstriped suit and a new shirt. The stiff collar clamped his neck like a surgical instrument. He tried to run a finger inside, found no room. As he undid the top button, he felt a sharp plastic edge. With both hands he fumbled at the shirt collar and tie, freeing the piece of plastic packaging he'd overlooked. He found the trash can under the sink. The bubbling mixture caught his eye and a sniff opened his sinuses. He searched for a box of tissues, finding them next to the coffee and tea tins. He blew with a great honk and decided to poke around some more while waiting for the sound of the flush. He picked up the morning's Baltimore Sun open to the Pimlico Page and pawed betting slips with names and races. The front section partially buried a tan rotary phone and a piece of paper with numbers, local, only seven digits. He hesitated, heard the flush, and pocketed it without shame. Sauer found him thumbing through the paper. "Could you turn to the horror scope page for me. I forgot to look it up. Do you read the horror scopes, Mr. Brannon?" Brannon shook his head. "Suit yourself. To each his own," Sauer said. He fumbled at his shirt pocket, his glasses on the lanyard around his neck. "Can't find my glasses. Would you mind reading me my horror scope? I'm an aquarium." Brannon wanted to ask Sauer how he and his twin felt about sharing the same horoscope every day until Harry, alone, had died, but decided to simply read the brief message. "Things are looking up, but you should be wary of short flights." Sauer stroked his chin. "Mighty fine advice." Brannon refolded the paper. "What happened when you dove down to the car?" Sauer chuckled, then said, "What happened is that Mike Fitzhugh almost drown-dead. I had to pull him out of the water. He was exhausted and I was, too. No point going back down then, we knew Betty Ann was gone to meet her maker. I dragged him up on shore about fifty yards from where that woman was sitting. For all I knowed she was laughing all the whole time," Sauer opened a cabinet and brought down a white bowl. He rummaged in a drawer for a utensil. "Then things got a little bit crazy." Sauer shook a spoon at Brannon for emphasis. "Fitzhugh sat on the shore sobbing and pleading with me to tell the cops and reporters everything. Me, I'm nervous because I'm not me, I'm Harry, remember?" he asked as a sort of pop quiz. Brannon passed. "Tell them everything, Harry, tell them everything -- did I tell you I had told him my name was Harry Sauer?" Another Brannon nod to move things along. "Tell them everything, Harry. Tell them about the crash and how you found Betty Anne and how we both dove down and tried to rescue her. Tell them, Harry, tell them I didn't know she was there," Sauer looked Brannon in eye. His hands were trembling and he had to sit down. Steam wafted from the pot. "You know what he said next, Mr. Brannon? He said 'Harry, tell them she put Betty Anne in the back seat. And he pointed to the second girl -- she was coming down the beach towards us now. He said 'Harry tell them she put Betty Anne back there. Tell them she killed her'." "What did he mean by that, Mr. Sauer? Was he trying to get you to alibi him by blaming her?" "Maybe he was, but I don't think so," Sauer said as he stroked his jaw. "By the look in his eyes, I thought he meant it. There was fear in his eyes and it wasn't fear of being blamed for Betty Ann's death. He thought he was looking at a murderer coming at him and I do believe he thought she was going to murder us, too, right then and there. So he gets to his feet -- he was out of breath and puffing -- points at her like he was in a courtroom and screams 'murderer!' at the top of his lungs. Then he sees a big piece of driftwood -- the storm had washed a lot of it on the beach -- and picks it up and lets out after her. She took off. He ran a while, then he collapsed. Thought he'd died, I did. She was too far ahead for me to catch, so I watched her run off down the beach. Then I helped him up and put my arm around him," Sauer held out his arm around an imaginary Fitzhugh. "Like that?" Brannon nodded. Sauer shuffled across the kitchen floor, slippers slapping with each pace, and set two places at the table with unmatched cutlery. Brannon feared he'd have to join in the chili fiesta. "This second girl, did she have a name? Did Fitzhugh call her 'Sally' or anything?" "Funny you should ask, I was just trying to remember it myself," Sauer furrowed his brow. He noticed the steaming Mexican food and scurried over to turn off the burner. "Not much of a cook, am I?" Then he smote his forehead again. "Cook! That's it! He called her Cook when he run off after her." Sauer smiled with pride. "Maybe that was her occupation." Sauer drew a blank. "I mean she could have been the cook at Fitzhugh's house; maybe hired for the party." Sauer tapped his spoon. "No. Cook was her last name. When they was first out of the water, all huggy and lovey-dovey, she called him 'Mike' and he called her..." More tapping. "Linda. That's it, Linda." "Linda Cook." Brannon had his name, now he needed to find her. "What happened next?" "I walked Mike Fitzhugh off the beach. He was all collapsed then, so I put him in my truck. Damn if he didn't curl up and fall asleep. I think he had a bit too much to drink, too. That and the diving down to the car. Too much exertion for a Senator. It was past midnight by now, that really surprised me. Time sure passes when you're busy. I decided to let him rest a short spell, but I fell asleep myself. Must have been several hours. Anyway, he woke up first all discombobulated. Didn't have any idea of where he was or who I was. 'Course I remembered who he was and explained things a mite. The sun was starting to come up, so I started to drive to the Sheriff's office, but he insisted on going back to his place. He said he'd take care of reporting it, I was not to worry. When we got back to his place -- mansion, you'd call it, really -- it was all morning quiet until he started to honk my horn. Then all hell busted loose. Folks came running from every which way. They made a stink about him driven off from the party and not telling folks. He told people what happened while everybody just ignored me. After about an hour, I decided to leave, but one of his assistants said to stay, that they wanted me to talk to the Sheriff and to the press." "You never did talk to the press did you?" "No, I never did. They never showed up that day. I sat around in my truck. Drank the rest of the beer in the cooler. It stayed cold all night. The beer, I mean. Did I tell you about the beer cooler we keep on the truck?" "Yeah," Brannon lied. "Did you ever talk to the sheriff?" "Yep. It was hours before I saw them, though. They had talked to Mike Fitzhugh first. The Sheriff asked me what I had seen that night. I told them about the car going off the bridge. Then I told them about Mike and the second girl walking toward me and Mike asking me to go back and find his wallet," Sauer took a long pull from his mason jar. He trembled. "Sheriff looked at his deputy -- fat one that died in the cat house fire a few years later, you know?" Brannon nodded. "They looked at each other and chuckled. Then the deputy grabbed me and asked me what I was trying to pull, blackmail or something. They said the Senator hadn't mentioned anything about a second girl. Just that he'd tried to rescue Betty Ann himself. That Fitzhugh had tried several times, given up, and tried to walk back here to get help. He was in a daze when somebody stopped to pick him up. That somebody was me, that was all I was supposed to have done. Picked him up on the main road." Brannon ran a hand over his face. "Let me get this straight. The Sheriff told you that Mike Fitzhugh was alone with Betty Anne, that he knew she was in the car, and that he'd tried to rescue her himself and failed. When that didn't work, he headed for the main road to get help and you saw him, picked him up, and drove him back. Nothing else?" "You got it, Mr. Brannon," Sauer said. He pointed the spoon at Brannon for emphasis. "I was shocked of course. I mean I was hanging around there for hours without seeing anyone and then the Sheriff comes along and tells me I'm a liar. I started to tell him, if I hadn't been at the accident diving with Mike Fitzhugh, how'd I get so wet? But, by then 'course I'd dried out mostly." "Did he arrest you?" Sauer shook his head. "The Sheriff, he grabbed me by my shirt and said he'd have my job at the Power Company if I tried to tell anybody else my story. Said he'd see to it they knew I was drinking on the job. They'd seen the six pack and the ice chest in the back of the truck -- did I tell you about the six pack, Mr. Brannon?" "Yeah." "Well, you can see the pickle I was in: I couldn't lose Harry's job for him. So I never mentioned that second girl again until Doc Wannamaker said I got the Cancer and only have a few months to live. Then I heard about how the Mizelles still wanted to clear Betty Ann's name. I called them up and told them what I told you the other day," Sauer was weeping. "I'd hoped to keep out of it. I'm an old, dying man. Let me die in peace." He mumbled the last, then stirred his chili in silence. Brannon rested his elbows on the table and scratched his scalp with both hands, ruffling his red hair. His gut filled with the searing burst of stomach acid. A nerve in his knee decided to send dots and dashes of pain to his brain, Morse code for "Get out of here." He sat up and said, "What about the money? You said your brother was smart enough to get some hush money out of the Fitzhughs. Was that you, too?" "That was Harry, that wasn't me. It was years ago and he didn't tell me until after he'd spent it on a new engine for his boat. Only a couple thousand or so. He thought he could get more if he needed it. I warned him about getting greedy with powerful folks. Harry laughed, said not to worry, he was small potatoes for rich folks, they could afford to pay more. He would wait, he told me, to be safe. But he had the accident and that was that." Sauer took the pot off the stove, looked for a ladle, found none, then poured the brown mess into two bowls. He set one in front of Brannon. Steam rose out of the bowl, bringing with it the peppery smell of the chili. "Why did you lie to me the other day?" Brannon took the direct route, no longer afraid to scare off Sauer. If the older man took offense, Brannon wouldn't have to face the chili anymore. "Lie?" Sauer was puzzled, not offended. He stopped the spoon half way to his mouth. "About Harry being on the pole, not you," said Brannon. "And the Linda Cook business. Why didn't you tell me her name the other day?" Sauer stoked in some chili while he thought. "Didn't lie about Linda Cook. Just didn't tell you," he said. "Had to save something for the next time, didn't I?" he smiled. "It gets lonely out here. I like having visitors." Brannon nodded. "What about the Harry business? Why did you lie about that?" Sauer squirmed. "Still don't like folks knowing about Harry and me. Working two shifts, that is. We got paid overtime, did I tell you that?" "Yes." "Folks at the Power Company might not like that, even today, know what I mean?" "Yeah." Brannon felt sorry for the old coot. "I don't think they'll come after the money." The older man ate in silence, so Brannon excused himself to leave. "Do you like being a detective, Mr. Brannon?" asked Sauer, to prolong their meeting. "It's a living." "How'd you become one? It's not something they advertise for, like McDonald's, is it?" He explained about the family business. "You know its funny. My father always wanted me to be a lawyer and get into politics; maybe even get elected president. He always wanted me to be another Lincoln." Sauer frowned and said, "Why would your daddy want you to be a tunnel?" -------- *Chapter 9* BRANNON LAY in bed, half asleep, when the doorbell rang. He pried an eyelid open and peeked at the clock radio. 11:17. The sunlight around the edges of the shade told him what the radio didn't: AM. The doorbell persisted. He rolled out of bed, right onto the floor. When a Brannon tries to hit the ground running, it's the running part that's difficult. With one eye cemented shut with sleep gunk, Dr. Cyclops found the closet door and groped. Fingers found terry cloth. He snatched the robe and rumbled to the door, hopping over the map of Normandy Beach and the survivors of last night's paper battle. Yanking the belt tight, he shouted at the bell ringer. He snapped back the two locks and opened up. "Lou?" Ferncliff barged past Brannon, who clutched at the open top of his robe and wondered what else might be showing. "I know you don't read the Virginia Beach paper, so I figured you hadn't seen this little article. We didn't run it." She held a ragged piece of newsprint in front of the Cyclops, as if to appease it. "It's an article about Henry Sauer. Interested?" Brannon pushed aside her outstretched hand and walked to the living room window, which was also the dining room window, but he wasn't eating then. Robert E. Lee ignored him. "Shouldn't you be interviewing a governor or a felon?" Today was white jacket, light blue blouse with one of those big, floppy bows that reminded Brannon of Oscar Wilde, and navy blue slacks. "I was in the neighborhood visiting one of the women I work with. She had a baby at Stuart Circle, the hospital, not the statue, and I drew the short straw. Had to bring over the card and gift for everybody," she said. "I called your office first about this..." She waved the newspaper fragment, "...and Miss Graham said you hadn't been in for a few days. Didn't feel good. So I thought I'd drop in, give it to you. How are you, by the way?" "I'm fine. Healthy, at least. Have a seat." He picked at his eye while he walked back from the window and flopped into the comfy chair opposite the good couch where Lou sat. He fluttered ungunked eyes and pointed to the article. "What's it say?" "It seems there was a fire out near Chappateague. A house burned down night before last. They found a body inside. 'Police assume it is that of the owner, Henry Sauer, age 67.' Then it goes on to say investigators attribute the cause of the fire to a gas leak. 'It was an old house', a spokesman said. That's it. Only four paragraphs. This is the guy Sauer you went to see, right?" she said with the tone of voice she used for hand-in-the-till politicos. "Sauer is dead?" he said, voice rising in pitch. "That's what it says." Brannon held his head in his hands, rubbing away with his palms at closed eyes. "Fire from a gas leak?" "Yes." "I'm not surprised. The way he sloshed his moonshine around in the kitchen, I thought he was going set fire to the place with me there. Lucky for me I'd left." He smiled at Louisa. "Doesn't it strike you as strange that he died right after you spoke to him again?" she said. "He was gonna die anyway," said Brannon. "Cancer. Not long to live. Why would anyone kill Sauer when he would've died soon anyway?" "Because he'd talked to you?" He shook his head, and held up a hand for time. Between yawns, Brannon told her about his trip to see Sauer. "They were twins, you know. Got him to admit he was up on the pole that night, masquerading as his brother." "That's not masquerading, Bruff, he didn't dress up in a mask, he simply looked like his brother. Just because you look like a big doofous whenever you show up doesn't mean I'm throwing a masquerade when I invite you over. Which I haven't done since you came back, and which I'm not planning to." "I'll drop in on you, too." He made a tight-lipped smile that dimpled his cheeks. "Getting back to Sauer, he told me he went back to Fitzhugh's mansion. Fitzhugh was dying for Sauer to tell everybody what happened: the second girl, Fitzhugh's shock at hearing Betty Ann was in the car, Fitzhugh trying to rescue Betty Ann. And then Fitzhugh blaming the second girl. Sauer was all pumped up for his fifteen minutes of fame, but he had to sit around for hours, ignored. Finally the Sheriff came out to question him. Sauer told him about the second girl. Sheriff didn't like that story, told Sauer that Fitzhugh said he'd flagged down Sauer on the main highway. According to Fitzhugh, Sauer had never been near Chappateague Island. Fitzhugh said he'd tried to rescue Betty Ann himself, but couldn't. When Sauer tried to insist on his version, the Sheriff accused Sauer of trying to shake down the Fitzhughs, threatened to toss him in jail if he told his story to anyone." A massive yawn tried to swallow the last words, failed in that, but prevented any further recollections. "What do you think, Lou?" Another yawn. "Sounds like they didn't want anyone finding the second girl, much less talking to her. Most likely she was a big wig's wife and it getting out that she was boinking Mike Fitzhugh would have created far more damage than a dead girl." "Sauer didn't recognize her." "I doubt he would have. All he remembered about her was her tits." Brannon's eyes zoned in on Louisa, who crossed her arms. "No, he remembered her name was Linda Cook. Fitzhugh cried out that name, said she was the one who killed Betty Ann. Then Linda Cook ran away and Sauer never saw or heard of her again. Linda Cook. I've never heard that name, have you?" "No, I haven't. At least not that I remember," said Lou. "I imagine the Linda Cook trail would be a tad cool after twenty years." He stroked his morning stubble. "I could try and run that name through the paper's computers, see what comes up," she said. She jotted down the name. "Sauer say what happened to her?" "No idea." Lou sat, chin in hand. "Since the second girl could never be revealed, that left Fitzhugh with Betty Anne, heading for a remote beach. The less said about her, the better, so they retreated to sketchy facts and memory loss," she said as she pulled out a sheaf of microfilm copies of Examiner stories dated more than twenty years ago. "You got me interested, so I pulled up some articles to refresh my memory. There might be a story in this, after all." She handed the papers to Brannon. "Made you copies, too." "Thanks." He fanned the articles. "I'd say nothing in there contradicts what Sauer told you. Fitzhugh said he took Betty Ann for a drive after a party. Like Sauer said, there had been bad thunderstorms that day, knocked out power to most of the Eastern Shore including the Fitzhugh mansion. They were looking for a secluded beach. The roads were wet, flooded in some places. Just like Sauer said, he missed the bridge turn, backed up, and tried again. Drove off the bridge. Later he admitted it had been some time since he'd driven himself anywhere and that he was driving with an expired license. That was bad even for a U. S. Senator." Lou paused. She had both feet on the floor now, leaning forward, elbows on thighs, her small hands clasped just under her chin. He'd forgotten how her eyes reminded him of jade. "Go on." "Mike said the car settled passenger side down. No way Betty Ann could get out her door. Betty Ann began to scream. The Bay water rushed in from all the cracks. He was very frightened, thought he would die. He couldn't calm down Betty Ann, so he grabbed her by the waist and pushed against his door with his feet. Suddenly it popped open and let him out, he doesn't remember how, he just kind of floated." She flitted her fingers. "Did it? Pop open, I mean." "There's only his word. He said he thought he had pulled Betty Ann free of the car, so when he realized he didn't have a hold on her anymore and that it was too dark and confusing, he swam to the surface, following the bubbles. He floated on top, looking for her to appear, but she never did." Lou flipped ahead. "They pulled the car out of the Bay the next day to get Betty Ann's body out. The divers said the car was right side up when they found it. Fitzhugh insisted the car had settled later. Nobody could disprove that," she explained. "Sauer didn't say anything about that, did he?" "I don't think so. I don't remember him talking about the position of the car. I got the impression while I was listening that the car had settled on four wheels, like normal." He frowned as he tried to recall Sauer's story. "Can't ask him anymore, can I?" "No. I don't suppose its important, though," she tried to cheer him. "This rest of his story agrees with what Sauer told you last time. When Fitzhugh got to the surface, he couldn't find Betty Ann. He insisted he tried many times to pull her out of the car, but couldn't. He wore himself out trying, and cried himself to sleep on the beach. When he woke up, it was still dark. He couldn't even remember where the car had gone in. So he walked back to a paved road and hitched a ride back to the mansion." "Sauer." "Yes, although the articles don't mention him by name," she said. "There isn't much more to the story. At the time, there was a great clamor to charge him with manslaughter. Drunken Driving, too. I remember the local sheriff's deputies bungled the sobriety test," she said as she shook her head. "And the manslaughter charge was dropped for lack of physical evidence. The only living eye witness was Fitzhugh, you see." "So that's why they paid the brother off. He could have fingered Fitzhugh," said Brannon, scratching his rumpled red hair. "And so the Senator got off scott-free." "Not exactly. He avoided the big charges, true. But they did fine him for driving with an expired license. That and 'Community Service'," she said, scanning the remainder of the stories. "Well, you know the rest." Brannon strummed his fingers on the chair's arm so she'd know he was thinking. "Bruff?" "I don't trust Sauer's story. The bit about the Sheriff accusing him of trying to shake down the Fitzhughs sounds too much like self justification." "You told me he said his brother did get some money out of Fitzhugh later, didn't you?" "Yeah. Only I'm not so sure it was his brother. Maybe he did it himself. He gets things confused about his brother, what he did, what Harry did." "Sounds like the plot of Psycho," said Lou. Brannon smiled ruefully. "My big lead." "Now that he's dead, you'll never know for sure," she said. His stomach made angry noises, like a dying mongoose. Lou laughed. "All this thinking is put me off my feed. I took a slow drive out to Charlottesville last night to think things over, and forgot about dinner until after midnight, a burger, unless I'm hallucinating. Haven't had breakfast yet. Can I interest you in brunch?" She shook her head, said she had to get back to work. "How about if you read me that article about Sauer's death again while I fix some food?" Brannon remembered he was naked under his terry cloth robe and pulled the belt tighter. He wasn't sure if Lou was looking up his legs. Weird to be on the other end of leering. "Let's go to the kitchen." She stayed put on the good couch. While Lou reread the article, voice straining to be heard in the next room, Brannon picked up a frying pan. "Sure you don't want anything?" "Certain." He turned on the burner and took some sausages out of the freezer. The gas leaped up to the copper-bottomed pot and he pulled back. Old buildings. A memory stirred, began to break for the surface. "Lou," He called. "Did you say the police said it was a gas leak?" "Yes, weren't you listening to me again?" He hurried back to the living room, pan in hand. "No, no. That's not it. Sauer didn't have gas burners. The kitchen was all-electric. He complained about the smell of the burners while he made chili." "Sauer could have had gas heat," she said. Brannon couldn't rebut that mundane thought and shrugged. He barefooted it back into the kitchen and put the sausages on. The sound of sizzling pork parts enticed Lou into the kitchen, but one glance over Brannon's shoulder at the reality of man, fry pan and breakfast doused temptation. She walked over to the window where an unmatched set of fast-food give-away tumblers soaked up the morning sun. Pointing to them, she said, "Why did you leave all these dirty things in the window?" "That's my valuable stained glass collection." He rolled over the sausages, the unbrowned sides sizzled. "What are you going to do next?" she asked, turning away from the treasure. He shrugged. "I really didn't know." "Maybe I can help you focus." She leaned against the sill. Outside, a maple swayed in a stiff breeze. "Your uncle went up to see the Mizelles, but was killed in a traffic accident before he could talk with them -- " "Accidents happen." " -- You go to them, they tell you to see Sauer. He tells you about what he says really happened on Chappateague. There's the ring of truth to his story, I think. Two days after you see him for the second time, he dies in a gas leak fire, only there is no gas in his house." "Not even the heat?" He held up the pan, poured the excess grease down the drain.. "I believe you about the electric burners, Bruff. I was just trying to be thorough about the heat suggestion. Don't want you overlooking anything. You need to be careful." There was concern in Lou's voice that hadn't been there before. "You could be next." He assured her he'd take care of himself. Spreading out a paper towel on the tiny counter space, Brannon place the three sausages to dry, then cracked an egg into the frying pan. It whitened immediately in the hot grease. Lou frowned and mumbled about the cholesterol killing him if the case didn't. "I have nothing to fear from Eastern Shore killers because I don't intend to go out that way again. Drop the whole damn thing. I mean, who gives a shit? I really don't care if Fitzhugh seduced Betty Anne or not, or if she was part of a three-some with The First Lady and Fitzhugh. I'd pretty much made up my mind to drop the Mizelles before you came over. Now that Sauer is dead, I really don't have much choice, do I?" Lou frowned. "If you drop the Mizelles, you'll never find out if your uncle's death had anything to do with this." He shrugged. "No way. An accident. Period." "I'm serious, Bruff. You can't drop this now, because then it will be gone forever and you'll never know the truth." "I couldn't possibly care less. You, on the other hand, smell another column. Pulitzer Prize, madam?" He bowed as he offered, "Nobel Peace Prize sausages, the kind that are TNT in your tummy." "Brannon." She held up her watch. "I need to go." Brannon walked with her to the door in silence. She kept going to the top of the stairs. "Brannon?" He leaned out the door. "Wear something under your robe next time." She disappeared down the steps. "Oh, yeah?" Brannon shouted over the clattering footfalls. "If you're so smart, how come you don't know Stuart Circle Hospital doesn't have a maternity wing?" * * * * HE SNAPPED on the radio. Violinists in Minneapolis told how they fingered their instruments. He snapped it off, dial twisting a pointless exercise. Richmond radio offered Brannon no choices. He scrubbed the fry pan with a worn, soapless steel pad. His uncle's death was one of those things: a traffic accident. Nothing sinister about that, just bad luck. But the clumsy cover-up surrounding Sauer's death made him shiver. It's pretty hard to confuse a gas leak with an electrical fire. He remembered the telephone numbers he'd picked up in Sauer's place. He dialed. "Accomac Barber Shop, Floyd here." Brannon hung up. Probably Sauer's bookie. He thought the second number was a Richmond exchange. "Senator Fitzhugh's office, how may I direct your call?" The phone clattered to the kitchen floor. "Hello?" The dial tone changed to a fast beep before Brannon got the phone back on the hook. Three tries. * * * * "I SEE YOU'VE recovered," said Honey Graham. Brannon smiled and walked past. He peeked into the office of Garnett Davis, who sat back to the door, laughing on the phone. Brannon patted the wall, then left. Outside his own office, Janis Johnson and Moultrie "Moonpie" Davenport argued. Brannon greeted the thin, black man in the gold rimmed glasses who stood grinning as Moonpie rambled on about the subject of the day. "James" to business contacts and "Janes" to cold callers, Janes had fared better than his sisters, Velveeta, Keisha and Toyota when he missed the pseudo-African naming frenzy that swallowed Momma Johnson whole. That the older, larger boys who tyrannized him were as black as he, confounded his mother, but taught young Janes that bigotry had many sources. A film student at VCU, Janes leveraged his skills by providing part-time technical assistance to the agency's surveillance efforts. "It is not a patent violation," Davenport said. "They are two different products. Two very different products. I don't see how you can say they are the same, Janes." "They have almost the same names," Janes said. He winked at Brannon. "Why they even start with the same letter." "Mister and Doctor don't start with the same letter," Moonpie said. "Pibb and Pepper," Janes said, his lips exploding on the initial consonant in each. "What's up, Moonpie?" said Brannon. A stake out man, and an old friend of Garnett's, white hair clung to Moonpie's great, round head, like the Man-in-the-Moon. Reason enough for "Moonpie," but even in old age, he still craved the round, marshmallow cookies of that name. "Janes says Mister Pibb is just a copy of Doctor Pepper. Says there's less difference than between Coke and Pepsi. Why the two don't taste anything alike, do they, Bruff?" "Don't drag me into this, Moonpie." Brannon slid past them into his office, closed the door, and flopped into the chair. He checked his in-box: Three letters and a renewal notice for the Sporting News. Even though Brannon had his personal mail sent to the office, he received less than anyone else, the consequences of moving around and not making the types of purchases attractive to mailing list traffickers. He tore open the first letter, a 'Speed Memo' from the Accomack County Sheriff's Office. The hand written note said "Here's the accident report you wanted." He read the poorly typed summary of Broughton J. Brannon III's last moments. Uncle Bruff had been stopped at a light on Route 13 near Onancock. A semi had not seen the light and plowed into the stationary car resulting in decapitation and compression to the driver's body. Death was instantaneous. The driver of the truck fled the scene and had not been found. Accomack County officers assumed he was abusing the substance of his choice while hauling a trailer of fresh milk for Kluepfel Trucking. Brannon sighed and dropped the report next to the phone. He picked up the second letter, a request to investigate industrial espionage. The letter was vague, but the signature of the Chairman of the Board of A & B Industries seemed real enough. Springing to action, Brannon called Alan Zinck, got his secretary, and made an appointment for the next morning. The third letter came from Clive Morgan, repeating his offer to buy the Fan Detective Agency. Brannon smiled. Sell to Morgan. Take the money and do whatever he wanted to; even nothing. Go get a Ph.D. in Economics, follow in his old man's footsteps, not his uncle's. But then there's tenure, could he get tenure? All that academic politics, worse than office backstabbing. Forget academics. Join Hobie, like he'd told Lou. Expand the bookstore, make it the biggest in Richmond. And more. He sighed and reread the letter, a great offer, really. He could rid himself of Honey and Garnett, The Mizelles and Hank Sauer. Live wherever he wanted. Do whatever he wanted. The possibilities. Yup, he was going to sell. Definitely. Morgan's number was on the letterhead. He reached for the phone. The Sheriff's report caught his attention, the way it leaned against Uncle Bruff's ledgers. Brannon picked at the accident report, unable to digest its simple fare. Strolling the desktop, his fingers found the leather of the journals. Honey had set them in rough chronological order, with the most recent ones on his desk. Looking for the first, Brannon sat on the floor and took stock. Twenty-one in all, most of the brown leather with red spines variety, 1896 the most recent marking. There were series from the early 1890s, all the 1880s and 1870s. That accounted for eighteen volumes, which he set aside. He picked up the remaining three and returned to his desk. Undated and cloth covered, the first volume crackled when he handled it, the stiff covers refusing to budge. With careful effort, he pried apart the edges of the pages and found hand written notes like the ones he'd seen earlier. The book wouldn't spread without cracking the spine, and he was reluctant to do so. The second volume had the same problem. The third tome was more square than rectangular, about ten inches on a side. The battered brown front didn't match the dark-green back cover in texture, either. Rough bumps studded the back, like a football, and it smelled like athletes had hurled it about a livestock yard. Faint lettering, indecipherable even under direct light from his reading lamp, reminded him of weathered tombstones. The edges of the pages were a deep brown, like a Key West tan on a charter boat captain. He took the book into his lap and gently let the leaves spread open. Old style handwriting covered the pages, neat, flowing, vibrant but near incoherent. Like a first grader, he stumbled over words until he realized the writer used "i" for "j" and "v" for "w", also that squiggly mark the Germans use for words that end in double "s". The marvel of deciphering the handwriting didn't bring a big reward, though. The front of the volume had a lot about shoes, Confederate shoes, or rather thwarting rebel efforts to acquire shoes for the Army of Northern Virginia. He flipped dozens of pages, all in the same handwriting, his great-great-uncle, Broughton J. Brannon, I. Tingling broke out in his fingertips, so he wriggled them, thinking they had fallen asleep. He flipped ahead, the dates changing to 1862 and the subject becoming bounty jumping. Rapscallions claimed enlistment bonuses, pocketed the money, and then deserted at the first opportunity. The cleverest ones worked both Blue and Gray. Great-great-uncle Bruff tracked them down and brought them back, often alive. Brannon yawned, spotted his coffee mug on the desk, empty. He wandered out to the pot, also empty save a dribble laced with grounds. He dumped that in the sink, and searched for the coffee can. The noise attracted Honey. "Can I help?" Her half-lens glasses gave the impression of peering down at Brannon. "Be my guest," said Brannon, stepping away. "A lot of shoe stories in those ledgers you put in my office." She popped open the can, coffee aroma filling the air. "Did you read the ones with the locks?" "Locks?" "I put them where you couldn't miss them. Right in the middle of your desk." "Um, I couldn't find the keys." "Bruff always had the keys." She took off the glasses so her gaze could rip directly into Brannon. "You do have the keys, don't you?" He coughed, said they must be in the desk. Honey said, "Bruff always carried them. He would have had them in his pocket when he died. You did get his effects, didn't you? From the lawyer or the funeral director?" By now Brannon was rummaging in the old desk. He didn't remember seeing any keys, but then he wouldn't have remembered innocuous keys. "You need them to open these." Honey held two volumes cradled in her left arm and was plucking a third from the piles on the desk. Brannon had no idea how he'd missed them. He took his hands out of the drawers, shut them and stood at attention. She set two books in front of Brannon and said of the third, "He used to write in this one himself after a big case. He kept the key on the same chain as his pocket watch. He used to make a ceremony out of it." Dreams of Uncle Bruff and afternoons with the ledgers misted her eyes. "First he'd call me into the office and have me take the book off the shelf. I'd smell the leather." She stroked the cover of the top volume. "Your Uncle Bruff smelled like leather, too." She looked at Brannon with an expression that accused him of not smelling anything at all like leather. "Then he'd take the key chain out of his pocket, I'd hand him the book, and slowly he'd put the key in this lock." She stuck her fingernail into the hole. Her tongue darted in and out. "Even more slowly, he'd turn the key." She trembled, quivered. Brannon stood frozen. He glanced at the door for a glimpse of a peeping Janes or Moonpie. "The catch would pop, and he'd open the book. Then I'd fetch the quill pen and India ink, and he'd log in his last adventure. He'd make me leave the room while he did that. When he was done, he'd call me back in and I'd clear off the India ink and quill pen. Then he'd close the book and lock it. I'd get to put it back on the shelf." Honey held the leather bound ledger to her bosom. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Brannon shifted his feet. He rubbed at the sweat on his upper lip. "But sometimes he'd read me the story, if I'd been good." Her eyes twinkled. Brannon hoped he wasn't going to hear how she'd been good. "What kind of stories?" he managed to ask, his voice two octaves higher than usual. She thought for a moment. "His adventures, mostly." "What kind of adventures?" His harsh tone snapped more than the words. "I don't remember." She slammed the book on the desktop, and clutched the collar of her blouse. "You'll just have to find the key and read for yourself." * * * * BRANNON STARTED out looking for the missing key, rediscovered the Sheriff's report, then Alan Zinck's letter. Interesting occupation, detective. He first strummed his fingers on the volumes on the desk, then pushed himself back in the chair. The phone rang. "Sorry I took so long to get back to you, I had a busy day," Louisa said. "I've found out some things about Linda Cook. How about you?" "Nothing about her," he said, mind frantically reviewing his activities for exoneration, then finding it. "But I did call some phone numbers I found in Sauer's house. One of them was Mike Fitzhugh's office." "Maybe Sauer wanted to try for more money," she said. "You didn't ask him did you?" "No." He paused. "What about Linda Cook?" "Linda Cook is a fairly popular name in these parts, Bruff," she began. "Most Linda Cooks got married or won a cooking award or graduated. But one stands out. Do you remember the Weather Underground? ROTC bombings and student strikes?." "Yeah. So what?" "There was a Linda Cook in the Weather Underground in the late sixties and early seventies. She was part of a cell that did a lot of bombings." "Was that Bernadine Dorhn?" The name popped into Brannon's head the way words sometimes do in alphabet soup. "Like her, but not that precise group. Most of Linda Cook's group blew themselves up trying to bomb the Miss America pageant." "Must've had it in for Bert Parks." "Only a handful of the bombers survived the blast, she was one of them. She dropped out of sight, then surfaced in Baltimore in the early Seventies, just before Nixon ended the Viet Nam War. Her new group wanted one more round of attention and had big plans. Only one of them messed up again, this time blowing a whole apartment house sky high, including Linda Cook. Excuse me." She covered the phone. "Sorry, gotta run." She hung up. -------- *Chapter 10* CHARLES IVES' sweet dissonances quavered from the tape player as Brannon cruised north on Boulevard, crossed Broad and turned left onto Leigh. The powerful lure of Industrial espionage lured Brannon on; Secret formulas, trade secrets, stolen inventions, all possible. The letter from Alan Zinck lay open on the seat beside him, more talisman than map. He cruised along streets lined with dismal factories and warehouses, most with torn "For Rent" or "For Sale" signs stuck above the entrances. The brick had accumulated soot, the glass shattered and the people broken. Here and there rusted out mufflers had molted. Turning the next corner brought him straight back to 1959. The A & B Ice Cream plant sparkled at the end of the street, bricks red and fresh from the kiln. Not only were the windows intact, but two white men were washing them. Oriental vehicles of recent manufacture populated the teeming parking lot. A play yard abutted this area, complete with swings, slides, sandboxes and happy young children, all dressed in T-shirts stenciled with the latest cartoon characters. The children were of all races -- presumably creeds -- in a mix so precise that its third decimal place made the ACLU smile. Brannon parked in the visitors' lot. Walking up to the front entrance, he noticed the corner swooshed straight out of the 1930's with steel and glass streamlining that said "industrial paradise." Pausing, he sniffed, like a hunt dog, at the luscious aromas, hints of Sunday treats. He could almost taste the chocolate and vanilla. He didn't know about their ice cream, but A & B's effluents hit the spot. He went in. "Have a seat, Mr. Brannon. I'll check and see if Al's in," the receptionist said, her voice frothy, like the root beer float on her T-shirt. Bruff wandered over to the reception area and picked up the morning's Wall Street _Journal_. The front-page headlines announced economic decline: Auto companies with more layoffs, consumer confidence below bleak, and the stock market "lackluster." He tossed the paper down. "Al will be with you in a few minutes, Mr. Brannon," the receptionist said. He nodded, then fished the coffee table for more engrossing reading matter. A tabloid-style business journal lay folded open to the headline "Ice Cream Maven Pleads for Disadvantaged." The picture caption described Alan Zinck and Bevo Bevonis (not shown) as the inventors of the Waffsicle, the Belgian waffle on a stick, which had revolutionized street vending of frozen desserts. The article assumed the reader knew Zinck's background and plunged into his speech: "If we individually recognize our responsibility to help others, why do we fail to incorporate these responsibilities into our businesses? When we are organized in our businesses, attuning our most powerful capabilities, American society tells us to leave our values in the parking lot." "Business must be a powerful force for social change precisely because it is the most powerful force in our society. Government is merely second. Why should Business care about the disabled, the homeless, disadvantaged children? Because it is Business alone, by virtue of its enormous power, that is in the best position to help." Meeting Zinck would be more fun than he'd hoped for, given a shared contempt for the bottom line-worshipping executives Brannon had labored under all his life. Brannon didn't know exactly what Alan Zinck would do if he were an auto executive confronted with a large quarterly loss, but he was sure Zinck wouldn't layoff twenty thousand workers, thus creating twenty thousand more consumers who wouldn't be buying a new car anytime soon. A large young woman in a dress designed by the House of Ringling came into the reception area. She bantered with the receptionist, who pointed at Brannon. Her hips rolled like buoys in a gentle chop as she approached Brannon. "I'm Joanne, Al's secretary. I'll take you back to him." After a handshake more appropriate to steer wrestling, Brannon followed Joanne through one door, then up a staircase to the second floor. As they strolled, music gushed out of the open office doors and the sweet smell of confections filled the air, like a church bake sale on a June afternoon. He glanced into the offices. No suits, but plenty of T-shirts and jeans. Kid artwork adorned most walls, Greenpeace and rock group posters the rest. "This looks like a neat place to work," he said. "Oh, it is." Joanne vibrated with enthusiasm. "I've never worked anywhere that was so much fun. I spent years at a bank, and it was so quiet and dull. Here we have fun, it's not really work, you know?" He didn't, but smiled and nodded. They'd come to the end of the hall and the only closed door. A sign said, "Alan Zinck, Chairman". Joanne opened it for him without knocking. "Have a nice day." He plunged into a room bigger than the door implied. To the left, a huge poster of a world famous icon dominated the wall. It consisted of four lines surrounded by a circle. Three lines stretched down like a catcher's right hand calling for a change up. The fourth line rose vertically, the batter having popped the pitch up. Covering the other walls were photographs, mostly autographed. Since they weren't playing ball, Brannon assumed they were Rock or Movie Stars. The smell of tea hung in the air, Darjeeling. Brannon wondered how Zinck kept out the sweetness of the factory and the halls. Covering the floor were carpet tiles pretending to be wall-to-wall, an illusion the morning sun streaming through the picture window revealed by highlighting the grooves between the red-brown squares. Dormant neurons identified the soft background music as the Doors performing "Light My Fire," a strange choice for muffled mood music. Equally odd, the source of the music wasn't some discrete, overhead speaker, rather it escaped from the headphones stuck on the ears of the man sitting behind the big desk. Brannon hadn't seen a paisley shirt like that in years, green background, with yellow, red and orange amoebas. Long gray locks fringed the man's shining dome and flowed into the pale green leather of the chair, like a carapace into a shell. Rimless granny glasses covered narrow-slitted, heavy lidded eyes. The age-gnarled head bobbed forward on a short, wrinkled neck, keeping slow time with the music. A terrapin, thought Brannon, the kind Maryland uses at its football games. When Zinck doffed his headphones and moved around the desk to shake Brannon's hand, he sported navy blue bell bottoms with red vents. "I'm Alan Zinck. Have a seat," said the aging, hippie, peacenik turtle. Brannon took the chair Zinck indicated. Cloth covered, simple design, comfortable. Like Zinck. "Brannon." He handed the man his card from the sitting position. Zinck didn't ask about the inked out "III". Brannon said, "I read that article about you, Mr. Zinck. The one about your speech in New Orleans. I liked what you had to say. Not many people understand the power of corporations." "They can be used for good or evil," Zinck said, adding a wink. "You've practiced what you preached here, the day care center, the cleaned up building, happy employees." Zinck gave an "It's nothing" wave. "We're still small. Like to do more, but we need to grow to do that. Growth means power in America, it always has. Bevo and I aren't sure we want to do that. Get bigger, that is. Lots of much bigger corporations here in Richmond -- even much bigger ice cream companies like Eskimo Pie. Today I can get invited to big industry conferences because I'm a novelty -- a capitalist hippy, Mr. Social Responsibility. The Suits feel good after they listen to me." Zinck shrugged. "This is a start. If we want to attain more power and change this country, we'll have to change a lot of the ways we do things in this country. Upset a lot of people. Don't think I'm ready for that yet." Brannon smiled. No small talk maven, the article was all he had. The bright sun made the weather too obvious a topic; he didn't listen to rock and Alan Zinck didn't have any autographed pictures of Cal Ripken on his wall. Brannon sat quietly and waited for Zinck to resume. The ice cream maker started by informing the detective they'd be Al and Bruff the rest of the way, then got to the nub of the matter. "Tell you why I asked to see you, Bruff." He sat on the edge of his desk, crossed his legs, and folded his arms. He didn't look Brannon in the eye, mostly at the posters. "The ice cream business is very competitive, very trendy. Good ideas don't stay proprietary very long. Remember Waffsicles? Chipwiches? Big sellers in their day. Waffsicles built all this." He spread his arms, like Charlton Heston on the Mount. "Now, less than ten percent of our business is Waffsicle sales. Times change, right Bruff?" "They sure do." Brannon tried hard not to look at the bellbottoms and paisley shirt. Zinck stood and stretched his arms, waving away unseen demons. He walked to the window and squinted into the bright light, as he said, "Flavors were the trend in the late 70's. The wilder the better. Then Ben and Jerry started the premium trade -- more butter fat, to you," he said. "We've hung in there with "me too" products for five years now. Sales have been good, we've started to franchise, too. Doing OK, but the growth isn't there. Need a big hit, a new Waffsicle. A couple of months ago, Bevo invented a secret process to make ice cream bars. Should pound Dove bars off the market, be the new Waffsicle." "What's the secret, if I can ask?" "Oh, the idea isn't secret, its the execution, the manufacturing process," Zinck explained. He turned and looked Brannon in the eye. "What's the worst part of eating ice cream on a stick?" Brannon shrugged. He couldn't think of anything bad about ice cream. "The stick, biting into the stick," said Zinck, adding a chomp of his own. "Trouble is, of course, the consumer needs to hold the stick, and the stick needs to extend into the ice cream for support. Biting into the stick is very unpleasant and it remains risky because the stick is hidden, of course. So Bevo decided to tackle the problem." Here Zinck walked over to a large wall poster. "C'mere." Brannon c'mered. "That's me. That 's Bevo," he said with pride at the photograph of an ancient, outdoor rock concert. Zinck ignored the performers, who had signed the poster, and pointed to a section of the enormous crowd frozen in fuzzy black and white. Brannon couldn't make out any features. "See us there?" said Zinck with enthusiasm. Brannon stuck his face closer and squinted hard. "I see you, but where's Waldo?" "Bevo. His name is Bevo," said Zinck. "He's right next to me." He gave a distracted wave and returned to his desk. Brannon found his chair. Zinck swung his feet up and jiggled his rump into the cushy chair. He adjusted his grannies and said, "Bevo is a genius. He truly is. Coming up with the material was inspired genius. Do you remember 'OH, Oh, Oh. It's Bonomo!', Bruff?" "No." "Taffy. Turkish taffy." Zinck laughed with delight. "That's how Bevo solved the material problem. It's hard as steel when frozen and softens into a delightful morsel when you've eaten away the ice cream." The words gushed out of Zinck. "The problem was the engineering, Brannon. At what point does the holder cease to be wood and become taffy? If the taffy part starts before it is covered with ice cream, the taffy exposed to the air will soften and the bar will droop. You'd have to eat it faster than you want. On the other hand, if the wood extends too far into the bar, what's the point of the whole thing? Bevo came up with the precise point at which the taffy takes over." He leaned forward and pointed a finger. "And the precise elasticity required of the taffy. The problem then became one of precision. Ice cream bar making machinery isn't precision equipment, of course. Bevo isn't a mechanical engineer. He's a chemist." He raised his arms palms up. "I guess." "So we took the problem to our Engineering Department. They solved the machinery problem." Zinck abbra-cadabra-ed his hand. "That's why I asked you to come. I think someone in Engineering has contacted our competitors and offered to sell the technology. I want you to find out who." Brannon nodded. "Any suspects?" "No, none. Most of the fellows in Engineering are on my b-ball team. I'd trust them with my life. Do you play hoops, Brannon?" Zinck asked with rising eyebrows. "No, I don't." Zinck's eyebrow's drooped. "Who else had access to this invention?" said Brannon. Zinck steepled his fingers and pursed his lips. "Lots of possibilities. We don't have much security around here, never needed it." He stood up. "I'd like to have someone show you around, Brannon. Let you see the lay of the land, let you ask questions." He ushered Brannon to the door. "I'd do it myself, but I've got an important meeting with the advertising agency. New TV stuff." He winked. "Let me have Moira Shinsky tell you more about this. She's our Chief Financial Officer today. Maybe you read about her and Ellen Chu?" Rising eyebrows, again. Brannon hadn't. "When we were looking for a Chief Financial Officer last year, I was determined to hire a woman. We interviewed several suitable candidates, including some men, but nobody we liked. Then I went to a dinner at the governor's mansion. Some kind of economic development thing," His mind drifted off, snapped back. "Anyway, I met this chick from the government, can't remember her name or department now. She said she had two friends she could recommend to me. Only trouble was, they'd each had a baby recently and neither wanted to work full time. They wanted to find an employer who'd let them share a job. Onsite daycare, too. Not likely in Ol' Virginny, eh, Brannon?" "I'd heard Virginia was the home team in the Civil War," Brannon said. Zinck smiled. "She said Virginia employers would need radically different attitudes if they were going to compete." Zinck paused, raised his eyebrows -- which were getting quite a workout. "Well that's us, Brannon. Me and Bevo. We're the radicals. I called them and hired both women within a week. It's worked out great. Look, here's Moira, now." The woman entered stiffed legged, like a knight in armor, an effect reinforced by her battle gray suit and the metallic sheen of her short, blonde hair. A white scarf snuggled her thick neck and glasses depended from a silvery lanyard. Shinsky clutched a ream of printouts to her chest and waited for Zinck to introduce them. "Moira, this is Bruff Brannon, fellow I told you about.". Shinsky's rubicund face tightened to a scowl, whether from Zinck's informality, or simple dislike of strangers, Brannon couldn't tell. Zinck clapped Brannon on the back and strode down the hall, leaving the two to watch his limping gait. "Where would you like to start?" Brannon said. He rubbed his hands together. "Start?" "Explaining the case I'm hired to investigate." Shinsky raised her heavy chin and appraised Brannon. "Mr. Brannon, I know why you are really here. Please come into my office." -------- *Chapter 11* "YOU WON'T get any more money out of A & B than the Insurance Company has already offered, Mr. Brannon," she said. The ream of printouts thudded to the desk. "What?" Brannon felt like he'd been slapped. "The Insurance Company made a very generous offer to settle matters. You should take it," she said. "In any event, A & B has no liability in the matter. We have a hold harmless agreement with Kluepfel Trucking. Our tank was merely being towed, it did not contribute in anyway to the negligence of Kluepfel's driver. That point is well established in case law. I may not be a lawyer, but I know that." "You're telling me your truck killed my uncle?" Brannon hadn't heard about a settlement offer. He branded a neuron with a note to ask Garnett Davis about that. "No, Mr. Brannon. I'm telling you it was _not_ our truck," she said, then repeated the difference between a cab and a trailer in legal terms, at great length. To avoid the relentless brown eyes, Brannon looked around Shinsky's office. She kept only one picture on her cluttered desk, a small wooden framed portrait of a chubby baby girl and her flabby dad. Two large computer screens flickered behind her desk displaying parts of spreadsheets. A sheepskin from the Darden School of Business hung prominently over a massive gray metal credenza, opened to display dozens of hanging computer printouts. Two shelves supported standard securities and accounting reference sets. Blinds held out the sun, and an HO scale diesel engine with the logo of a cat, her previous employer, topped the lopsided pile of manila file folders along the remaining wall. "Did I make our position clear?" she said. "You don't have an liability," Brannon said. Until he'd talked to Davis, he didn't want to upset the woman whose insurance company wanted to give him money. Until he had time to think, he didn't have any questions about it, either. She gave him a tight-lipped smile. Brannon said, "Now that we've established your innocence, what about this espionage business? Zinck wanted you to tell me more about this espionage case." Shinsky raised her eyebrows and chin. The effect fizzled when he noticed the piece of cloth on her shoulder was not a trendy Ann Klein scarf. "Mr. Brannon, there is no industrial espionage case here. When Alan found out about your partner's death, he wanted to do something for you. So he invented this little job. Oh, maybe he and Bevo have some vague fear, but I can assure you there are no leaks in the Engineering Department. Not a one." "So you can't tell me anything about it?" "There's nothing to tell." "No point to a tour?" "If you'd like a tour, come back on Wednesday afternoon. We're open to the public then," she looked down at the two stacks of papers, and selected the top pieces. "As you can see, I'm very busy." "As long as I am here, why don't you tell me more about Kluepfel Trucking." He plopped into a chair. "Save me a trip back. Or would Ellen Chu take that off your hands?" Brannon smiled and crossed his legs. Shinsky tossed down the papers and shook her head as she sat down. "All right, Mr. Brannon. Al and Bevo have used them for years. They pull our milk tankers and refrigerator rigs. I've never met Joe Kluepfel, but I've been told he goes way back with the boys." "What was the truck doing out on the Eastern Shore? I don't think of dairy farms out that way. Chickens, sure." "Delivering." "They don't make deliveries for you, they bring milk here." "Delivering here." Shinsky sighed. "The police said it was a milk tanker and full. Where else would a full tanker be coming except here?" "The truck was heading north, away from Richmond." Moira Shinsky took off her glasses and let them tangle from her silver lanyard. She stood up, leaned forward and said, "Mr. Brannon, the man who was driving the truck is suspected of driving under the influence. Who knows why he was headed north that night? He ran off. When the police catch him, you can ask him why he was driving north." She finished this with a stare that wasn't going to end until she'd slammed the door behind him. He followed her to the door. "Thank you for your time." Moira Shinsky smiled at a job well done, an asset well protected. He stopped in the doorway and pointed to her shoulder. "Do you always burp the accountants?" -------- *Chapter 12* ROW HOUSES lined Strawberry Street, complete with stoops and second floor sleeping porches from pre-air conditioner days. Neighborhood shops spiced the residential stew, people bustling into Laundromats, wine and cheese bistros and bakeries. Traffic crawled, pausing often for curbside parkers. Vehicles jammed the street in front of Pickett's Charge, but the narrow alley alongside led to a six-space parking lot. A preoccupied Brannon pulled in next to Hobie's blue panel truck and walked around to the front. The bells over the door tinkled, but didn't budge the proprietor from his morning paper. Perched on a stool behind the cash register, Hobie Pickett scratched below his Adam's apple, where his beard ended and he'd shaved around the edges that morning. The white flecks in the beard came from powdered sugar, not age, and the dirty blonde hair hid the tops of his ears, but not the valley of skin on top. He flicked a cruller crumb off the yellow knit shirt that stretched across his massive chest. The smell of coffee filled the air, a steaming mug at Pickett's side. Brannon watched the three hundred pound canary slide off its perch and pour Swiss Mocha into a second mug embossed with two Red "B"'s followed with "IV" in blue marker pen. "How's it goin', Bruff?" Hobie set the mug in front of his friend. "Fine." Brannon took a sip. "Have you signed the contract with Morgan yet?" "No." He did not meet Pickett's eyes. "What's holding it up now?" Brannon studied the pastry trays in the display counter. Now a marketing concept of national chains, Pickett's Charge sold coffee and pastry to its clientele since its 1970's opening, and provided comfy chairs and couches for browsing, noshing and nodding off. "Uncle Bruff." Pickett furrowed his brow. "You mean his will?" "No, the accident. How he died." Brannon tossed two letters on the counter, and pointed to one. "Read the police report." Hobie read the report aloud. He gestured with palms up and said, "Milk truck. That's the only news in this." "The milk truck was supposed to be delivering a tank of milk to the Al and Bevo plant here in Richmond. Only the truck was headed away from Richmond, north. The cops assume the driver was drunk -- hit and runs at night usually are. If the driver was drunk enough to ram the car at a stoplight, he would have been drunk enough to be going in the wrong direction, too. Maybe all the beer forced him to pull over. Then he'd pulled back onto 13 in the wrong direction." "North, you say," said Hobie. Brannon nodded. "This came the same day." Hobie read the letter from Alan Zinck. "Did you talk to him?" "This morning. Zinck said he had an industrial espionage problem, someone trying to steal his secret process. He never mentioned my uncle. But his Treasurer, Moira Shinsky, knew all about the accident and insisted that it wasn't A & B's fault." He explained about the cab and the trailer. "She accused me of trying to shake down Zinck for more money. She said Zinck felt guilty about my uncle's death and wanted to use the industrial espionage case as a way of making things right, money-wise. Shinsky didn't want me taking advantage of that and said the trucking company had sent a large insurance check already." Brannon shook his head. "First I've heard of it." "Strange." Brannon nodded. "That's not the half of it. I visited the Mizelles, the folks Uncle Bruff was going to see that night. Their daughter, Betty Anne, was killed in the car Mike Fitzhugh drove off the Chappateague Bridge." "You told me that last week. I thought you weren't interested in the Mizelles." "There's more. Mizelle sent to me to an odd bird named Sauer." Brannon told Hobie about his two visits. Hobie pulled out two pastries and freshened the coffees. "Ovaltine office." Hobie chuckled. "Yeah, and he gets UHF and UFO confused. He thinks he can get flying saucers to come in on his TV set. He's got all kinds of aluminum foil trailing off his rabbit ears." "I wouldn't mind meeting Mr. Sauer." "Can't. He's dead. A gas leak blew up his house, only he didn't have gas in his kitchen." Brannon told about the chili cooking. "You think the police are covering up?" "Good chance. They covered up Mike Fitzhugh twenty years ago." "That's true." Hobie finished another Danish. "Where does that leave you, Sauer's death, I mean?" "Nowhere, until Lou came up with a lead on Linda Cook." "Lou?" Pickett ran a hand through the remains of his hair. "What does she have to do with this?" Brannon grinned. He didn't tell Hobie about the Stuart Circle lie. "She wanted to be helpful, I suppose." Hobie snorted. "It's been years," Brannon explained. "We didn't talk about what happened between us long ago. We're simply old friends." He looked at his coffee, sloshed it around, turned to the front door. Three kids had run in and were pointing to the new Michael Jordan book Sue had convinced Hobie to display. One boy in a Chicago Bulls uniform shirt and Miami Hurricanes hat held several Jordan trading cards in clear plastic pouches. "They're worth eleven dollars each," he said to his friend in the Duke "Final Four" T-shirt. The third boy was short and squat, folds of flesh emphasized through his Pittsburgh Penguin "66" uniform. He picked up the Jordan book. "It's $29.95." He whistled. "Wonder how much it'll be worth next year?" The trio approached Hobie, book in hand. "I prefer credit cards, boys," said Hobie. Chicago/Miami gulped. He glanced at his friends, who urged him on, and put three images of the basketball player on the counter next to the book. "I'll give you these cards for the book. They're worth thirty-three dollars. Is that enough to cover the tax?" Pickett's face turned red, then purple. His lips quivered violently, like that highway deck in Oakland. "_Bubble gum cards?_ You want me to accept these bubble gum cards as coin of the realm?" Pickett swatted the cardboard pieces off the counter, sending them flying onto the floor. Brannon admired how one spun through the air and under a rack nearly twenty feet away. Duke scurried after it. Chicago/Miami went pale. His jaw dropped. "Hey! They're worth a lot of money, mister." "Not in here, boy." Brannon hadn't noticed Hobie rise to his feet. He loomed over the frail boy. "I got 'em, Brian," said Duke with the breathless joy used by announcers on _Rescue 911._ "You," said Pickett, one large finger in Chicago/Miami's face. "Can you read?" The boy kicked his left foot across his right, raised his eyes to Hobie. "Of course I can read." he said, his indignation indicated by screwing up his face. "That's not a nurturing attitude, Hobie," said Brannon. "Then go down to the library and look up every reference to the Dutch Tulip Bulb Craze, right now." "Huh?" "The Dutch Tulip Bulb Craze," said Pickett. The boys studied Hobie like a rebus in a Weekly Reader. "Now," he bellowed. They ran out the door, untied shoelaces flapping. "What's the world coming to?" said Pickett as he eased back into this chair. "Kids need to have fun with baseball cards, like we did. Flip them, invent games to play. Wear them out, not treat them like rare stamps. They're_ bubble gum_ cards, fercrissake." "Not anymore," said Brannon. "You don't get gum with the cards anymore." "It used to be the cards came with the gum," said Pickett as he folded his fingers over his placid girth, like a lake no longer rippling after swallowing a rock. "I could use your help," Brannon said. "Of course." "Sauer recalled the name of the second girl: Linda Cook." Hobie shrugged. "My initial reaction, too." Brannon explained how Ferncliff had searched the newspaper files. "Ring any bells, that Linda Cook?" Brannon asked. Hobie said it didn't. He brushed sugar off his beard. "Linda Cook. Linda Cook." He repeated the name many times, his voice growing softer, then fading. "I wonder if we have -- " He was interrupted by a door slamming and footsteps. "Hi, Bruff," greeted Sue Pickett. She came through the back door with a large cardboard bakery box. After placing it on the counter, she gently lifted out a multi-fruited cheesecake. "A woman out in Brandermill makes these. It's worth the trip out and back, though. Want to try a piece?" "It'll spoil my lunch." Brannon patted his paunch. Sue moved behind the counter and stared at the largely empty pastry trays, instantly divining the reason. "Hobart James Pickett III, you haven't been eating right again," she said. Hobie flecked the telltale crumbs off his beard. "He has too, been eating right," Brannon said. "He's been eating right, left; up, down...." Sue frowned at her husband. "Pretty soon you won't be able to fit behind this counter." "You could do with couple dozen fewer pounds, too," said Brannon. "I'm not overweight, just big boned," Sue said in an indignant tone. "Yeah, well you need big bones to support all that weight," said Brannon. "Humph." Then Sue preened and spun around to be admired -- much like Disney's hippos doing the "Dance of the Hours". "My weight is very well distributed." Brannon chuckled. "Distributed? By what? A truck?" Sue pretended to be offended, giving Brannon a digital expression of her opinion and put the cheesecake on display. "Bruff met Al and Bevo today," Hobie said. "At least he met Al." "The ice cream guys? They make the best." She jiggled with delight. "Bring any samples back?" "No." "But he does come bearing news of a secret, new product," said Hobie. "Secret?" said Sue, eyes widening. "The secret is that they've -- Bevo actually -- invented a way of using taffy instead of wood to project the holder into the ice cream. That way you can eat the whole thing and not get splinters in your tongue." "What flavor taffies are they going to use?" she said. "I didn't ask." "Bruff, what use are you?" Sue said. "He's going to be a lot of use, Sue, when he joins the business," Hobie said. Brannon watched Sue frown. She'd never said anything, but Brannon had received the distinct impression Sue Pickett wasn't all that keen to have Broughton J. Brannon IV as a business partner. "He's going to see Morgan about selling the detective agency today," Hobie spoke to Sue with his eyes on Brannon. "I thought that was settled," she said. "He's got some problems, Susan," said Hobie. "Tell her about Zinck." Brannon started to relate the tale again when the front door to the shop opened and a squat man scuttled in. In his thick, powerful arms he carried a bazooka-like stick painted a very un-military banana yello. He held out the tube for his friends to admire. "What do you think?" "What the hell is it, Odd Ogg?" said Brannon. Oswald Ogg frowned, his eyebrows nearly rising to his close cropped with a hairline. The nickname came from his resemblance to the "half-turtle and half-frog" toy produced during his child hood. "Is that one of those 'Zube Tubes' they sell down at the Science Museum?" Hobie said. Ogg pointed to the hand lettering on the cylinder. "No, it's my newest invention. It's a Hush Boy." Brannon reached for the yellow tube. It was about three and a half feet long and four inches in diameter with a trigger guard at one end with an "on/off" switch, much like a flashlight's, beside it. A wire led from the end of the tube back to Odd Ogg's belt, itself encrusted with black and copper, rectangular objects. "Batteries," Odd Ogg said. "The Hush Boy needs to be portable, of course." Brannon placed a finger on the tip of a projectile like object, covered with black fabric, that barely extended beyond the end of the yellow tube. "It shoots this thing?" "No," Ogg said with disgust. "That's the tip of the transmitter." "Don't you shoot that thing off in my store, Odd Ogg," said Susan Pickett, huddling against the mammoth form of her husband. "What's it do, Odd?" asked Hobie. "Come on out side and I'll show you." He took the tube back from Brannon. Out onto the street, Ogg scurried ahead, fiddling with the Hush Boy. "C'mon. The intersection will be perfect." At the corner, Ogg stopped and brought the yellow stick to present arms. He pushed the switch to "on". Besides illuminating a small red light next to the trigger guard, nothing happened. Ogg looked around and said, "I reckon we'll just have to wait." "What are we waiting for, Odd?" Hobie asked. "You'll see." After a few minutes, the Picketts threatened to go back to their store. Brannon shrugged and said he'd stay with Ogg until something developed. Ogg brought the yellow tube to shoulder height and aimed it like a weapon. "Here comes one now." Ogg aimed his tube at a blue Mikuma Atago SX of considerable years. Out of its open windows emanated a noise which had been classified "Urban Contemporary" by those controlling the recording industry. The bass thump-thump obliterated all before it. The lyrics blared their unintelligible hatred of things in general. As the car rolled to a stop, Ogg pulled the trigger. A thump was snapped off in mid-bop. The hateful voice disappeared, replaced by the roar of static. The driver began twisting control knobs lest he miss the conclusion of this epic performance. When his efforts proved fruitless, he put the car in park and scrambled into the back seat to adjust the speakers, employing several crafty punches. When the static persisted, he put his ear to the speaker. Ogg released the trigger. A solid wall of decibel count snapped his head back, knocking him to the rear floor. Satisfied with his efforts, he jumped into the front seat and slammed down on the accelerator. Ogg pulled the trigger. The car screeched to a stop. The driver spun around and snarled at the speakers. Ogg released the trigger, and the vehicle resumed its obstreperous journey. "That's how it works," said Ogg, a wide smile on his face. "Works?" said Sue. "I get it," said Hobie. "It's a portable jammer. What's its effective range?" "Only about thirty yards, now. But I'm working on that. The real problem is the batteries. I use the rechargeable kind, but they only produce about a half-hour of jamming time. Of course if I can plug it in, it will jam forever." "What's the point?" Sue said. "Suppose some slob next door is playing his Madonna records real loud at three in the morning. You could call the cops, and they might eventually show up before dawn, but your sleep is shot. Or you could point this at his apartment window, jam him out, and go right back to sleep. Scientists say white noise helps you go to sleep. Clever, huh?" "I thought jammers only worked on radios and radar," Brannon said. "How can this drown out a stereo and a CD player?" "That's the beauty of this," Ogg said. "The Hush Boy jams speakers, not receivers. Whether the guy is tuned in to the radio, like that guy, or has a record or tape or CD on, this will work. Watch this." Coming down the street was a red convertible, top down, a tanned male behind the wheel. The machine spewed out a clamorous message dedicated to surfing conditions in Southern California thirty years ago. Ogg pulled the trigger. At first, the driver did not even notice the elimination of his music. The tune was so familiar, he continued to pound the beat on his steering wheel and sing the words. Eventually he missed the noise and gave his dashboard a perplexed gaze, a preoccupation that caused him to rear-end a florist's delivery van. Hobie and Brannon joined Ogg in laughter. Sue was less than mirthful. "Odd Ogg, you turn that thing off! Don't you go causing any more mischief today." Then she looked at the happy face of her husband. "Hobart James Pickett the third, you take that contraption away from that man. Now. Do you hear me?" The men continued to laugh. Sue reddened. She stepped up to her husband and looked him right in the eye. In a soft, deliberate voice she told him exactly what penalty she would with hold from her husband for the next two weeks. Hobie's smile faded. Brannon made it a point never to try to understand the sex life of his friends; many perfectly good friendships having smashed on the shoals of this particular point of personal taste. This time, though, curiosity got the better of him. Even though he wasn't sure he'd heard right, he wouldn't ask Sue to repeat herself. He'd ask Hobie later, alone. He needed to get the fudge part right. -------- *Chapter 13* MORGAN SECURITY Services occupied an office suite in the heart of Richmond's financial district. The glass and concrete office building stood on the site of the Civil War era Spotswood Hotel. During the 1860's, the five story Spotswood was one of the largest structures in Richmond; an elegant address where Jefferson Davis and his family had stayed upon their arrival from Alabama. Today vacancy signs greeted Brannon as he pushed through the revolving door. Several men and a woman got in the elevator with Brannon. His brown tweed jacket and open collar shirt contrasted with the yards of gray flannel covering his actuary riding mates, who discussed a client's pension fund investment returns in monotonic voices. _An actuary is someone without the personality to be a CPA._ Brannon smiled. The doors opened to Morgan's floor and Brannon stepped out into a deep pile carpet hallway, and walls paneled in dark cherry. Several lithographs, scenes of old Richmond, hung on the walls. He recognized the Capitol building, Washington's statue, and St. John's church, but no Spotswood Hotel. He came to a small reception area, two chairs and a couch, glass coffee table with "Architectural Digests" from the mid-1980's, and one "Virginia Business", the one profiling Morgan. The receptionist sat behind an L-shaped desk, Dictaphone apparatus in her ears, typing. She looked up. "Can I help you?" A cheery pitch indicated she would like to be doing something else like shopping with friends, but as long as she was here, she'd be glad to help out. She summoned another young woman from inside the double glass doors when Brannon asked for Morgan. He followed woman number two, who was at least the receptionist's second cousin. Like the first woman, this one had blonde hair, long in back with lots of dark, root-revealing whorls on top. Her shoulder-padded dress reached well below her knees and was also made of a material scavenged from an old sofa. As she led him down the hall, she said, "Is the weather as nice as it looks?" He said it was. They came to a closed dark wood door. On its right side, a plate glass sheet as tall as the door and half as wide let him peek inside where another L-shaped secretary's desk sat with a plastic nameplate in a metal holder. Brannon thought Morgan must go through secretaries the way gas stations change prices. This one was "Miss Groins". Secretary Number Two opened the door and let him. "This is Mr. Brannon." Miss Groins greeted Brannon and said "Hey, Jennifer." Jennifer said "Hey, Heather" and wished Brannon a nice day. "You're here to see Mr. Morgan?" "I have an appointment," he said, and looked down at her nameplate, wondering whether the name was plural or possessive. "Miss Groins," he said, using one syllable. "Grow-ins." She smiled, knowing where Brannon had been staring. "Pardon me." "If y'all will have a seat, I'll see if he's ready for you," she said, then trod softly to the open door leading to Morgan's inner sanctum. She leaned in, feet on her side of the door like there were death lasers across the entry, and said, "Mr. Morgan," in a rising voice that was somewhere in tone between a statement and a question. "Mr. Brannon is here." She bounced out of the door all the way over to her desk. Morgan himself came through the door, hand extended with the promise of a hearty handclasp. Brannon looked up at the slender man as they shook hands. "Come in, Mr. Brannon. May I call you Bruff?" he asked. "Sure, Clive." His office continued the hall and reception area themes, only with a larger budget, one, which permitted wood paneling and brass in America's Cup quantities. A conference table big enough for a UN commission stretched to the far wall. Three stuffed chairs fronted Morgan's desk, itself mounted on a platform six inches above the rest of the floor. A bouquet of flowers on each corner completed the altar effect. Morgan expressed sympathy for his old friend's passing while he directed "Young Bruff" over to a sunken sitting area that had offered a panoramic view of the James before Virginia Power built its headquarters. Brannon plopped onto one wing of the couch. Morgan took the other, crossing his long thin legs to reveal only dark hosiery and no skin. He folded his hands over his knee bone. "I'm glad we could finally sit down together and discuss business. It's so hard to do over the phone." Morgan had kept his head tilted to a three-quarter profile until he sat down. Now face-to-face, Brannon stared at the beveled chin. Not chiseled, like a Greek god, but beveled across, right side higher than the left; leaving the constant impression Morgan had just taken a left cross from a cartoon character. Brannon nodded. "I don't know how much you know about me, Bruff, but I knew your uncle quite well. We were rivals for many years, but friendly ones." "Uncle Bruff never mentioned you." Morgan frowned. "All that much, that is." Feeling the crush of the wallet in his hip pocket, Brannon shifted on the couch. Morgan stroked is pencil thin mustache as he smiled. "I understand your uncle's attitude. There are those who say every decent man would like to kick me, and every indecent one has." He paused and waited for a chuckle. Brannon forced a grin. "Divorce built this, I don't deny it," he encompassed the room with a flourish that revealed monogrammed cuffs. "I'm more than that now, much more." Morgan gave the condensed, but still not brief, company history. Brannon's mind wandered to what Hobie had said about how Morgan gets on well with the commercial and merchant side of Richmond by regaling them with stories of the foibles and indiscretions of his First Family of Virginia clients. He never names names, but his broad hints are easily construed by the bankers and lawyer. Laughter and back slaps follow his stories in all the new country clubs, but though he lunches often at the Old Dominion Club, it was always as a guest. Hobie had his own opinion of the infamous Mr. Morgan. "Given his success with the business community, Morgan expects to be admitted to the upper echelons, like a graduation. He doesn't understand that the upper crust hires him to dispose of their personal dirt just as they hire garbage men to haul away trash. And they don't invite either to their River Road homes." "...never should have gotten into the security line, don't you think, Bruff?" "I agree," Brannon said, catching up quickly. He don't know if it was a mistake for Uncle Bruff to have started the security side, but he had no interest in it. Morgan was certainly welcome to buy that part, once Morgan made it clear that he would need to keep on most of the rent-a-cops. "What about Garnett Davis?" Brannon asked while picking lint off his jacket sleeve. Morgan shrugged. "I'm not sure how long I might need Mr. Davis." From his tone Brannon gathered it wouldn't be longer than it took to show Garnett the door. He nodded. "What about the detectives?" Morgan recrossed his legs. "There would be some duplication of services with what my people do now. I anticipate a few minor consolidations." Brannon nodded, then lapsed into silence, thinking of Lynn. Morgan leaned forward and looked into Brannon's eyes. "Look, Bruff." He rose from the couch and walked to the corner window and gave the three-quarter-profile view. "My offer is quite generous. I might be willing to negotiate further on the small points. But the price is my final offer. Take it or leave it. I won't go higher." Morgan left the window and moved to his desk where he picked up a large package of papers, the contract. He took a golden pen from his drawer and twisted the point down, then extended it to Brannon. "Do we have a deal?" Brannon's face said yes. His feet moved him to the desk, to the waiting pen. All he had to do was sign and his future was secure. He stopped. "There's a couple of fine points in my Uncle's will that I have to settle first. I'll let you know." He rushed out the door, leaving Morgan to twist his pen. -------- *Chapter 14* "YEAH MAN, I did know who you were, I guess." Alan Zinck put down the spoon, one of six accompanying the half dozen frozen samples brought to his office every morning. Meltings dotted the tips of his mustache. His tongue flicked out, snatched a few, not all. He started to raise his sleeve, remembered his visitor, and returned to his desk for a napkin. No light streamed through his window today, gray clouds blocked the sun. Zinck strummed his fingers on his blotter and looked at Brannon through rimless glasses that had slipped down on his nose. "Needed a detective, thought of you. Don't know any other detectives in town. Like to work with people I know. Felt I knew you." He folded his hands over his pot belly. Today he had on a green T-shirt more faded than the blue denim of his jeans. He got comfortable by putting his feet up on his desk, crossing his legs and exposing scuffed brown shoes with thick soles and no heels, Earth shoes. "Anyway you're here, ready to start." Zinck rubbed his hands. Brannon shook his head. "I won't be able to take your case. I need to clear up this stuff about my uncle's death." Zinck raised his eyebrows, looked hurt. "No, it doesn't involve you or your truck. I'm convinced that part is merely a coincidence." "Coincidence?" "Yeah. If it hadn't been your truck, it would have been somebody else's. Maybe a chicken truck from Salisbury. Then I'd be talking to Frank Perdue instead of you. Everybody would be saying 'What a coincidence, Brannon got hit by a Perdue chicken truck'." Zinck furrowed his brow, the hoods of his eyes developing extra sets of folds. Brannon tried again. "My point is, somebody had to own that truck. The odds might be a million to one against any specific company owning the truck, but its dead certain somebody owns it. It happened to be A & B." "Wish you had told me that when I told you it was our truck," said Zinck. "You never mentioned owning the milk tanker. I had to find that out from Shinsky." "Thought you knew." He gave an innocent shrug. The two men grew silent. Zinck started to beat a rock tattoo on his desk, adding to Brannon's irritation. "Shinsky says there is no leak in Engineering. She said there isn't any secret process for anyone to steal in the first place. She accused me of trying to shake you down, trying to profit from the accident." Brannon's eyes flashed with anger. Zinck extended his hand, then hit himself in the chest like he was driving in a stake. "I thought I'd clued Moira in to my thought process -- what I was thinking, that is." "I'll just rip up this retainer check then, Mr. Zinck," Brannon said with dignified disgust. "No, no!" said Zinck. "I may have had a poor reason for picking you, but I've got a real problem with my secret process. That part is true, I swear." Zinck held his right hand over his chest, momentarily obscuring a portrait of a singing drug addict who had overdosed a quarter of a century ago. "How come Shinsky doesn't know about the leak? Don't you tell your Chief Financial Officer anything?" "Look, Brannon. Got two CFO's these days. Maybe I told Ellen Chu, not Moira. Besides, they're both new. They've had to spend a lot of time with the press -- interviews." Zinck waved his hand as if he were discussing an insect problem. "Me and Bevo, it's been the two of us for so long." Zinck sighed and walked over to a photo of himself and Dave Bevonis hawking ice cream from a pushcart outside Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. Zinck's hair was dark, although the dome was receding even then. Bevonis was a tall thin man with wispy blonde locks, as opposite to Zinck's looks as any two men can get. "Still keep the trade secrets to ourselves. Things like the mix, what kind of nuts and flavorings; where to get them. Things like that. The real things. The guts of the business, the human side. Didn't bring in the business major types to make us money. Have enough of that. Bevo n' me like to live simply." Zinck indicated his T-shirt. In the background, Brannon heard sounds emanating from the four thousand dollar Akagi speakers and the thousands of dollars of Zuikaku amplifiers, tuners, and other audio equipment in Zinck's office. "We hired the MBAs for all the little people," Zinck said. "Employ over 200 people these days, with plans for more. But you don't want to hear about that, Brannon. You want to hear about the secret formula." Zinck ambled around, rubbing his chin. Brannon smiled. "Need you to talk to Bevo about the details. He keeps tabs on the research staff," Zinck walked with a slight limp over to his desk and punched in four numbers. He asked to speak to Bevo and frowned when he received a long explanation instead. "Seems Bevo is still indisposed," Zinck said. Zinck's left eye developed a twitch. "Maybe I can get something off my chest, though." Zinck lowered his rotundity into the gray leather chair. He swivelled to face Brannon, steepling his fingers after offering his guest a seat. "I've been wondering about this accident of your uncle's. That driver running away strikes me as funny. I never liked that guy. He was new on the route and didn't seem to like that job very much." "Long haul trucking is pretty boring." "No, it's not that. You see, Brannon, most of our employees are real happy to work here. We offer lots of alternative stuff like on-site day care; all the ice cream you can eat. Plus we take care of the environment. We gutted and rebuilt this factory. Saved the neighborhood." "Sounds real Yuppie." "Hey! Watch your mouth." Zinck smiled. "But seriously, back to the driver -- what was his name?" Brannon fished the police report out of his tweed jacket. "Miller." "Yeah, Miller." Zinck reflected on the name. "He never seemed to like it here. Didn't seem to be having any fun. Never talked to anybody in the cafeteria, either. I always have lunch in the cafeteria, so I'd know. Not like all those suits who are CEOs of big companies. Eat and pollute, eat and pollute..." "Uh, Al. What about Miller?" "Yeah, sorry. Miller. It's just that he never socialized, never hung around after work for basketball. So one day I'm walking down to the QC lab, the boys were struggling over a new flavor that was souring in the tank; so many late hours they were missing their scheduled b-ball games. Well who do you think I spotted coming out of the research lab?" "Miller." "Yeah, Miller." Zinck rubbed his chin. "I couldn't figure out why he'd be way back there at that hour." "Did you ask him?" "Hey, do I look like a Fascist?" Zinck said. "What do I care if a guy is walking around my plant. He wasn't doing anything." "Except stealing your trade secrets." "You think so? Knew I picked the right detective," said Zinck with delight. "Miller. At first I didn't think it was him. But now; dunno. It was strange, though. The guy hanging around and all. Mentioned it to Bevo and he just grunted. You have to know Bevo as long as I have to know that he meant he agreed with me." Brannon nodded. "Its funny isn't it, Brannon?" Brannon said he'd missed the joke. "Mean if I -- we -- are right, if you find the guy who killed your uncle, you'll be finding the guy whose trying to steal my secrets." -------- *Chapter 15* BRANNON HAD delayed a personal report to the Mizelles as long as his conscience would allow. While his gut screamed at him to meet the old couple, his brain repeated its nagging question, "What are you gonna say?" The three-hour trip to the Eastern Shore provided ample time to work on his report. Zinck's Miller story intrigued Brannon enough to get him to alter his plans, a slight alteration, but an improvement. He'd make his first stop in the town of Accomac to see the Accomack County Sheriff and find out if they'd made any progress on locating the missing driver. With luck, he'd sneak a peak at the report on the "gas explosion" at Hank Sauer's, too. He sunk back into his seat, dropped his hands to the bottom of the steering wheel, then selected a Mozart tape. The back of his head found the raised cushion built into the top of the front bench seat. The Plymouth pulled into the right hand lane and let a Maryland tagged Volvo pass it. Trees and billboards whooshed through his view. From Richmond to Williamsburg, 64 cuts through pine forests so barren, Robert E. Lee gladly gave them up to McClellan in '62. The place names on the exit signs broke Brannon's monotony, "Croaker/Norge Next Right"; a large refrigerator full of frogs. "Lightfoot"; a P. G. Wodehouse character, Lightfoot Louie. Ninety minutes of unrelenting evergreens rewarded him with Hampton Roads. The grand vista snatched his eyes from the gray road, and his nose detected the salt air, which infiltrated his lungs through a deep, satisfying breath. Off to the right loomed an aircraft carrier, further out a departing container ship. Speedboats bounced on the gentle swells, racing toward the open water of the Bay. In the distance, helicopters buzzed around in groups of three like hummingbirds in a garden. The deafening roar of an F-16 drowned out this tape. Gawking at the patterns of sparkle and dazzle, Brannon nearly missed the exit for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. The pickup truck he had to cut off actually slowed down and let him in, making no Italian gestures. Once on the bridge, he felt like a cruiser plying the ocean free, placid water on either side, nearly glass. "We sail the ocean blue," he sang as he switched off the Mozart, and hummed other Gilbert & Sullivan songs, even remembering much of "My Name is John Wellington Wells". He didn't stop until the toll on the north shore. The digital clock read "1:28" as Brannon guided the Plymouth past the Wendy's on the North bound side of 13 and crossed the highway to a McDonald's, not a choice, but a protest. Dave Thomas' cloying TV spots for the slabs of chopped meat he named after his daughter had forced Brannon to abandon his trade with the orphan's food chain. He ate his burger and fries quickly and without enthusiasm. The Plymouth pulled into the municipal complex just after three. The friendly demeanor of the deputy on duty surprised Brannon. No, the sheriff wasn't in, but the officer who had investigated the crash scene was. The other deputy came out in a few minutes. "Haven't made any progress on locating the man who killed your uncle, and I don't expect to make much either," lamented the tall, middle-aged man in a tan uniform. The dark brown rectangle over his breast pocket said "Toombs". "Why not?" said Brannon. He took a step toward the deputy. "Easy, Mr. Brannon. I'd like to find this guy just as much as you would. I'm trying, I really am, but I got the report back from Richmond on Miller's drivers license. Plenty of Millers with drivers licenses in Virginia all right, but this one was a phony, issued before DMV switched to Social Security numbers. No record of the number on the computer, they had to go into the files. Turns out the number was issued once, to a Negro named Smith out in Cumberland. He died in '82. The Petersburg street address on the card doesn't exist either." Brannon sighed. "You know, this happened to me once before, right after I joined the force. Had me a hit and run with a man killed. Knew the victim's family, so I really wanted to get the guy. When I looked up the license, it was a phony, too." Brannon shrugged. "You know," continued Toombs as he scratched his scalp, a task made easier by his bristly yellow hair. "Come to think of it, that is strange." "What's strange?" Toombs' only response was a series of thinking sounds, frowns and nose and chin rubs, until he said, "Wait here while I look it up." The deputy walked briskly out of the room through a door marked "Records." Brannon located a vending machine and waited by sucking on a Diet Mt. Dew. The first deputy, a small dark man named "Mazzio," gave Brannon another smile, apparently his only job duty that afternoon. Toombs returned, file in hand. "Yup, I was right. Here it is." "You've got some memory, deputy," Brannon said. "Not all that much. I've been thinking of this guy for a few days now," he tapped the folder. "Ever since his brother died." Neurons flashed. "Can I see that folder, Deputy?" "Sure, I guess so," said the deputy. Brannon snatched the file. The name "Sauer" didn't startle him a bit. The next finding was no surprise, either. "Deputy, look at this." He took the account of his uncle's death out of his tweed jacket pocket smoothed it flat, and placed it next to one in the Sauer file. The two pieces of paper were on different forms -- some things do change in Accomack County -- but both were headed "Accident Report". He drew the deputy's attention to the block "Owner of Second Vehicle". "Kluepfel Trucking," whistled Toombs. "Well I'll be...." Brannon didn't wait for the law officer to specify the transmogrification. "Quite a coincidence isn't it, deputy? Think we ought to take a look at the brother's accident report, too?" "Who? Old Hank?" Brannon nodded. "He wasn't runned over. He was blowed up," said the deputy. "It does seem fishy though, doesn't it? My uncle is killed by a truck owned by the same company that killed this Sauer brother," said Brannon while waving the folder. "Right after my uncle dies, the other brother is killed." "Yeah, you're right, Brannon," said Toombs, head nodding slowly. He touched his hands to his nose, looked around and said, "Now where is the Hank Sauer file?" Without another word, the deputy hurried off. This time, Brannon followed. Not to the file room. Toombs went straight into the Sheriff's office and spotted the file on the desk. "I thought he had it," he said with satisfaction. He began to read. "No truck in this one. Damn house just blew up. Gas leak. Accident." His tone said Sauer caused his own death. Then he shrugged and said, "He was going to die of cancer any way. Just sooner than later, I guess." "But he didn't," Brannon said. "How do you know so much about the Sauer brothers?" Brannon's curt tone didn't faze Toombs, who smiled and said, "Oh, my momma went to school with them. Big thing to know twins back in her day, I guess. They all went to the same church, never moved out of the county. In a small town, you get to know people after a half century or so." The deputy closed the file and started to drop it back on the Sheriff's desk. "Can I see it?" Brannon reached out his hand. The deputy shrugged and handed over the file. There were few papers in it and with the conclusion drawn by the Sheriff himself, their weren't going to be any more. Brannon tossed the file down. "How long has Codpiece been sheriff in the county?" The deputy stroked his chin and pondered. "Close to thirty years. He's fixin' to retire after a few more." "He was here when Mike Fitzhugh drove Betty Ann Mizelle off the Chappateague bridge?" Brannon's tone more statement than question. "Sure was," the deputy screwed up his nose and squinted at Brannon. "Sheriff Codpiece headed up the investigation in that one, too?" said Brannon, eyebrows rising. "I think it was mostly the State boys who handled that," said Toombs, not knowing why he needed to defend his boss to this man. "Sheriff Codpiece didn't have all that much to do with it, if anything." "Lot of coincidences out here in Accomack County," Brannon said and turned for the door, but something deep in his brain wouldn't let him go. "One last thing. Do you have any of my Uncle's effects?" The officer's face went blank. "Any of his personal things from the wreck. His wallet, stuff from the glove compartment, maybe some keys?" "Oh," said Toombs. "Sorry about that." He apologized for his confusion. "Don't know what you'd want with his car keys, the car was totaled. But I'll look in back." Brannon waited out front for the deputy to emerge. He'd barely had time to find a seat, when the officer returned with another slim file in his hand. He showed Brannon the page on top. "Somebody already claimed the keys and stuff. Know this guy?" He pointed to the signature at the bottom of the page. Brannon looked at the neat signature wrought in wide, felt tip black. "Yeah, he works for me." -------- *Chapter 16* "YOU'RE LATE this morning, Bruff." Honey Graham didn't look up from her typing as Brannon trudged through the front door. "Forget to set the alarm again?" "Um, yeah," he said. Phones rang on two lines, so Honey ignored him. He hadn't needed the alarm, as sleep again eluded him. A night of tossing, turning and hunkering on the porcelain throne had not prepared him for the impending confrontation. Brannon looked around, hoping no one was in. Instead, the office hummed. One of Garnett's men, Ray Bogar, was copying a report with the top up on the machine. The flashes lit that corner of the office with an eerie green light. "Mr. Davis can't come to the phone right now, sir. He's in a meeting," Honey said as Brannon strode past her into Garnett's office. Davis sat behind his desk, reading. He'd rolled his chair back toward the window and quarter-turned it away from the desk to better catch the sunlight on the book. His half lens reading glasses perched above his ears, only the tips touching his temples, the lens propped on the tip of his bulbous nose. "You need a stronger prescription, Garnett," Brannon said. Davis looked up, surprised to see Brannon. "When people slant their glasses like that, the angle magnifies the power of the lenses a bit. You should see your optometrist." Brannon gave a friendly smile and sat down. Garnett forced a smile as he closed the book. He uncrossed his legs displaying his black pants were tucked into well-tooled leather boots. A plaid shirt dressed up with a black string tie with silver tips and clasp shaped like a longhorn cattle skull completed the Western theme. Brannon chuckled. He couldn't imagine Garnett Davis swinging his leg over a horse. Davis took off his glasses and held them up in front of his face. "I've had these a few years. You may be right." Davis drew himself to proper sitting posture. "I thought you were on the Eastern Shore talking to the Mizelles." "I came back." Davis waited in silence for a report he'd never get. "Did you see the Mizelles?" "They weren't home." Brannon hadn't called ahead, didn't know they'd gone to Pennsylvania to visit Mrs. Mizelle's sister. "Another wasted day," Davis said with unconcealed disdain. "Not entirely. I found out you'd been to Accomack, too. They told me in the Sheriff's office you'd picked up those keys there." He pointed to a ring of five keys on Garnett's desk next to the unlocked leather volume from Uncle Bruff's collection. "Thanks for picking it up for me, but I could have spared you the trip." Brannon held out his hand. A shit-eating grin came over Davis's face. "Seemed a shame to leave these all locked up and left alone when your uncle had gone to so much trouble to keep them up to date," he picked up the keys and jammed them into the younger man's hand, holding the grin so long, the room began to stink. "I mean you didn't seem to have any interest. Honey couldn't get you to read any of the other ones." "The ones you'd already read?" Davis raised his eyebrows, dropped the grin. "Pretty dull, aren't they?" He dismissed the unlocked ledgers with a backward sweep of his hand. "This one's a tad more stimulating." Davis pushed the leather bound volume towards Brannon, who left it on the desk, and said, "Find what you were looking for?" "Pretty much." The two men glared at each other until Brannon moved over to the window. He parted the blinds, and looked down at the street. "I was over at A & B Ice Cream earlier this week." "That so?" "I met Alan Zinck. He wanted to hire me for an industrial espionage case." "Good." "But that wasn't all. I talked later to a financial lady named Moira Shinsky." "So?" "She told me the truck that killed Uncle Bruff was pulling one of their milk tankers. I suppose you already know that?" "You told me that already." Brannon frowned, didn't call Garnett's lie. "I suppose you also know the insurance company for the truck cab made the agency a generous offer to settle any claims that might arise from its liability for Uncle Bruff's death?" Davis blinked. "So why didn't you tell me about it? Why did I have to learn about it from Shinsky?" Davis inhaled deeply and ran his left hand over his face. "I thought Honey had told you," he said, more as a suggestion than a declaration. "Honey," Brannon shouted. "Coming." Honey Graham took the vacant chair next to Brannon, crossed her still shapely legs, and tugged at the skirt of her beige suit. She flipped open a dictation pad. "All set." "I don't think we'll be needing any notes today, Honey," Bruff said. He asked about the insurance claim. "Why Garnett said he'd tell y'all about it, Bruff. I gave him the papers, like he asked." She looked at Davis for confirmation, her smile fading. "Oh, right, you did," said Davis. He snapped his fingers and put them to his mouth to show he was trying to remember where he had put the papers. He held up the index finger of his left hand, jiggling it slightly, and pulled out a side drawer in his desk. Still holding up his left hand, he walked his second and third fingers over the files. "Here it is!" He sounded as if he'd found a missing kitten. "I plumb forgot I had this. I've been busy lately. You know how it is." Brannon snorted. "That's your story and you're sticking to it, eh?" Tension hung in the air, right over the desk, mostly. "Garnett? Bruff? What's this all about?" Honey said. _She really doesn't know what Davis is planning_. Brannon felt a sense of relief. He'd feared they were in it together. Turning to Honey, Brannon said, "You know the buyout scheme? The one where the employees are going to buy the agency from me?" "We've talked about it, Garnett and me," she said, casting her eyes down at the empty dictation pad. Brannon thought she shrank into the chair, too. "Where did Garnett tell you the money was going to come from?" "Why from the bank. He has this friend, Fred Claiborne who's going to loan us the money. Isn't he, Garnett?" Brannon pointed at a silent Garnett Davis. "He turned you down, didn't he?" "Yup." "When he turned you down, you had no hope of raising the money. No hope until Honey showed you this insurance settlement offer." "Garnett," said Honey, her voice had that tone of unpleasant surprise used by mothers with a scuffed baseball in their hand and broken glass around their ankles. Davis's lips froze tight. His eyes challenged Brannon. "Without a loan, you couldn't buy the Agency. But you could use the cash from Uncle Bruff's insurance settlement as a down payment, if you could fool me into believing it was your money." Garnett's reddened. "I never sent in the papers, never got a check. I didn't do anything wrong." Brannon rolled his eyes. "I'll take these." He picked up the papers and walked out of the office, leaving Honey's questions for Davis' silent gaze. * * * * BRANNON SPENT the rest of the morning rationalizing why he hadn't fired Garnett Davis on the spot. He snapped the pencil in his hand. Brannon needed Davis to run the security end of the business for as long as he owned it, no two ways about it. Suppressing his anger at his professional inadequacies, Brannon turned to page three of the Morgan contract and started to read again. An hour later he was on page four, no closer to a decision. He flipped to page five. At a little after one, Brannon realized nobody had asked him to go to lunch, not that he expected Honey or Garnett to, so he drove off in search of food. The Plymouth cruised down Cary to Boulevard, Bill's came up quickly on the right and Brannon parked. Slamming the door, he ran inside and got a few pulled pork sandwiches and a limeade. Brannon loved the vinegar tang of Bill's, a marinade far superior to the tomato-based sauces slathered on Texas-style barbecue. A dab of cole slaw and the sweetness of the limeade completed Brannon's lunch. He brushed off his hands and returned to the office. Honey had slipped a few pink message papers onto the desk while he was gone. He flipped through them as he sucked up the last of the drink. He wandered over to the water cooler, refilled the cup, and fished for the lime quarters, squeezing the last bits of flavor out of the pulp, citrus filling the air. He licked his fingers and headed for his office to return calls, the first to Alan Zinck. The ice cream magnate, distracted by other corporate demands, told Brannon Bevo would be in the office tomorrow for a talk and hung up. "Time to go, boys." Brannon looked up to see Ray Bogar herding this three sons to the door. "Finish the Science project?" asked Honey. Ray let a cloud of smoke. "Yeah, finally. The only good thing is they don't have to fly a kite in a thunderstorm. The teacher has a Van De Graff generator they'll use. Small favors." Brannon smiled and listened to the three Bogar boys clamber down the stairs, whooping and hollering, kite tails rattling against the steps. He punched in the next number, the calls turning into telephone tag, Brannon content to volley back. Which left him with the last pink square, the one with "Louisa Ferncliff" neatly written above the time. Saving it for last, he dialed her work number and waited seven rings without even triggering a recorded message. He started to hang up. "Ferncliff" A belch followed. "Lou?" "I'm glad you called, Bruff. I've found something you ought to know, but I don't have time to talk right now," she said. Brannon heard her apologize to someone in the background for talking to him. "I'm sorry, but I can't explain things now. Let's have dinner. Meet me at Pinochle at six tonight. Don't be late. I might not wait." She hung up. He groaned. She knew he hated fern restaurants. -------- *Chapter 17* "I HATE THE food, I hate the waitresses, the decor makes me nauseous, and the owner's dog has fleas, that's why." Louisa laughed and took him by the arm, firmly. "Let's go in." That was her answer to his request for a change in the dinner venue. They followed the girl to a rear table. To Brannon, her outfit, short, black skirt over a black leotard, represented the worst possible culinary warning short of a Board of Health notice on the front door. Thousands of cards from pinochle decks covered the walls. Jacks, Kings, and Queens faced out, interspersed with an equal collection of obverse sides. Statues of Liberty, Diamond patterns, Williamsburg views, Ralph Kramden and Ed Norton, The Flintstones; a lone Elvis. Some cards were pasted on, others stapled; a few were taped. Here and there an oil painting broke the monotony. Brannon quickly surveyed the waitresses and didn't see the painter. On his only previous visit she'd gone over to every table and given a ten-minute description of her brush technique. A young woman, The Waitress, approached their table with great trepidation. Brannon knew she was The Waitress because she wore all red. Handing them menus, she recited the specials in a singsong manner she intended to be cute, but which sent a chill down Brannon's spine. Quickly he opened the menu and exhaled with noisy relief. "What was that all about?" said Lou. "The specials frightened me." Lou lifted an eyebrow. "Eggplant Parmesan, meatless chili and potato soup. I thought this place might have gone vegetarian since last time. But look." He pointed to the menu. "Meat. Fish. And there's no shaker of kelp on the table." The waitress didn't know what to make of that, so she asked if they wanted anything from the bar. "Perry Mason," Brannon said. "What?" The Waitress giggled. "He's just teasing," Louisa said. The waitress smiled in the manner of all young people who don't get it. Lou asked, "Do you serve wine by the glass?" "Yes," smiled the waitress, thrilled to be helpful in a positive way. "We have red, white and blush." "Blush?" asked Lou. "What's blush?" "It's so bad, she's embarrassed to bring it out," Brannon said. "Nooo!" The Waitress laughed. She slapped the air near Brannon with a limp hand. "It's really very good. I've had it myself. It's called Zinfandel." "Zinfandel is supposed to be red," Brannon muttered. "I'm thinking of the shrimp, so I'll have the white." "I'll wait," said Lou. The waitress promised to be right back with Brannon's wine. When she'd gone, Lou gave Brannon a look usually reserved for indicted politicos. "What's the matter with you tonight, Bruff? You don't usually snap at the waitress until much later in the evening." "I was not snapping. That was light badinage, like William Powell." A little smile started at the corners of her mouth. He cultivated it with one of his own. "She didn't seem to mind, either." They pondered the menu. Brannon said the shrimp in lemon sauce over linguine seemed palatable. Lou hummed and continued to read. The waitress returned with Brannon's wine, setting the glass on a crepe triangle, not a napkin. Brannon grimaced, and said to Lou, "Are you ready to order?" "Yes, I'll have the eggplant," said Lou. "And have you decided on your wine -- red, white, or blush?" she looked straight at Brannon, blushing herself, and giggled on the last word. "What do you recommend with the eggplant?" asked Lou. "Most people like red, because of the tomato sauce. But I kind of like white with everything myself..." Brannon harrumphed, Lou shushing him. Undaunted, the waitress plunged on. "The house white is kind of flinty and I think it goes with everything myself." Brannon said, "Pick the red, Lou. It masks the taste of the eggplant best." The waitress giggled again. She turned to him with her little pad at the ready. "And you sir?" He was rethinking the shrimp. He took a sip of wine. "Uhh-ahh," he said. "Something wrong with the wine?" the waitress asked with genuine concern. "You call this white wine? I think off-white wine is more like it." "I did tell you it was flinty, sir," she smiled. "Flinty." He nodded. "Yep, flinty it is. Tastes like something Davy Crockett used to clean his flintlock. I'll have the shrimp." He snapped the menu closed and handed it to her with a big smile. "Would you like some soup? We have Manhattan clam chowder tonight." "No, thanks. I only eat country clams." The waitress giggled again and ran off to the kitchen. "Well?" Louisa reached forward. He let her cover his left hand with her right, an unexpected gesture. "It's been a long, long time," he tried to sing. "It has." She rubbed his hand slowly and gently. They looked at each other. Lou still had those green eyes that reminded him of translucent jade. Most of her features were drooping now, as she jetted past thirty-five, but he thought they might always have. Only her nose turned up, shiny, despite her efforts to powder it dull. To Brannon, that seemed to make up for most everything else. Said nose sat in the middle of a little, round face surrounded by an oval of dark hair that tonight she wore long and loose. He struggled to remember the last time she had worn a dress, let alone swathes of cloth and colors, and metal rings around her wrists, but not on her fingers. "I think you've lost a little weight since I moved back here," he said. He honestly thought she had and wanted to compliment her, but it came out sounding like, "You don't sweat much for a fat girl." She smiled. "I didn't think you'd noticed. I've been slowing." "Slowing?" "It's kind of like fasting, only it takes longer." "I diet religiously, too, you know," he said. "You?" "I never eat in church." Lou laughed, and Brannon said, "Whatever it is, you look great. For the last few minutes I've been trying to find the college girl I used to date behind all that famous newspaper columnist. But I don't think I want to anymore. I'd rather have you here, now, like this." With no idea what that meant, Brannon hit pay dirt. Louisa blushed, another thing Brannon had never seen or dreamed of . "I'm really proud of the way you turned out, Lou. Successful columnist and all. Thinking back to college, you know you never can tell how people are going to turn out. But you've really made it." "Thanks." She rearranged her cutlery. "We should take a ride back to school some weekend. Visit the old dorms, look up some of our old professors. It would be fun, don't you think?" He looked skeptical. "Or do you think we can't go home again?" "No, you can go there all right. Hobie and I went back last month, actually. It's just that somebody's changed all the locks, we couldn't get in. All these young kids, weird clothes, even weirder music..." "You never liked rock back then, either," she said. "I still say all there is to rock is high decibel count. Electricity was meant to light streets and smelt aluminum, not produce music. That's all rock will ever be, anyway; loud smelting." She patted his hand. And you, Bruff. What have you been doing since you left school? You weren't always a detective, right?" "I don't think I'm one now," he said, adding a chuckle. Thoughts of his past dropped the smile. "This and that, mostly I worked for corporations. I'd do accounting until I couldn't stand it anymore and piss somebody off. I wish there was a way to have a career as a professional asshole." Lou laughed. "Politics, Brannon. Politics. Only you hate politics." "Politicians, actually. Most politicians are assholes of one sort or another." He paused. "What's that Clint Eastwood line? From Dirty Harry?" She shook her head. "When he shoots up half San Francisco, and his boss takes away his badge and gun. Then the boss says he's transferring Dirty Harry to personnel. And Eastwood say s -- " " -- Personnel!?!? Personnel is for assholes!" She said this loudly and earned several stern stares from the other tables, which she ignored. Lou wiped her eyes with her napkin. "That's what you need to do, work in Personnel." The waitress apologized for interrupting their mirth. Simmering giggles, she set the platters in front of them and said, "I hope you like it." Brannon ordered two more white wines. "Delicious," said Lou, after she swallowed her first fork full. Mozzarella glopped down the sides and oozed between the eggplant slices. Brannon reached over with his spoon, tried the marinara sauce, more bite than most Richmond restaurants have the nerve for. "It'll do." Brannon inhaled the heavenly, citrus tinged mist coming off his shrimp, knowing it wouldn't taste that lemony. He bit into a shrimp tail that resembled puffed wheat in lemonade. "Should have had the eggplant." "We can share." "I'm not that hungry." "Suit yourself." They stowed the conversation while Lou put away the better part of serving, certainly not slowing tonight. Brannon picked shrimp until they both displayed lots of plate, and their forks rose at a more sluggish tempo. "That's it for me," said Lou. Patting her mouth, then laying the napkin next to her plate, she pushed her chair away from the table and stretched her legs towards the aisle. As she crossed her arms over her stomach, she said, "I never found the time to get married." A shrimp caught in his throat. He coughed. "I knew that." "You never married either, did you, Bruff?" she asked, expecting a quick confirmation. "Actually, I've been married twice," he said softly, the first time in Richmond he'd admitted this to anyone. She looked like a district attorney who asks a witness his name and gets a full-blown confession instead. "But Sue said you'd never been married. She told me you'd never been married." He held up his hand before she could set a world record for restating the obvious. "She assumed I'd never been married because I've never told them I was. It's not something I like to talk about. Things happened so fast, I didn't have to invite them to the weddings." She pulled herself back to the table, wiped her clean hands on her napkin, scanned the table for other land mines, then said, "Married?" He nodded. "You?" She pointed. Another nod. "Twice?" Two fingers. A little nod. She sunk back into her chair. "So what were they like? Did they have names? I didn't know any of them, did I?" She spoke the latter in a tone of accusation. "Let's see, in reverse order: No, you don't know any of them; yes they had names; and they both turned out to be bitches." "Tell me about them," she said, adding a smile. "Were they big? Tall? Black? White? Blonde? Brunette?" He shook his head no to all this. "Redheads?" she blurted with exasperation. He shook no again. "They had hair, didn't they?" "Yes, sort of brownish, I guess you'd call it." He scraped his fork over his plate. "Well what else was similar? I mean did you make the same mistake twice? I've noticed most men do," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "Come to think of it, they did both have the same name," he admitted. "That's fascinating! What was it?" "Mrs. Brannon." He ignored her and dug into the last of the shrimp. Half a roll bounced off his shoulder. "Bruff!" she said, voice whining up like a jet engine with a stray bolt in the turbine. "You can't just tell a person you've been married twice and then clam up! It isn't ... human." Brannon squirmed. "My second wife," he said. "I knew we were going to have problems the day of the wedding. During the ceremony, actually." "How?" "When the minister said 'For richer or for poorer; for better or worse; in sickness or in health', she thought it was a multiple choice question. She didn't pick 'poorer', either." Brannon sipped the last of his wine to drown back the memories. "We fought most of the time, too." "About what?" "I dunno," he said. "We didn't really get down to specifics." Lou laughed and waved her hand. "All right, All right. I take it that one was the Combat Zone. How about the first one, what was she like?" He reached up to his chin, took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about that woman at all. This has been a pleasant evening. I don't want to spoil it." "Sorry, I was only asking," she said as she reached out and touched the hand he'd wrapped around the stem of his empty wine glass. During the lapse into silence, Brannon churned his mental Rolodex. "When you called earlier, you said you had something to tell me tonight," he said. Lou nodded. "Would you like to hear the good news, or the maybe not so good news first?" "Neither, I'd like dessert," he said as the waitress approached. She rattled off a list of ice cream flavors and sherbets, all mundane. "We also have chocolate layer cake, tapioca pudding, bread pudding, toll house cookies and apple pie a la' mode. You can have ice cream on that, too." He picked chocolate layer cake, and Lou raspberry sherbet. "I think I'd like some coffee, too. With cream." "Cream isn't good for you, Bruff." "Sugar?" "Sugar's no good, either." Brannon stared back. "Actually, coffee's no good for you." "Tea for two, miss." The waitress jotted it down and sped off. "So what's the good news?" he asked. She leaned across the table. "I'm going national. A big syndicate has decided to pick up my column once a week for national distribution. I think it's my big break." "Break? A National column isn't a break, that's making it." He took her hand. "I'm proud of you." "Well, it is nice, of course. I mean the money and all. Still, Richmond isn't the big leagues in newspapers, either. I'm hoping this column will let me catch on with the Post after a year or two." She looked dreamily over his left shoulder in the general direction of Washington. He reached over to the wall and yanked off a playing card. Taking a pen out of his tweed jacket pocket, he wrote: To Lou: Best of luck with the column. Love, Bruff He handed it to her. "Okay, it isn't poetry, it's barely prose. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you." She looked from the card to Brannon. Little waves, like the kind in lakes, of happiness were washing over her face. They left a soft residue of delight. She smiled and held the card to her bosom. "'Love, Bruff'?" She held up the card. "The Jack of Hearts? Is that significant?" "Not really. I couldn't find a jackass of Hearts, that's all. A note from a friend, is all. Just two people who happen to be eating dinner together, that's us." He tapped his empty glass. "Just two people sitting at the same table, who happen to lean forward and have their lips touch?" she said. Eyes closed, she leaned toward Brannon with puckered lips. Brannon followed suit. His lips met hers, gently but not briefly. As they pulled apart, Brannon said, "By gosh, we are." -------- *Chapter 18* THE LATE MORNING sun streamed through the twin windows, the shadow of the center support demarcating the two sides of Louisa Ferncliff's brass bed. At the foot of the bed, where the spread was piled, a large Maine Coon cat lounged, washing itself, waiting to be noticed. On one side of the bed, a blanket covered the cat owner herself, the thin, yellow wool retaining the residual heat of a night's gymnastics. The larger trough contained the spent form of Broughton J. Brannon IV. Brannon stirred and headed for the kitchen, pulling yesterday's shirt over his head and hopping into his pant legs as best he could. The Braun coffee grinder sat in broad daylight on the white pine counter. A rapid search revealed a stack of filters in the drawer beneath the grinder, but nothing else. Brannon opened the top freezer on the white refrigerator and ferreted some coffee beans out of a pile of vegetables and Haagen Daz containers. He dumped the beans in the grinder and poured water into the kettle. Searching another drawer produced two tea bags in a colorful box, so Brannon turned on the gas and started grinding away. The whoosh reminded him of the late Hank Sauer. He snorted. The Maine Coon, whom Brannon referred to as "Michael Jackson", halted in mid creep, hunkered down, then, when the Braun finished its howl, sprang up, spun its paws on the linoleum, and burst out of the kitchen. Brannon, not in the mood for cat hijinks, ignored the animal. Having decided yesterday to give up on the Mizelles, the subconscious grinding on Sauer, like the Braun on the beans, produced only stomach growls. At least the coffee grinder had something to work on. With Hank Sauer dead, Brannon had nothing, in fact less than zero. Only the cold trail of a second girl who's been missing for twenty years. The whistling of the tea kettle snapped his slow freight train of thought and brought a yawning Louisa into the room, her turned up nose shining in the morning sun. She wore a white pinafore which when back lit by the sun hid none of charms, now growing substantial. "Morning," greeted Louisa, reaching into a cabinet over the stove. "I think I need some tea." Brannon noted the Earl Gray tin in her hand. "I'm making both." She placed a bag in a chipped, blue pot, tossed the bags Brannon had chosen into the disposal, and turned to the not boiling water. "It's morning. I need caffeine," he said. "Don't you have any leaded?" "No. I always drink decaff," answered Louisa. Brannon a lecture in the offing. "What? NEVER!" he said. "No, never," she said with a sanctimonious tone. "What, Nev-errrrrr?" His voice cracked. "You know. Hardly ever." Brannon sang: "She never drinks the great big 'C; So, Give three cheers and one cheer more, For the De-caf Captain in the pinafore, So give three cheers and one cheer more for-r-r-r, The captain in the pinafore." Louisa rewarded Brannon with a kiss on the cheek. She then folded her arms across her chest, sniffled, and watched the tea water not boil. Brannon rooted around in the refrigerator. "Got anything to put on these?" he asked, holding up blueberry muffins. Louisa rummaged in the door. "Butter, margarine, cream cheese." She clutched them and returned to the table, taking two knives from a drawer next to the sink. Brannon joined Louisa and put the muffins on the table. The sunlight highlighted every spill mark, discoloration and tear of the red and white check table cloth. A narrow, light blue vase held one desiccated stem of a flower Brannon couldn't have named even if it were in bloom. The coffee maker moaned and heaved the water into the filter with rude sucking sounds while they split and buttered the muffins. Steam billowed from the non-whistling pot, so Louisa rose, poured the scalding water into the blue chipped pot, then carried it over to the table. "You never did tell me the bad news last night," he said. "Hmm?" she said through a mouth full of muffin. "The bad news. You know. You said good news and bad news. The good news was your column syndication. You never told me the bad." She nodded her head vigorously and pointed at her full mouth, then swallowed the muffin and sipped the tea. "It's not bad news, so much as 'you're getting in deeper' news. I know you won't like it, is what I meant." She paused. "The other day, I ran a computer search for 'Linda Cook', the one in the Weather Underground I told you about?" Brannon nodded. "The FBI had learned of a cell up in Baltimore. They were trying to bomb the government when they blew themselves to Kingdom Come one afternoon. The blast leveled several old structures out on North Charles and blew them all to smithereens, so that the police were never certain how many bodies had been in the warehouse and who some of them were. They never did identify a body as Linda Cook although their information was that she was the cell leader. After the blast they hauled in the few others they had leads on. This was the very last article, and I was almost too bored to read it, but I did. And you know what? I bet you'll never guess whose names were among those rounded up?" "You're right, I'll never guess," he said through a yawn. "The only two names on the list I recognized were: Alan Zinck and David Bevonis." Brannon whistled. At least he tried to. "I knew they were reconstructed hippies. But I didn't know how much reconstruction they needed," Brannon said. Then he pushed himself away from the table and looked out the window, a far away glint in his eyes. "One in a million odds just got a lot lower. Uncle Bruff being killed by an A & B milk truck might have been pure chance, and Al 'n' Bevo knowing Linda Cook might have been one of those 'You're only four or five people away from knowing anyone else in the USA' type of things. I could sleep soundly at night with either fact, but not both." "You really think your uncle's death is mixed up with Al 'n' Bevo?" she asked. Brannon nodded, paused and said, "Hank Sauer meets Mike Fitzhugh and Linda Cook on Chappateague Island the night Betty Ann Mizelle dies. Later, Linda Cook recruits Alan Zinck and Dave Bevonis into her People's Demolition Derby. She blows herself up. Al 'n' Bevo want no part of that, so they start selling ice cream, hit it big. Then Uncle Bruff gets a call from Betty Ann Mizelle's parents, drives to Chappateague, and gets smashed by one of Al 'n' Bevo's trucks." Louisa sipped her tea, the morning sun emphasizing her pale face. "Go on," she said. He told her about his trip to Accomack County courthouse. "The sheriff who investigated the Betty Ann Mizelle death was the same guy who said Hank Sauer had been blown up by a gas leak in an all-electric house." "Not surprised," said Louisa, meaning the sheriff's lengthy tenure in office. "Sauer's brother, the one the Fitzhugh clan thought had seen Mike Fitzhugh, was killed in an accident in the late Seventies while working up in the bucket of his utility truck. When a trailer truck sideswiped him, he fell to his death. The truck cab was registered to Kluepfel Trucking," he emphasized the last two words. "The truck cab that killed Uncle Bruff was registered to Kluepfel Trucking." He gave her Shinsky's explanation. Louisa raised an eyebrow. With her tea cooled, she gulped down the rest. "There's a story here," Louisa thought out loud. "A story about Mike Fitzhugh." "Fitzhugh." The word more bitter than his coffee. She rose and walked into the living room, stopping in front of the window that over looks Patterson, where she crossed her arms and stared at the traffic. Lost in thought, she leaned her head against the glass. Brannon noticed her black hair hanging loose down her back, and that she rubbed her upper arms though it wasn't chilly. He turned the chipped side of his mug away and drank the rest of his coffee. "Is that all this means to you, politics?" "Everything is politics, Bruff. You'll never learn that, though." She didn't turn away from the window. A blueberry had fallen off his muffin. As he mashed it with his butter knife, he said, "Last night was politics?" This time she turned, the sunlight piercing her pinafore, outlining her breasts. She smiled at him, long distance. "No." Brannon moved into the living room, stopping next to the couch. She came no closer. "So not everything is politics, then?" he said. She smiled a closed lip smile. "I came over last night because there's a lot on my mind besides my work," he said. "So why did you let me come over?" "It's an election year. Anything about Mike Fitzhugh is big news. You might be on to something. No, Bruff, you are on to something. I want the story." "What about this?" he said as he poked her through the flimsy white material. She blushed. "Call it old times, all right? I mean we are old friends, right? No matter what we have on a business level." "Where do I put the envelope?" "Envelope?" "The one with the twenties?" She described exactly where he could put the cash, yawned, and shuffled into the bedroom. In a moment she returned wrapped in a blue terry cloth robe. She walked over to the coffee. "One more cup?" He held up the mug. "As long as I'm staying." "Sorry. I am worried about my friend, Bruff Brannon. But I love my work, too. Your uncle's death is tangled up with public figures. I write about these people and I know their ways. They have no problem with killing anyone to advance their political agenda, put themselves in power. Power politics, that's what this is all about Bruff. That's something you don't understand." She reached across the table and ran her hand through his morning kinky-crinky hair. "Politics. Huh." "Politics can get you killed, Bruff. This is way over your head. You don't know where all this can lead." "Oh, and I suppose you do, Miss National Correspondent?" They grew quiet, the kind of quiet a neighborhood has when the kids have all grown up and moved away. Louisa looked at her toenails, Brannon picked the ceiling. "You need to take care. Watch yourself on this case," she said as she reached across the table. He drew his hand back. "What case? I don't have any case. Sauer is dead. Betty Anne is dead. Linda Cook is dead. Uncle Bruff is dead. Nothing." "But don't you want to know if Al 'n' Bevo killed your uncle?" He gestured. "I know they did. It was their truck." "I mean intentionally." He shook his head. "I don't care. It won't bring him back. "But you could find out, know for sure." "I'm not a detective. I never will be." He rose, stepped left toward the living room, then spun toward the bedroom. He knocked his knee on the chair and winced. "What are you doing?" asked Louisa. "I don't know," he shouted. "I don't know what doing. I don't what I'm going to do. Stop asking me." -------- *Chapter 19* "THOUGHT EVERY BODY knew about Bevo 'n' me's origins," Zinck said with a smile. "It's been in so many papers and 'zines for the past few years." Brannon apologized for the omission in his syllabus. "I never realized you hung out with Linda Cook, is all." Swiveling in his chair, Zinck crossed his hands over an ice cream expanded stomach. Today he wore jeans with slashes at the knees. His T-shirt implored readers to attend a rock concert on September 5, 1971. Brannon didn't recognize any of the band names, not that he expected to. "Still chuckle at that day. Bevo 'n' I had dropped out of College Park and headed no where in particular. Friends of ours told us about a place in Baltimore where anybody could crash. Went there and smoked some grass for a few days. Lots of dudes coming and going. Never knew who we'd share a pad with." He winked and gave Brannon a big smile. Brannon hadn't noticed how uneven Zinck's teeth were, like there wasn't enough room in his mouth for all of them. "Weren't doing anything at all, except making the head chick nervous. That was Linda Cook. At least she said she was Linda Cook. Lots of strange handles in those days. Guy named "Sabu" used to sit on the front steps and order people around. Nobody ever did anything, but he'd boss us around all the same. Even Bevo 'n' me used to call ourselves the Psychedelic Ice Cream Machine. That's how we got started in the ice cream business -- but that's another story." Zinck swung his feet up on the desk. He had on short, black boots with built up heels, although the left heel was worn down on the inside, where he dragged it when he limped. He raised his arms and clasped his hands behind his head. Rock blared out of the headphones on his desk, Brannon having interrupted his morning concert. Zinck didn't notice his guest leaning forward, struggling to hear over the noise. "Anyway, Linda and some hard case types were always up in the attic. The only time we'd see them was when they were lugging stuff up there -- electronic gear, boxes, crates. It was the stuff they were making the bombs out of. Only we didn't know that then," he said. "Well, Linda herself comes down to the living room one day and orders me 'n' Bevo to go out and get six pizzas for the gang up stairs. Didn't have a car, so we walked; over ten blocks if I remember right." "Funny, neither of us remembers hearing the explosion. When we came back with the pizzas, we got stopped by the crowd. There were cops and firemen all over the place." Zinck waved his hand around. "The building wasn't there anymore. Just a big crater in the middle of the block. Couldn't believe it. Looked at the pizzas we had and realized they were for dead people. Got to thinking maybe it was better not to hang around, so we ran." He chuckled. "Not that it did much good, the cops caught us two days later." "Did you go to jail?" "Nah, they didn't have anything on us," Zinck waved Brannon off. "They couldn't have, 'cause we didn't do anything. The Public Defender kept pointing out there was no evidence against us. Told the FBI everything we knew about the gang in the attic and they let us off." "What about Linda Cook?" "What about her?" "What ever happened to her? Zinck burst his clasped hands apart and made a blowing up sound, like he was playing with little soldiers on the floor. "They never found her body, did they?" Brannon said. "No, don't think so. But then she would have been right next to the bomb when it went off, wouldn't she? She was the leader, right?" He feigned another air burst with his hands and fingers. "Lots of little pieces all over the place that day." Brannon nodded. Zinck had a far off glint in his eyes, lost in his memories, not wholly unpleasant ones, by the smile on his lips. "Why are you so interested in Linda Cook, anyway?" Taking his feet down, Zinck eyed Brannon, elbows on the blotter, hands folded together. Brannon returned a mysterious look. "Say, you don't think that Linda Cook is some how mixed up in all this, do you?" Zinck asked. Brannon stroked his chin. "So you do, do you?" Zinck hunched forward over his desk. Brannon made a faint smile. Zinck held up his hands, cupped like little Earth stations, and said, "Picked up those vibes from you. But why?" Zinck shook his head sideways to emphasize his disbelief. "I can't tell you without revealing privileged information," Brannon said, sinking back into his chair. "Her name came up in connection with another case." "No shit?" "None at all." "You only have one other case, far as I know; your Uncle's death," Zinck said, tapping his desk top with one finger. Brannon tried for the urbane, enigmatic smile effect, the one that came with a slight raise of an eyebrow, used to great effect by a young Charles Boyer on the silver screen. On Brannon's pudgy, tousled red head, the effect was more of an aging Clete Boyer in a batter's box taking strike three. "Say, man, this blows my mind," said Zinck as he raised his eyebrows and sat straight up, as if fireworks had erupted inside his cranium. He pursed his lips and whistled; loud, true pitched and melodious. Then he stood up, clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing, saying "Linda Cook" out loud several times. He put his right index finger to his lips, and tapped. "Well if she's in Richmond, then she could be mixed up with me and Bevo, too. Right?" He gestured for emphasis. "How do you mean?" "If Linda Cook is mixed up in your uncle's death, that means she's mixed up with Miller. We know Miller was driving the truck that killed your uncle, so they had to be in it together." He looked at Brannon for objections and didn't get any. "Miller was working here, trying to spy on our new popsicle. Maybe I jumped to a conclusion, Brannon. Oh, there is industrial espionage around here all right. Maybe that's why Miller -- or whoever he is -- came here originally." Zinck paced some more, furrowing his brow, and making other pensive manifestations, the only sound his left foot dragging softly on the rug. As Brannon sat silently, Zinck turned, shook his frowning face, and pointed at Brannon. "Nah, don't think Miller was after the popsicle secret at all. He's not after our ice cream, Brannon. He's after us, Bevo 'n me. It's got something to do with Linda Cook." Zinck moved swiftly about the room, dragging his left leg with a less noticeable limp. Sweat gushed from his pores, wet circles already appearing at his arm pits. "Don't you see, Brannon? Miller wants to kill us! He wants to kill Bevo 'n me! He wants to kill us!" Zinck's eyes widened like a deer in a headlight. As he flapped his arms, he shouted, "Find Miller, Brannon! Find him before he kills again. Find him before he kills me!" * * * * BRANNON HADN'T noticed exactly what Zinck's secretary slipped into his mouth, but had been powerful enough to calm the man in two minutes, flat. Not bothering to wave at the inert Zinck and the ignoring secretary, Brannon slipped out of the office and down the hall, towards where the receptionist pointed the way to Dave Bevonis' office. Zinck's protestations that talking to Bevo was a waste of valuable time with Miller on the loose, had trickled off with onset of the capsule. Electronic sounds screeched from behind a closed, dark green door with a white "Bevo" etched into a plastic name bar. Brannon knocked sharply, enough to pain his knuckles, and didn't wait for a summons to enter. Beyond the green door he found a tall man slumping over his desk, salt and pepper hair pulled back into a pony tail. Janes Joplin emanated from a stereo system that made Alan Zinck's look like two tin cans and a waxed string. Needles on gauges vibrated with the beat, while other needles remained stationary measuring the quality of the tones blaring out of the speakers. Had the noise level in Bevo's office been measured on his factory floor, the EPA would have hauled him into court for all kinds of industrial crimes and punishments. But in his office, Bevo listened to music. Brannon had to tap the drooping form several times to break his trance. "Mr. Bevonis?" Brannon said. The pony-tailed man looked around the room as if it were his duty to pick Mr. Bevonis out of a line up. "Uh, yeah," said Bevo, cottoning to the notion he was being addressed. "What d'ya want, man?" Brannon explained he'd been hired by Zinck to find out if Miller had been trying to steal the secret to the taffy popsicle. "Yeah, the taffy popsicle should be a best seller. Guess some one would want to steal it, too. Who's this Miller though?" "He drove the milk truck." "Oh," Bevo nodded. "I wouldn't know him then. Years ago I used to take my turn driving the milk truck, we both did. Al put me in charge of R & D, said I was too valuable to do anything else, and I haven't paid much attention to the milk truck since." "Did you ever see Miller nosing around here after work?" "You mean like, 'suspiciously'?" said Bevo. Brannon nodded. "I don't think so. Even if I did, I wouldn't know this -- Miller did you say his name was? I wouldn't know this Miller. Sorry." "Did you know Linda Cook, too?" "Who?" said Bevo. Brannon watched the man's eyes focusing on the past, mind zooming in, zooming out. "The bomber you and Zinck stayed with in the Seventies." "Oh, her," smiled Bevo relieved at assuaging the strain. "Sure, didn't I ever tell you about her?" "No," Brannon said, omitting to point out this was their first conversation. Bevo told essentially the same story as Zinck had, adding details of his own. It had been a Thursday afternoon. It was the first time he had ever seen lime green fire trucks. There were three pepperoni pizzas, two mushroom and pepper and one double cheese and olive without tomato sauce. They had eaten five of the pizzas that night and could Brannon guess which one they left out? "Yeah, that's right. You know another thing?" Bevo paused. "Her name wasn't Linda Cook either." Brannon looked at the tall, thin man in silence, until he developed a tic in his right eye lid. "What was it?" Bevo had drifted off some where. "Her real name. What was it?" Brannon's voice rose in pitch and volume. Bevo snapped back. "Don't push me, man. I'm trying. It's been awhile since I've thought about her. Me 'n Al don't talk much about those days anymore." "I suppose not," said Brannon in a calm, helpful tone. He decided silence would be best for Bevo's memory, but wondered about the man's concentration. Bevonis looked longingly at his head set and the dark dials. He stuck a hand in his pocket. Brannon heard the clink of the coins being twiddled. Bevo's eyes brightened. He pulled a small copper coin out and held it out for Brannon's approval. "So?" "Don't you get it?" Brannon shrugged. "It's a penny." Bevo's face said he couldn't believe Brannon needed more letters from Vanna. As Brannon sat clueless, Bevonis sighed with disgust, then said, "Don't you remember anything? It's _Penny_." "I know it's a penny, Bevo. What else?" "No, not _a_ penny, man. It's _Penny_. Her real name was Penny. Only she didn't like to be called that. Well not "Penny", that was okay. She didn't like the papers calling her 'Bad Penny'." "Bad Penny?" Brannon said, a wave of fear about to wash over him like a sudden Atlantic surge. "Yeah, Bad Penny Porterfield, man. You remember her don't you?" Brannon pursed his lips and tried another stillborn low whistle. "_That_ Bad Penny Porterfield?" "Yep," Bevo said as he nodded, quite satisfied with his memory after all. -------- *Chapter 20* "THAT'S SOME story, Bruff. Mike Fitzhugh, Betty Anne Mizelle, Al 'n Bevo's ice cream; those would be enough, but not my pal, Bruff Brannon, though. You go and add Bad Penny Porterfield, too. My, my. Bad Penny Porterfield. I haven't heard her name for years." Hobie Pickett clicked his tongue at his friend and smiled. "Could she still be at large? Following me around the Eastern Shore?" Brannon said. "I don't see why not. She's been out of sight since the early seventies. If Abbie Hoffman could have hid out in the Thousand Islands, and Katherine Anne Porter in Oregon, no reason Penny Porterfield could not have been Linda Cook on the Eastern Shore of Maryland." As they drank coffee in Pickett's store, Baroque music wafted about the VCU students browsing the stacks. "What do you know about Bad Penny Porterfield?" Brannon asked. Pickett grunted. Then the rotund man rose up from his chair and marched with a confident stride to a shelf in back, selected two volumes, and returned, all with an ease of movement that belied his girth. "She dropped out of sight, the FBI eventually gave up looking for her. I guess the trail went stone cold. Still, she was a murderess. Her bombs did kill children, college age children, but children nonetheless. You would think the law-and-order types who dominated the late 70's would have hounded her to the ground." "They didn't find Abbie Hoffman, right?" said Brannon. "He never killed anyone himself -- in the sense that Porterfield constructed bombs. I'm sure Hoffman inspired many deaths but he lacked the personal courage needed to put the sword to a fellow human being." Hobie thumbed the book, pausing to examine picture plates. "Let me tell you what I remember of Porterfield. She first surfaced at the University of Wisconsin in the late Sixties, where she became a leader of the Weathermen. The War was in full swing and she led the protests. First they were peaceful, then disruptive. She even threw blood on Sean Fitzhugh back when he was Secretary of State. They blamed him for prosecuting the war and failing to bring charges against war criminals -- that was before My Lai. When that failed, she began to bomb Rot-see buildings in the Midwest. She would have been part of the Chicago Seven if she hadn't already been the object of a man hunt that had already driven her into hiding. Right through '72 she stayed in the news, speaking at clandestine anti-Nixon rallies. Then of course, Nixon ended things in Asia. Suddenly Porterfield became excess baggage, dangerous excess baggage. She was wanted for political crimes involving yesterday's politics. Nothing could be more useless. So she dropped out of sight and no one has seen her since." "Except for Mike Fitzhugh on Chappateague Island." "If you believe Bevo that Porterfield changed her name to Linda Cook." Hobie grunted and browsed another volume. "Do you think she could have become Linda Cook after she dropped out of sight?" Brannon asked. "Bruff, if your sources are correct, she was Linda Cook in 1968, several years before Bad Penny Porterfield removed herself from the public eye." Hobie turned the volume around and handed it to Brannon, open to a full page AP photo of a gaggle of protesters at the University of Wisconsin. The caption identified the shrill woman at the point of the pyramid as Penny Porterfield. Examining the grainy, black and white photo intently, Bruff wondered about the color of her hair. Hobie spoke with a pensive face, "It makes some sense that she would infiltrate Mike Fitzhugh's staff. Mike was more radical than his brothers concerning the war. He didn't mind criticizing their positions. Some people think his brother Sean put him up to it, to keep the radical left in the party and not out on the barricades and in the streets against Sean," said Pickett. "You think Mike's job was to get as cozy as possible with the left-wingers and convince them to work within the system and not follow Hayden, Hoffman and Seal and the others?" "So they say." Pickett brushed crumbs out of his beard. "Fitzhugh could have been talking to Bad Penny to keep her in the fold. She may have been the liaison to the radicals. Or she could have infiltrated his ranks, then when the FBI put on its manhunt, found the Linda Cook alias a convenient place to hide." Brannon nodded. "Or maybe she didn't infiltrate Mike's staff. Maybe he put her there as Linda Cook to keep the lines of communication open." Hobie frowned. "Possible, I suppose." Pickett held out his coffee cup, which Brannon refilled, adding a Danish from behind the counter beside the mug. Pickett sipped the coffee and ignored the sweet. He sunk even further into his chair -- something Brannon thought impossible -- and settled his hands on his girth. "I don't remember much about the '68 elections," Brannon said. "I'm not surprised." He paused to marshal his memory. "Things were wide open that summer. The President made his dramatic announcement on national TV, saying he wasn't going to run for re-election. That set off a mad scramble to get into the primaries. At first, Lymington -- who's upset win in New Hampshire triggered the President's decision not to run -- had the inside track, clear sailing to the nomination, the media said. Then the party machines got rolling, Westervelt and Sean Fitzhugh got organized, and the Kids flocked to their campaign staffs, instead. Lymington dropped by the wayside, a footnote to history, and Westervelt and Sean Fitzhugh ran neck-and-neck in the primaries. Walter Cronkite was in a lather over the prospect of a deadlocked convention. Then -- BOOM! The bomb went off and Sean joined his brother Fred." Brannon finished his own cheese Danish and licked the frosting off his finger tips. "I kinda remember that." Pickett rolled on. "Mike thought the convention would swing to him, that his brother's delegates would all be his, and that the uncommitted blocks would turn to him, too. What he didn't count on was the Mayor of Chicago. The mood inside the convention hall was for law-and-order and Westervelt was for law-and-order." Hobie rubbed his hands and played with the hair over his ear. "Outside, the people in the park screamed for Mike. Bad Penny was one of them. Inside, the party machine lined up for Westervelt. Then the Chicago riot police attacked the demonstrators, Westervelt won the nomination and lost to Nixon in the fall. It's all in these books, if your mind needs refreshing." His tone said Brannon shouldn't. Hobie snapped the second book shut and rose to return them both to the shelves. "What happened to Mike after the convention?" Brannon asked as they tramped to the rear of the store. A young man in his twenties was snoring in a decaying easy chair, a well thumbed paper back copy of "Siddartha" fallen closed at his side. "Mike never got over the party rejecting him that July in Chicago. He went out to the Eastern Shore and drank himself senseless the rest of the summer. Then the tragedy on the bridge and his national career was over." "What about Sean's killing? Did some Green Beret do it?" "Scullard?" Hobie asked. "Well, they caught him right there. He was hard to miss. Had his khaki's on, topped by the beret. Hand grenades hanging from his belt, .45 in his holster. Scullard knew how to use grenades, too. All that demolition training in the Green Berets." "He'd lost an arm. In Viet Nam," Brannon said. "Yup. That had a lot to do with it. The psychiatrists speculated his injury created his mental state. Scullard was as gung-ho as any Green Beret when he joined. He volunteered for combat duty as soon as he could and got what he asked for on his first patrol when his column was ambushed by Viet Cong. Several died and he was badly wounded. They had to amputate his arm, gave him a medical discharge." Hobie paused to sip his coffee. "Scullard returned home expecting a hero's welcome. Instead, he was made the object of ridicule. SDS types used him as the epitome of American failure, one patrol, one defeat, one arm. That was about two years before Sean's death. Nobody saw or heard of him again until that June night in California. He seemed to simply walk in, pull the grenade pin with his teeth, and toss it at Sean Fitzhugh. Secret Service agents gunned Scullard down on the spot -- he had more grenades; I'd've shot him myself. There was the usual FBI investigation, but with Scullard dead, they couldn't get very far." "Why did he pick Sean Fitzhugh?" Hobie shrugged. "We'll never know for sure. The speculation was he blamed Sean Fitzhugh for everything that had happened to him. Sean was Secretary of Defense when Scullard shipped out to Viet Nam. Then he was courting the radicals, the folks who had ridiculed Scullard. Scullard thought Sean was out to get him, personally. His apartment was full of pictures of Sean with targets drawn on them; bulls eyes," said Hobie as he drew little circles in the air. "Lots of other weapons -- knives and guns -- in there, too." Brannon nodded. "That's what I remember." Images of a gray TV screen and big talking heads: Walter Cronkite and David Brinkley filled his vision. Brannon had been lying in bed, reading and listening to a hockey playoff game -- Bobby Hull had just scored -- when the network broke in with the news of Sean Fitzhugh's assassination. He snapped off the radio and ran down stairs to his father. Much to his surprise, the TV was already on, his dad watching news reports from the scene on a big, old, black and white set. He didn't believe in TV, especially color TV, and to see him in front of the set on a school night startled Bruff. Plus he'd hoped to bring his father the news, showing some interest in current events. "Dad?" "Quiet, son. Sean Fitzhugh has been assassinated." His father pointed to the screen and turned away. Brannon went back up stairs and listened to the Blackhawks defeat the Rangers. Hobie wiggled in his chair as he, too, reminisced, but upholstery was not what made him uncomfortable. "There were rumors back then, Bruff. Lots of rumors," he said as he stared at the steam rising from his cup. "Stories about the Weather Underground being involved. No proof, though. Remember, in those days everyone saw a radical behind every rock. So if the FBI said there was no radical connection, then there was none. The Senate Assassination Committee agreed with the FBI that Scullard was a lone wacko." Hobie's tone said he didn't necessarily agree with that conclusion. "The Senate Committee overlooked some pretty strong evidence Scullard's grenade had never exploded. Pictures of an object like a grenade lying on the ground in the background in some photos taken immediately after the blast. Also the blast pattern did not conform to a grenade -- too much shrapnel, too wide an area. A few experts said that proved the explosive force had come from a different direction. Then there were the other grenades on his body." "What about them?" "All duds. Incapable of exploding, the FBI said." Hobie smiled and nodded. "Five grenades on his belt, four duds. He picks the one the that works and throws it, kills Sean. One chance in five, but Scullard does it." "Hobie, he knew which one was real. The others were decorations. He was dead certain which grenade would work." Hobie shrugged, pursed his lips and held up his hand with all fingers spread wide. "Five duds. Not four. If Scullard had five duds, whoever gave them to him would have known for sure Scullard wouldn't do any damage. The fifth dud could have been the object on the ground in the pictures." "Why five duds?" "The theory goes this way: Somebody wanted to kill Sean Fitzhugh. They knew about Scullard. Got him to throw a dud grenade at him. Then blew away Sean with their own bomb." "That's crazy. Why give the guy a dud? If you can sneak him in, why not let Scullard kill Sean with the grenade?" Hobie thought for a moment, not making a single movement except for the soft rise and fall of his chest. "The hotel was crowded for the Fitzhugh rally. Tons of people. Sean left the main ballroom of the hotel with his entourage surrounding him and opening a passage through the throng. He was in a side hall leading to the rear entrance, when Scullard emerged from a fire stairway door and threw the grenade. It was a small area, packed with people. Lots of folks got injured; only Sean and his DSS guard died. The shrapnel got to people in a random pattern. Some bystanders had people on either side of them wounded while nothing happened to them. Bodies blocked other bodies from the blast." Hobie's tone gave special emphasis to the last fact. "So?" "So, how could anyone count on Sean being wounded, let alone killed?" Hobie said. "First, there's the bouncing grenade. How did Scullard know he could throw the grenade so it would be next to Sean when it went off? Several witnesses say they think they heard it hit the wall a time or two. So it bounced. Second, it had to bounce _next to_ Sean when it went off. The grenade hurt lots of innocent people, but only two died and no one else was seriously injured." "What are you saying, Hobie, Scullard didn't do it?" "Could be." "So who did it if Scullard didn't?" "Don't ask me," said Hobie. He reached for another pastry and a refill. "Its all too untidy," Brannon said. He strummed fingers on his chair. "Both Fitzhughs were killed with bombs. Didn't the FBI look into that angle? To see if there were any connections?" "Outside of the use of explosives, there were no connections between the killings. Fred was killed by a sort of Communist Rambo -- a soldier of fortune type. He had fought with Castro against Batista. Osage was a loner. They might have found out more if Joe Diamond hadn't taken care of him." "Didn't Diamond have mob connections?" "Most folks thought so." Hobie bit into the pastry. "Do you think Sean Fitzhugh could have been elected President in '68?" "Bruff, I think if Fat Freddy had lived he would have had two terms, followed by Sean's two terms and then Mike's two terms. We would have had nearly a quarter century of Fitzhughs in the White House, and it would have spared us the clowns who did get in. And I think that Mike Fitzhugh is a drunken, woman chasing, old fart who could have been President." "Mike Fitzhugh? President?" Sue Pickett said. She came down the steps leading from their apartment over the store. She'd gathered up her black hair into a bun clamped into place with a bit of mother of pearl arranged on a spring and carried a cardboard box filled with cleaning supplies. "Is he running for President, Hobie?" she asked, then noticed Brannon. "Good morning, Bruff." She sounded unusually cheerful to Brannon. "Good morning, Sue." She set the box down on the pastry counter. Some rummaging produced a can of dusting spray, which she shook, and spritzed a dirty-gray dust cloth. Brannon noticed she wore a silver necklace over a vivid print blouse. There were a couple of silver loops around her right wrist, and her wedding band on her left hand. She ran the cloth over a display of paperback mysteries. "How did your date go Thursday?" "Date?" Sue screwed up her face. "You had dinner with Louisa, didn't you?" she said, more an accusation than a question. Brannon had forgotten already. "Oh, yeah, we did. It was nice." He looked toward Hobie for a change of subject, but Sue moved between them. She raised the spray can and blasted the dust cloth with a mist of lemon scent. Brannon sneezed. "Nice. That's good," Sue said without enthusiasm. She didn't mean his sneeze. She tried to look Brannon in the eye, not an easy task, he being a good half foot taller. "What did you have?" "?" "To eat, Bruff. What did the two of you have to eat?" "I had shrimp. In lemon sauce." He rubbed dry some of the dusting spray on his hand. "And I think she had eggplant. Yeah. Eggplant." He moved around Sue towards Hobie. She grabbed his forearm. "Was it good?" Brannon turned to look back and down at her. Her face looked eager for a positive answer. "Yes, it was." He looked at Hobie, eyes demanding rescue. Hobie was reading the _Examiner_ now. "So?" Sue said. "So?" he answered. "Are you seeing her again?" "Umm ... I don't know," he said. "Is she coming over here for dinner tonight, too?" She stamped her foot. "No, no, no." "She's not?" "No. I mean yes." Lines of irritation furrowed her brow. "Yes, she's coming to dinner tonight. No, that's not what I was asking. What I meant is," she said, measuring her words. "Are you going to see her again when the two of you haven't been invited here. To the movies; to the Virginia Museum; to a restaurant -- date things. Just you and her. Not us." "I don't know. We didn't talk about it," Brannon said. "I think I'm supposed to call her today." "Good." She walked over to the pastry counter, tossed in the can and rag, took the box in both hands, and walked back up the stairs. "What's with her, Hobie?" Hobie moved his shoulders, a "three" on the Pickett shrug scale. "I don't know. I've never seen her dust down here before." He turned back to the _Examiner_. -------- *Chapter 21* A GLORIOUS Monday morning found a meandering Broughton Brannon trudging past the First Virginia monument on Park, rubbing his blood shot eyes from a night of tossing, turning and staring at Men's volleyball and motorcycle races on ESPN. A brief dawn snooze had brought impermanent peace and the resolve to sell to Morgan that day. No time like the present. Go to the office, call the lawyer, review the contract, sign it and tell them all later. Switching into a canter, he hurried up the steps with greater haste than the morning warranted. He pushed open the door to the sounds of Janes Johnson and Moonpie Davenport arguing. "No way, Janes, no way," Moonpie shook his head from side to side in long arcs. He held his left hand in the classic "stop" position, warding off further arguments from Johnson. His right hand held a box of doughnuts. "What's up?" Brannon said. Janes gave his boss a toothy grin. His brown eyes sparkled more than the gold rims on his glasses. "Moonpie doesn't like the donuts I brought." "They are not doughnuts," said Moonpie. His dark eyebrows arched to almost ninety degree angles. "They are little round cakes. How many times have I told you, Janes, Duncan Donuts doesn't have real doughnuts. They make little creme-filled cakes that happen to be round. They use icing and frosting, not glaze like Krispy Kreme. I told you to bring doughnuts this morning, not cakes." Moonpie put the red and white box down on Honey's desk and grabbed a Duncan Donut with both hands. He pulled apart the Boston Creme pastry, the yellow filling oozing in globs into his palms. "Cake creme." "It's Boston Creme, isn't it?" Brannon said. "Exactly right." Moonpie nodded, then gave Janes a look that said he'd heard the unvarnished truth at last. "You expect me to eat these?" Janes said, "Have you tried them?" "I know what I like and its Krispie Kreme. I've eaten them all my life. It's a tradition with me." Moonpie tossed the ruptured donut in the trash. Then he handed Brannon a thick report. "What's this?" Brannon riffled the dozens of pages. "My report on Cyrus McIlvainey," said Moonpie. He beamed with pride, nodding as he did so. Brannon shook his head. Gradually, Moonpie's cranial motion shifted from up-and-down to sideways. His lips drooped. "I asked you what McIlvainey was up to," said Brannon. "Not what he did." Moonpie went blank, a new moon. "Let's try this," said Brannon. He headed for the rear of the office, motioning Moonpie and Janes to follow. At the rear window, he motioned Moonpie over. "What's down there?" Moonpie looked out the window for a moment, then said, "There's six cars, four vans and two pick-ups. Three cars are blue, two red and one silver. The silver and one of the blue are American made, the others Jap. I don't understand why people still buy all them Jap cars with decent Americans out of work." He pointed to a man walking. "See that fella? He's going to the green pick-up to get more 2 by 4's. That's a fine ball peen hammer on his belt. And that woman in the vermilion pants suit? Bet she heads for the candy apple Zuiho." Moonpie beamed when she did. "Look at the Akagi facing West. It's got a Montana plate. Don't see many of those in Virginia, unless you're on 95. Then you see most anywheres. Montana didn't leave his windows cracked, he thinks its still winter, like back home." Moonpie described an arriving mini-van from a daycare facility and each child that emerged. Brannon waved his hands. "Moonpie, enough. Its a _parking lot._ That's all I wanted to know." He held up the McIlvainey report. "You told me everything McIlvainey did last week, down to the number of French fries he had for lunch. But you haven't told me if he's fencing stolen goods, and that's what our client wants to know." Moonpie stuck out his jaw. "But its all there." "You haven't told me what it all means. If you want to be a detective instead of an investigator, you have to draw conclusions, figure out what it all means. You have to connect the dots, complete the picture. Not just hand in a shitload of data." He handed the report back to Moonpie. "Think about it." He left Moonpie scratching his head and retreated into his dark office. He moved to the Venetian blinds and tugged one cord, raising the left side higher than the right. He yanked in frustration, both sides whisking to the top with a high-pitched screech like a cat being skinned and castrated in one motion. Satisfied, he plopped into his chair. "Bruff?" Brannon looked up from a tottering stack of junk mail. "May I talk to you this morning?" asked Lynn. She had on dark green and black plaid pants, a pink shirt with a reptile on her left breast, and one of those half-hats that forced her hair up and out the hole on top. "Like your golf togs. When's your tee time?" "Brannon, I don't _do_ golf," she said. "I've got to be out to Confederate Hills to get some shots of a back case swinging his clubs. These 'togs' let me blend in." She pinched her shirt like she'd just picked it out of the Goodwill bin. "I thought you liked sports." "Golf is not a sport. Baseball and football are sports. Tennis is a sport. The Olympics say ice dancing and curling are sports. Even pre-teen girls dancing with balloons and sashes get medals. Not golf. No such thing as Olympic golf." "Hadn't thought of it that way." He smiled. "So, what's on your mind?" He motioned at the chair and she sat down. Lynn tapped the side of her nose and bounced her right leg, bent on her left knee as if she required pumping action to splutter it out. "I'd like to help," she said. "With what?" "Not with what. You. Help you. Help you find your uncle's killer, help you decide what to do with this agency." "I'm handling that," he said. "If I need any help, I'll ask for it." That came out harsher than he intended. Lynn looked down at her nails, then up at Brannon, and mumbled. He didn't care to have her repeat it. "Okay. I guess you're not ready yet." She smoothed her pants and stood up slowly, like a cat stretching in the sun. "Call me when you are. Ready, that is." She turned slowly, an eye on him, and started to leave. Bruff watched her undulate towards the door, his eyes wide, face flushed with non-monetary greed, wondering how all that motion could produce so little headway, but yield so much energy. "W-wait," he stuttered, leaning out of his chair. He rose and approached her. She stopped in the doorway, swaying, arms folded across her chest, back to him. "Please sit down, Lynn. Maybe I can use some help." It took three tries, but on the third one, she brushed past him, the feathery swipe of her hip nearly sending him to the floor. Brannon's legs could only carry him to the front of his desk, where he perched on the corner, and inhaled deeply enough to fill a small blimp. "Okay, where should I start? What would you like me to do?" she said as her green eyes found his. "What would I like to do with you?" Brannon said. He leaned back to focus on the big picture, which grew more interesting when Lynn crossed her legs and twisted side ways in the chair. The curve that started on her hip and swept up behind her knee had more intrigue than any Virginia Byway. He asked her if she thought it was too hot in there, too, and scurried to the thermostat on the wall, which read "70" even after he rapped it with the heel of his hand five or six times. "Why don't you start from the beginning and bring me up to speed," she said as she turned her head back over her left shoulder and looked up at him from under the half hat, another titillating contortion. The strands of her hair that escaped the French braid were light and wispy, almost invisible where they didn't contrast with the green underside of her visor. He dropped a limp arm to his side and trudged back to the desk in silence. Lynn started to put her hands on the arm rests, then darted them behind her to tuck in the pink shirt. "Well?" "Uncle Broughton had driven to Accomack to see the Mizelles but was creamed by an A & B milk truck. The truck driver was a man named Miller who Alan Zinck suspected of trying to steal a secret process for making taffy stick ice cream bars." "Was Bruff working on that?" she asked. Hearing her use his name like that struck Brannon as strange and discordant. "No, at least Zinck didn't say so." Lynn nodded. Next came Sauer's stories. "I went back and accused him of being the one on the pole. He broke down and admitted it right away," he said with a smug grin. "I thought that's where you were going," said Lynn. "Disability cases try things like that all the time. Register to work under an assumed name, get relatives to take blood tests. Things like that. Go on." Bruff sucked a tooth, reassessing Lynn, before telling her about Sauer's death. "The Sheriff's report said 'gas explosion', but he lived in an all electric house." "What did the Sheriff have to say about that?" Lynn asked. "I didn't talk to him," he said, realizing she would have done so without a moment's hesitation. "I did talk to the deputy. He showed me the accident report." "We need to see the sheriff," Lynn said, waving off the deputy story. Brannon rooted around in the desk and handed her copies of the two accident reports. "Al 'n' Bevo rent their cabs from Kluepfel." Lynn nodded, as she read the reports. Brannon feared he'd overlooked some other point obvious to a professional, so he said, "That's not all that ties those guys in. Sauer remembered the name of the woman with Mike Fitzhugh that night. Linda Cook." Lynn kept her eyes on the reports. "Linda Cook was a member of the Weather Underground during the late 60s and early 70s. She died when her own bomb works blew. The FBI arrested the blast survivors. Two of them were Alan Zinck and David Bevonis." Lynn pushed a few strands of loose blonde hair back under her hat. "I think I knew that. That Al 'n' Bevo were radicals, I mean. Don't they put that on their ice cream containers?" "No," Brannon said with disgust. "They don't." "Did you say you needed coffee, Bruff?" Honey stuck her head in. "I was passing by and I thought I heard you ask for something." "I think I could use some," he said. "Lynn?" said Honey. "Thank you, I would." "I'll bring two then." She trotted off. "Was she eavesdropping?" he asked. "Probably. I would have been." Brannon groaned. "Can't I keep anything secret around here? Isn't anything _my_ business?" Lynn shrugged. "I think that ice cream story is a bunch of crap. Zinck doesn't' want you nosing around the Mizelles. Have you talked to them lately?" Brannon hemmed and hawed. She rolled her eyes. "We need to go up there tomorrow." "I, ah...." "I think Al 'n' Bevo, Linda Cook, and Mike Fitzhugh are mixed up in this." She paused. "A good place to start would be Senator Fitzhugh's office personnel files." She jumped up and dashed out the door. He stayed at his desk, arms crossed, one leg dangling. Her head popped back into view. "Coming?" She slapped the door. He slid off the desk and headed out. "Your coffee!" Honey called down the stairs. Brannon waved good-bye. * * * * LYNN ROARED HER silver Shokaku two-door downtown to Fitzhugh's office on Broad, weaving in and out of traffic. She glanced left and cut-off a shiny new Mercedes in the Lee circle. A giddy wave inundated Brannon as Lynn looped around the statue, so he waved at Lee. "You live there, don't you? Did you want to stop?" Her concern was mitigated by the fact she had already left Stuart in the dust, too. "No, thanks." Lynn sped through the VCU campus, not wavering for Sophomore bicyclists. She parked on Foushee, dropped some coins in the meter and pushed through the revolving door, assuming he was following. Brannon saw the pink shirt heading up the steps to Fitzhugh's office. "There is an elevator." He said as he trudged the stairs. "I don't use them. Exercise. Tired?" She looked back at the grim smile on Brannon's sweaty face. Lynn opened the fire door and held it for Brannon, who entered the lobby. Miss Ownby sat behind the reception desk again. He handed her an inked-in card. "The Senator isn't in, Mr. Brannon," she said. Then she explained that the appointment secretary wasn't in either and wasn't expected until later. "Married women get all this extra time off to see their kids plays. I don't -- " "How about Skelton? Is he in?" Lynn said, surprising Brannon yet again. "Yes, but he's with some people. Do you have an appointment to see him?" She stared at the appointment diary not expecting to find either one of their names. "Tell him that Broughton J. Brannon IV would like to look at Mike Fitzhugh's personnel files from the 1968 presidential campaign." He watched her eyes roll as if he'd asked to see the manifests from the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria. "Not all of them, only the one on Linda Cook. We'll wait." Brannon plunked into the same chair as the other day and grabbed the sports section from the _Examiner_. Lynn stood and monitored Miss Ownby. The receptionist punched some buttons on the phone console, then walked back into the rear offices with a pink message paper. She returned in the tow of a bustling woman in her late fifties. Her dress had a flower print pattern that reminded Brannon of the lilies hippies used to stick in the rifles of National Guardsmen before an anti-war riot began. "I'm Mrs. Baltzell." "I'm -- " She held up her hand. "I know. You were here earlier. Jenny gave me this message." Brannon recognized the typing fiasco woman. "We -- " "Apparently, _you_ wish to see the Senator's personnel files. That's quite impossible. The files are _confidential_. No unauthorized use is permitted." She crumpled up the paper and turned to go. "It's not unauthorized use of the files we want, Ma'am," said Lynn. Mrs. Baltzell stopped and gazed over her half rim glasses at the waif who called her 'ma'am'. Lynn marched past Brannon and confronted the other woman. "I'd like_ Mr. Skelton_ to authorize us, since you can't. And we only want to look at one file, Linda Cook. Could you ask him that for me?" "Well _I_ won't allow that." Baltzell added a sniff that said she found Lynn's fragrance to be manufactured by unwashed hands out of substances too repulsive for land fills. "Are you saying we can't look at all the files or just Linda Cook's file?" said Brannon. "_You_ can't see that file or any other file." Mrs. Baltzell said, followed by firm nods in Lynn's and Bruff's directions. Lynn smiled and pulled Brannon towards the door. He resisted. "Lynn -- " "Thank you, ma'am. Actually all we wanted to verify was that the Senator had a file for Linda Cook and you just did that. Thanks for your trouble." Lynn's smile dripped with venom. Growing red, Baltzell said, "There never has been a Linda Cook on a Fitzhugh campaign and I should know since I've been with the Senator since the 60s." Lynn said "_Only_ that long?" "Cut it out, Lynn," said Brannon. "Thanks again for the information," Lynn said through a saccharine smile. Brannon yanked her arm, made for the door. "I didn't give you any information," Baltzell said with a shrill voice as she pounded her right fist into her left hand. "What's going on out here?" Rick Skelton had heard Mildred Baltzell's sharp voice and left his office. When he saw Brannon, he said "You." He turned away. Brannon forgot about Lynn, pushed past the livid Mildred Baltzell and hailed Skelton again. This time the balding young man faced him. "What is it? I'm busy." "Linda Cook, Skelton, Linda Cook." "Linda Cook? Who is Linda Cook?" Skelton looked from Brannon to Lynn to Mildred. Brannon thought his puzzlement genuine. "She was the girl with Mike Fitzhugh and Betty Ann Mizelle on Chappateague Island," he said. Skelton stomped his foot. "I told you the last time you were here, Brannon, that that's an unfounded rumor. Nothing to it, never was. There was no second girl with the Senator out on Chappateague, so how could she have a name?" "Yeah, well that wasn't the only name she had. Linda Cook was an alias of Bad Penny Porterfield, the left-wing bomber." Skelton flinched. "That's crazy. That's even wilder than the tabloids. Next you'll be telling me Elvis was there, too." He laughed nervously, the way a latent homosexual does the first time the quarterback catches him staring too low in the boy's locker room. "You've heard of Bad Penny Porterfield?" Lynn asked in her deposition-taking voice. Skelton gave a "so-what" shrug. "Porterfield. Dorhn. Seal. Hoffman. Power. I know the names, so what? Newspaper headline names. Soon they'll be history book names." He smirked. "Mildred, why don't you show these two the door?" "I told them that -- " "Ok, Skelton," said Brannon. "Have it your way. I suppose I'll have to go to Ferncliff and say 'Did you know that when Mike Fitzhugh ran into the Bay with Betty Ann Mizelle he was just giving a lift to Bad Penny Porterfield?" He gave Skelton a garish smile. "Unless you want to prove to me my sources were lying. You could start by showing me Linda Cook's personnel file, that she wasn't Bad Penny. Hey, I'll even track Linda down for you, just to make sure." Brannon held out his hand in a 'I'm not such a bad guy' gesture. Skelton took a deep breath, then held his shoulders back, trying to stare the detective down. Brannon didn't blink. Skelton pulled at his lower lip, a thinking gesture. Mildred Baltzell huffed her irritation. "That won't be necessary, Brannon. Let's get this over with once and for all. Follow me." "Your not really going to let him look at the files?" Baltzell said, her face flushed under a layer of white powder. They left Baltzell fulminating and followed Skelton back down the same fire stairs they'd climbed earlier. One floor down, they exited into a small rectangular room, with the fire stairs door and the two main elevator to their backs and one closed, locked door facing them. Dingy yellow walls surrounded a dirty gray linoleum floor that might have been white the day the building opened. The locked door had a fake wood coating barely thicker than shelving paper. Brannon knew this because he took a peeling fragment in his right hand and fiddled with it while Skelton took a key ring from his pocket and tried several keys before popping the bolt and the knob lock. As he swung open the door, Skelton twisted the tab on the knob back to the locked position, then waved them into the unlit room with an underhand swoop of his hand. Lynn went first, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. "Where's the light switch?" "I'll get it," said Skelton. Overhead fluorescent flickered on. As the door swung shut, Brannon saw the elevator open and Mildred Baltzell hurry out. The door closed with a bang. "Follow me," said Skelton. He moved off, ignoring the pounding on the door. "What's that?" asked Lynn. "I don't know," Brannon answered, pretending to watch where he stepped. "Mildred, I bet," said Skelton. The two men walked deeper into the file room. Lynn shrugged and followed. There were lots of file cabinets, rows of them, mostly metal, but some wood, and all dusty. The room had a moldy odor, but Brannon didn't feel any dampness when he ran a finger over the surfaces of the cabinets. The finger left a little worm trail in the dust, one he could follow through the cavernous room back to the door, if needed. He hadn't expected a room this large. Skelton had only turned on the lights nearest the door and they barely penetrated to where Brannon now walked. Ahead, dim gray light entered through small windows in the distance. He followed his guide's outline deeper into the files while Skelton explained the layout of the files in laconic tones. "Information is the source of all political power," said Skelton. "I thought it was the barrel of a gun," Brannon said. Skelton chuckled. "That crowd never won an election. Here, we run a fine machine and keep track of every contributor and every volunteer because we recycle them every campaign." Skelton made his way past dusty boxes of old electioneering pins and handbills, where he flicked a switch in a naked metal box on an interior building support column. The rest of the lights began to flicker and glow. "Someday these will be valuable collectors' items," said Skelton. "Mike thinks he can finance his nephew's run for Congress by selling this stuff on the collectible market. This pile is from Mike's first race back in the 60s." "Another perk for the incumbent," said Brannon. Skelton reached into a box and pulled out a round metal button. The red, white and blue disk had "Fitzhugh for Senate in '67" printed in black around a photo of a smiling Mike Fitzhugh. Thirtyish back then, Fitzhugh sported dark and wavy hair minus his heavy jowls. Brannon tossed it back in the box where it clinked against its cousins. Skelton came to the outer wall and turned left. He yanked open the top drawer of a four-decker file cabinet. "Brannon, I'm going to let you go through the files and see that there is no Linda Cook in here." Brannon looked at the top drawer. A piece of oak tag had been inserted into a small metal frame on the face of the drawer, which said, "1968 Presidential." Inside the drawer were lots of brown crinkly files, most quite slim. The tabs projecting from each folder were neatly labeled in no more than three different handwritings, last name first, with a Social Security number underneath. He took out the first one, "Abelson, Mona", and flipped through its contents. There was an application form, a letter of recommendation from a professor at St. John's college in Annapolis and some W-2s. Abelson had joined the Fitzhugh staff in December of '67 and left in September of '68. Brannon moved from "A" through "B", then dropped down to "C", running his fingers over the tabs. "Ouch." A paper cut. Lynn laughed while Brannon sucked the cut index finger. "You do it," he said, meaning the search. "Gladly." Lynn eased herself past Skelton in the narrow strait between the cabinets, pressing her thighs against the man in a manner that had nothing to do with filing. Skelton watched her tickle the files with a concern not born of Brannon's injury. "Cawthorne, Clement," called out Lynn. She had squatted to a catcher's position while looking in the bottom drawer. "Chassen, Walter." "Civitacheccia, Carmine." Brannon snorted. He pushed up on the tip of his cut index finger with his thumb to stop the bleeding and leaned over Lynn's shoulder for a closer look. Through the coolness of the room he felt the warmth radiating from her body. She had a light scent, which wafted to his nose. The lights made her blonde hair almost white and highlighted the spot where her plaid slacks parted from her pink shirt near the curve of her hips. "Conaway, Ralph." "Coogan, Dale" "Coogan, Daniel G." "Cook, Paula." He put a hand on Lynn's shoulder and leaned down next to her head; to read the next tab, of course. Cook, again, this time Raymond. The next folder was for Eugenia Cooper. Lynn fingered ahead a few more. "Go back," said Brannon. She returned to "Cook, Paula". "Let me," he said. She rose and he dropped down. He ran his uninjured finger over the lighter patch between the tabs on the two "Cook" files and then slammed the file drawer shut. "Satisfied?" smirked Skelton. "No. Anyone could have removed a file from that cabinet. It's been twenty years." "The Senator's campaign has always kept accurate records. Its the law, you know. He wrote it, too. If you like you can look through all these records to see if 'Linda Cook' is there; but she isn't." He formed a firm line with his lips, then said, "If you try to go to the media with this story, I'll tell them to do the same checking you just did. They'll come up empty too. Only they'll drop the idea because the reputable reporters don't go with unfounded rumors, Brannon, and that's all this is, rumor." Skelton smiled, a Cheshire cat kind of smile. -------- *Chapter 22* BRANNON TRIED ignoring Lynn's questions as they browsed the little shops in the Sixth Street Market Place, where the goods purveyed were of the leather hand bag variety, imported from various third world countries so short of cash they overflowed with leather coin purses. "So Zinck admitted knowing Linda Cook?" said Lynn. "Just barely," he said, not masking his irritation at having to constantly affirm his attention to Lynn's thinking, this being the fourth time in forty or so minutes. "Do you believe him?" she asked, ice gray eyes trying to hold Brannon from wandering off. "Yes. No. I'm not sure," he said through a yawn. Lynn recognized the signs, the younger Brannon having a more severe case than his uncle. "Where can we find out more about Linda Cook?" Brannon shrugged and pulled out his pocket watch which showed ten past one. The lunch crowd from what was left of downtown had gone back to counting deposits and denying loans, so he suggested food. "OK," said Lynn, hoping a refreshed Brannon would become a focused Brannon. They strolled across Marshall Street to a glassy atrium between the old Armory and a building that now housed a sports bar. The north end opened onto Festival Park, a short strip of concrete, seldom the site of festivals, that led to the Coliseum, erstwhile home to the Virginia Squires of the old ABA, now the site of a few college basketball games, a class "Z" hockey team, tractor pulls, and gun fights masquerading as rap concerts. Brannon grabbed two franks, while Lynn went Chinese, a shiny mass whose red dye number fourteen stained her fried rice. Lynn chose a table in the sun. Brannon got up from his shady spot and joined her. At the next table, two large women in poplin skirts thrust souvlaki into cavernous maws while, between shovel fulls, they discussed Princess Di. To Brannon's right, a group of young adults had pushed together three tables, eating and talking. Several had pizza, some cheese steaks and the thinnest three young women poked at roughage from the salad bar. Brannon judged the six women to be in their early twenties, based on the short skirts that rode well up their thighs as they leaned forward to talk, and their hair styles made popular by the Fox network. He decided they were pretty but not attractive. One male wore a plaid shirt, solid blue knit tie, and cords. He'd opened his collar and loosened his tie. He scratched the shaved side of his dirty brown hair that he'd left thick and curly on top. Brannon suspected no mail would be delivered at Nationsbank until that one returned. The other three males sported cloth advertisements for Rock bands. Two of them had turned green mesh caps peak to the back, plastic strip biting into pimply foreheads. Serious looks marred their unemployed faces, despite which, the girls giggled at their stories of what the absent Marv and Kat had done last weekend. "So what do you think?" Lynn brought up the subject of the unfaded gap on the Cook files. She had stopped eating, the red chicken chunks ignored. "Doesn't prove anything, does it?" Brannon shook his head. "Too many coincidences, though." "There's something in that missing file, Bruff. My instincts tell me you can't have so many signs pointing to Mike Fitzhugh and Al 'n' Bevo without some of them being true. I wish I could have talked to Hank Sauer, myself," she said, staring up at the skylights, arms folded. "I told you everything he told me." "I'm sure you did." She looked at him, touched his forearm, and smiled slightly. "I wish I could have talked to Sauer. Been in the same room as the man. Gotten under his skin." She drew her hand back and gestured with open arms. "I don't know if I could have found out any more." "But you think you would have found out more than I did." Brannon said. "Well, yes." This time he tapped her forearm. "It's okay I think so, too." He rubbed the end of his hot dog bun in some cooled and congealed white cheese. Lynn snapped her head down from gazing at the sky. "Let's you and I go see the Mizelles." "Now?" "Now. Tonight. Tomorrow." He raised an eyebrow. "So we can ask some more questions. No, so _I_ can ask some questions." She smiled. "What do you say?" Brannon rubbed his stubble-free chin. "You don't have anything else to go on, do you?" He admitted he hadn't while looking down at the cheesy bun on his plate. Lynn put her elbows on the table and held her head, waiting. Brannon shifted in his chair, his mind trying to reject the transplant of Lynn's suggestion. He knew Lynn might be able to help him; make that _would_ be able to help him. He hesitated saying "yes" because this was _his_ case, _his_ uncle, _his_ responsibility. No one else's. If Brannon was going to hang on to the agency and make a go of it, he'd have to be the detective, not a mere owner. Waves of dread burst over him, fear paralyzing his vocal chords. He feared letting Lynn help and watching her solve the case instead of him. Worse, in spite of him. He looked up from the plate and met Lynn's patient gray-blue eyes. The soft curves of her jaw and nose attracted him in a rare, intelligent sort of way. Brannon had never put much stock in the wattage pretty women held between their ears. Other women, fine, no problem. To Brannon, a woman in business who had done well had more talent than her male contemporaries. Then the next wave of fear crashed on him. Lynn was better looking than any of those women, and an actress, aspiring or otherwise. Even though detecting seemed a less than rigorous occupation, was he wise to depend on her? The wave receded into the great dark sea, now placid. Brannon looked up to a tapping Lynn Beaumont, fingers on the table, foot on the floor. He relished her silence. "Okay," he said. "We'll see the Mizelles first thing in the morning." * * * * "WHY DID YOU pick Mr. Brannon's uncle for your case?" Lynn said. The Mizelles had spent the past forty-five minutes retelling their story. Brannon didn't detect even a minor difference between today's version and the one he'd heard earlier. Mr. Mizelle looked at Mrs. Mizelle. His face reddened slightly. "Tell her, Vernon." The command washed away the red and replaced it with an honest, open look. "I started out with the 'A's', but none of them would come. Ran through the alphabet until I came to 'F' and your uncle said he'd be glad to come out here. Why'd he name it 'Fan'?" Mizelle feigned opening a Japanese type fan, with a swish of the wrist. Brannon explained. Lynn waited politely, then asked, "Did he say why he would take the case?" Mizelle furrowed his brow, putting finger to lip. "Come to think of it, he did say why. Something about it being in his blood. That's it. He said the Brannon's have always tried to help the little guy." He paused and his face brightened. "That's what he said to me. 'My ancestors would roll over in their graves if I didn't take this case'. What did he mean by that, Mr. Brannon? I mean, you being his nephew and all." Huge weights rolled over Brannon, constricting his breathing; the weight of the ledgers, the weight of family history, the weight of Broughton J. Brannons I, II & III. His fingers, which had been idling twiddling in his pocket, burned at the touch of Clive Morgan's business card. He ran a finger around his open collar sport shirt. "The family has been in the investigation business since the Civil War, Mr. Mizelle. We have a reputation for cracking tough cases and not letting our clients down." "We need some more help from you, though," Lynn said. "Hank Sauer's story seems the truth to me, but he can't speak out anymore." Her words were the closest any of them had come to saying Sauer was dead. "How can we help you?" said Mrs. Mizelle, her face a mix of emptiness and fear. "Is there any one else we can talk to? Anyone else who worked with Betty Ann when she worked for Fitzhugh?" Lynn asked. Her gray-blue eyes thawed, like a frozen stream in early spring. The Mizelles looked at each other. Mr. Mizelle answered. "We've lost track of Betty Ann's co-workers after the funeral." Brannon nodded at him and looked to Lynn with an arched eyebrow. "How about childhood friends? Any school friends she kept up with after she graduated? Anybody she still talked to?" Mrs. Mizelle answered quickly. "There is Daphne Switzer. Only she's McPherson now. Daphne McPherson." She smoothed the pale yellow cotton dress. She wore gauzy support hose which bagged at her ankles where they entered clunky black shoes. Vernon Mizelle patted her on one shoulder. "No reason to drag Daphne into this, mother. She's got a life of her own these days." He raised the middle fingers of his hand like a Boy Scout salute. "Three fine young sons, she has." "But she and Betty Ann were friends all their lives," said Mrs. Mizelle. "Betty Ann used to talk to Daphne 'most every night right up until it happened." She looked down at her hands that were kneading each other like cold dough. The pressure whitened her skin, bringing out the age spots in stark contrast. Mizelle sat down next to his wife, kissed her gently on the forehead, and said "Here, here, mother. Don't get all het up." Lynn rose. She wore a black A-line skirt topped with a red blouse, low heeled, comfortable pumps and a short and practical hairstyle. Anyone but Brannon would have thought her a married third grade teacher, one popular with gifted students, but feared by future auto mechanics. "I think we should talk to Mrs. McPherson. Where does she live?" said Lynn. * * * * THEY FOUND the McPherson house in thirty minutes, a ten minute trip for any local. The roads all looked like driveways to Brannon, mere gaps in the pine forest. He shot past the first few turns, Lynn swiveling to read street signs blending into the evergreen and underbrush. He slowed after the sixth miss, and had no further trouble. The McPhersons lived on Glebe Villa Road, a gravel track with few houses, privacy being the only valuable commodity on Glebe Villa Road, a gravel track devoid of both hill and mansion. Daphne McPherson ushered Lynn inside with great enthusiasm and seated her on the couch before Brannon could finish explaining the reason for their visit. He could have continued the conversation from the two-step concrete stoop and still been closer to Lynn than he'd been in the Mizelles parlor, but he entered, closed the aluminum screen door behind, and waited for Daphne to finish gathering toys off the chairs. As Daphne bent over to fetch a rubber Batman from in front of the TV set, her broad-beamed bottom pushed her beltless, electric blue stretch pants to the limit. She babbled about her children while clutching other action figures to her bosom with her left hand and adding to the cache with her right. "When you have five sons and one daughter, its hard to keep things picked up. Of course, my two oldest sons have already moved out. The eldest works with my husband, Bob, up in Salisbury. This is the third week of his new job, managing the Sears auto center. Its nearly an hour up there, but the money is good. Still he has to quit coaching my middle two sons' baseball team. My neighbor? Nola Price? Said she wouldn't want to work in Maryland and pay taxes in two states and to Washington." Daphne smiled through all this, treating them as causal drop-ins, not strangers from Richmond. Brannon stood next to Lynn and said in a low tone, "Terminal Extrovert." Lynn punched his knee. "Have a seat, Mr. Brannon," Daphne said as she bent to carefully place the toys in a small, empty playpen. "Ben and Travis are helping out at Bible School today and Cindy is over at friends. I just sent Howard to his room. He's eight tomorrow, you know?" "That news hasn't reached Richmond yet," said Brannon. Lynn whacked him on the knee, again. "You have a lovely home, Daphne. How long have you lived here?" The McPhersons had been in the house over ten years, Daphne tracing the prior ownership back before FDR. Brannon looked around while Lynn chatted with Daphne, who he thought should find work at a title insurance company. The front door was on the extreme left side of the house as it faced the road. A five foot square of linoleum marked the entry way, the couch Lynn sat on demarcating the entrance from the living room. A large bay window with an orange and black sticker used to notify firemen that children were in the house opened to a weed-filled lawn. The sill of the window had various knickknacks and faded color photos of the McPherson children at various ages, Little League uniforms and First Communion Suits being popular garb. A large lace table cloth covered a side table, the white whorls cascading onto the worn green carpet. In the far corner, Brannon could see the shiny gray duct tape where Bob McPherson had repaired a tear in the carpet. The centerpiece of the room was the TV set, a twenty-one incher on a wooden cart. On a shelf under the cart sat a VCR whose clock kept accurate time, a sure sign of kids in the house. Piled on top of the VCR were several video game joysticks and game cartridges. "So, you want to know about Betty Ann, do you?" Daphne said to Lynn. She told about their happy childhood, lots of dolls and slumber parties and Four Seasons records, a shared crush on Fabian. They saw "Bye Bye, Birdie" more often than any other teenagers in Accomack County. Brannon turned his attention to Daphne McPherson as she gave these background details. She had to be in her late forties if she'd been Betty Ann's friend in school, but her body looked older than that. Her hips had grown wide from childbirth, her bottom reminding Brannon of two second prize watermelons at a county fair. Her arms were weathered and heavily freckled but flabby white underneath. The arms disappeared into the short sleeves of her frayed blouse, threads angling off the tail that barely covered the top of her stretch pants when she bent over to get the toys. Four translucent white buttons fastened the blouse in front, reminding Brannon of the plastic tops used on take-out coffee at the Seven-Eleven, only thicker. A purple lanyard around her neck held each end of fire engine red framed eyeglasses, which blended into the riot of primary colors, still polyester bright, on the blouse. Her soft, thick brown hair had an undertone of copper, which was fading to gray. She wore the hair parted down the middle and pulled loosely up into a knot on the back of her head that she held into place with bobby pins. The colorful blouse opened in a "V" over ample cleavage and revealed mottled red skin, thickly layered at the base of her neck. What surprised Brannon was the youth in her face. She had a large, round face and fewer chins than he expected, given the neck. A small mouth revealed few teeth even when she laughed, which was frequently. Ruddy cheeked, her complexion was clear and delicate, few lines anywhere save at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her turned up nose had a perennial sunburn that matched her forehead. Her eyes twinkled in the early afternoon sun as she sat talking to Lynn. "Betty Ann and I grew up together. We were best friends." Daphne adopted a slow, careful style of speaking now, as if her friendly banter had been background noise, like a radio playing. "Actually, Nancy Wofford was -- is -- my very best friend, but Betty Ann and I were close. I suppose I was her best friend." She said this as if the thought had only now come into her head. "We kept in touch even after she went off to college and then when she moved to Richmond to work for Mike Fitzhugh. She used to call me during the day, from work, to chat. At least once a week. She'd tell me all about Mike Fitzhugh and his plans and what he was going to do for the country. She really idolized him." "Do you think she was in love with Fitzhugh?" Lynn asked, her face saying that would have been a wonderful thing. "I think she was," Daphne said, her tone turning giddy. "But I think it was unrequited? Is that the word? I mean, I'm sure they weren't having an affair. Betty Ann would have told me about that, I'm sure. No, she never talked about Mike Fitzhugh that way. She didn't have much of a social life at all. She worked long hours for his election campaigns. She called people up for money one night, typed speeches the next. She even got to go political banquets." Daphne's eye grew bigger than her bulbous stomach. "The office girls used to sit at their own table and listen to speeches. Nobody ever tried to pick them up, the men were all too interested in power and politics to let romance get even a moments notice, to say nothing of how they valued their careers." She spat out the last word. "So she did talk about the people in the office?" asked Lynn. "Yes." "Did she ever talk about a woman named Linda Cook?" Daphne repeated the name while holding her fingers to her lips. She looked up at the plaster ceiling. Brannon did, too. There were lots of cracks and the ceiling could use a fresh coat of paint, but there was nothing about Linda Cook up there. "No." Daphne jumped to her feet. "Oh, where are my manners? Would either of you like some lemonade or soda pop? All this talking is making me thirsty." She looked at both of them. Brannon didn't want anything, but Lynn said she'd be glad to have a drink, so he decided to join them. Daphne ambled into the kitchen. Brannon tried to ask Lynn what she thought of Daphne without raising his voice. However, "The Flintstones" theme blared from Howard's room, and Daphne's discussion of the school system trumpeted over the clink and clank of bottles and the crunch and crack of an ice tray. Daphne returned with a tray bearing three plastic tumblers filled with ice and lemonade, and a plate of cookies. Brannon took a Chips Ahoy! from the middle, revealing the toothy grin of Jimmy Carter. Portraits of the real Presidents decorated the border. She handed him a lemonade. "Can I get you anything else?" He assured her he was fine, and asked again about Linda Cook. Daphne set the tray down on the wooden coffee table in front of the sofa, then took a glass and a cookie back to her chair. "Was she the one with the secret past?" asked Daphne as she lowered herself into the chair. Brannon looked quickly at Lynn, who leaned over and touched the woman's knee. "Did Betty Ann ever talk about Linda Cook being Bad Penny Porterfield?" Lynn said. "Now that you mention it, she did." Brannon sat up straight, his eyes narrowing, then leaned forward. "But that wasn't it, there was something else about her, too." Daphne scratched the tip of her turned up nose. "What was it?" "What was what?" Brannon said with irritation. "Who Linda Cook really was." "You mean Bad Penny Porterfield?" said Lynn with a practiced look of trust. Daphne shook her head. "No. Linda Cook was Penny Porterfield. But Porterfield wasn't her real name either." Brannon rubbed his face. "Who was she then?" "Yabba Dabba Doo!" came from Howard's bedroom. "Angela Capesta." Brannon nodded sagely at the name that meant nothing to him. Lynn leaned back into the sofa. Daphne took another chocolate chip cookie. "Porterfield was her married name," Daphne said. "She got married when she was real young. Betty Ann told me she did it to get even with her father. He was Angelo Capesta. Ever hear of him?" Daphne looked from Lynn to Bruff. "He had something to do with the Mafia, I think. Anyway, she was hiding that from the others." "Others?" Brannon asked. "The other people at the office who worked for Mike Fitzhugh." "Did everybody know Linda Cook was Bad Penny Porterfield?" His tone asked if he was the only one in the world who didn't know this. Daphne laughed. She wiped the ice sweat from her glass onto her blue pants. "I don't think anybody believed the story she was Bad Penny. If I remember right, one of the other girls had a magazine with a picture of Bad Penny. She -- this other girl -- inked in Linda Cook's hairstyle and went around showing it to everybody. It was quite a hoot. Betty Ann said Linda denied it, then she got angry and went to Mike Fitzhugh. He called a staff meeting and said Linda Cook was not Bad Penny Porterfield. He didn't want anymore rumors and gossip. Betty Ann said he was laughing all the while, but Linda Cook had a great big frown on her face. Linda never was a part of the staff social life after that. Not that she had been before." "So Mike Fitzhugh didn't think Linda Cook was Bad Penny Porterfield?" "I don't believe he did," Daphne said. "How did Betty Ann find out about the name Angela Capesta?" Lynn asked. Daphne had to think before answering. "Betty Ann called me one day from work. She was all excited -- kind of scared, too. She had overheard Linda Cook talking to somebody on the phone. She was talking real quietly, held her hand over the mouthpiece. Linda didn't know Betty Ann could hear her." "Did she see Betty Ann?" asked Lynn. "I don't think so. I don't remember." Daphne shook her head. "What did Linda Cook say on the phone?" Brannon picked up the lemonade. Sugar coated the bottom of the glass. He winced. "It's been a long time, so I don't remember everything Betty Ann told me," Daphne said. "Try." Lynn clasped her hands. Daphne closed her eyes in thought. "All I remember is Betty Ann telling me she heard Linda Cook tell the person on the phone she didn't want anyone to find out she was Angela Capesta. She said the newspapers would have a field day if they knew Angelo Capesta's daughter was working for Mike Fitzhugh." "Did Linda Cook say she didn't want Mike Fitzhugh to know she was Angela Capesta?" asked Lynn. Her eyes bore into Daphne with their ice blue hardness. "I don't remember," Daphne fidgeted in her chair. "She was troubled, Betty Ann was. I think she was terrified of Linda Cook. She wondered who this woman really was. We talked about what she should do: should she confront Linda Cook, or should she tell Mike Fitzhugh. She called me everyday for a week or two; sometimes more than once a day." "But she didn't tell anyone else at the office?" Lynn asked. "No, she didn't," Daphne said. "At least she didn't tell me she told anyone else." Brannon stood up, catching his heel on the front of the Batmobile whose nose stuck out from under the skirt of his chair. He looked out the picture window, deep in thought. The women watched his movement like two bored felines. "Did you tell anyone about this?" Brannon asked. Daphne shook her head. "No, never. Who'd be interested in old gossip like that?" Brannon nodded. "What did Betty Ann do? Did she tell Mike Fitzhugh?" Daphne fidgeted in her seat. She put her empty lemonade glass down on the coffee table, then rubbed her hands, while keeping her eyes on the hands, not her guests. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I never spoke to Betty Ann again. That was the last time." -------- *Chapter 23* "WE NEED TO see Al 'n' Bevo," said Lynn as she sat in the passenger seat of Brannon's Plymouth, arms folded over her chest and back against the door. "Why?" "Well I've never seen them, for one thing." She closed her eyes again. "Okay. We'll go tomorrow." He looked in the rearview window and passed a truck. He returned to the right hand lane, and looked at Lynn, who had half-turned to the window now, eyes closed tightly, cheeks scrunched up and eyebrows scrunched down. He wondered about the frown, but Lynn shifted her left leg that rucked her skirt up high on her thigh. She didn't pull it down. Brannon's stomach growled. "Do you want to stop in Williamsburg to eat?" Lynn didn't answer. He poked her rump, twice, with his index finger. Her muscles tightened. "What?" She swivelled her head around, and looked at Brannon with one open eye. The hair on the right side of her head resembled a damp cat. Brannon turned back to the road, silently congratulating himself for getting away with the rump pokes. "Dinner. Are you interested in dinner in Williamsburg? One of the taverns, I thought." The sun still hung brightly in the western sky, too bright for his sunglasses, so he pulled down the visor. "Sounds elaborate. And I'm not dressed." She sat upright, smoothed down her skirt without glancing at Brannon, then pulled down her own visor and began to resort her hairs in the tiny mirror. "You look fine to me." A tingle shot up Brannon's right leg. Thinking his leg asleep, he moved it again, cringing in anticipation of the pins and needles. Nothing happened. Trying to replicate the sensation, he wriggled his toes effortlessly, to no effect. He shifted in his seat. The sensation didn't return. Brannon took a deep breath and glanced over at Lynn, still primping in the tiny mirror. Tingle time. He blushed, snapped his head back to the road. "So?" He tried to read the license plate on the car a quarter mile ahead. "What's the verdict?" "You're not dressed," she said. "My jacket is in the back seat. Besides, tourists eat in those places in shorts all day long. We're over-dressed, if you ask me." Lynn yawned and stretched her arms, knocking his head with her left hand. "Put it on the expense account?" "Yeah." They drove a mile and a half in silence, Brannon thinking about nightfall and the candles they put on the tavern tables. "Bruff?" He grunted. "Is today Tuesday?" "All day." "Then we can't stop to eat. I've got a rehearsal at seven. 'Design for Living'. I'm playing Helen Carver." "A rehearsal?" "You have heard of them? It's what we thespians do to practice." "I thought that was illegal in Virginia. Thespianism, I mean." The roar of the highway drowned Lynn's rejoinder. Brannon thought it had something to do with people his size needing inordinate quantities of comestibles. "Okay," He sighed. "Richmond and rehearsing it is." "Sorry." She put both knees up on the front seat while turning around. Brannon started to watch as she leaned back to grab something from the rear floor. Her skirt rode up her leg, as the Plymouth rode off the pavement. He pulled down on the wheel, jerking the car to the left and rolling Lynn toward him. "I said I was sorry," she said. Brannon mumbled something that ended with "Okay." Lynn found what she was looking for. "I'd better study my lines some more." She flipped through a worn sheaf of papers, stopping when she got to red markings. As Lynn began to silently mouth her lines, she caught Brannon looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "I've got to study this, Bruff." "Its Okay." Alternately reading a page, then clutching the script to her chest, Lynn mouthed her lines. Eyes tight, dreaming of the stage, her dreams inaudible over the rushing sounds of his Plymouth, the miles past. Near Norge, he noticed the script stayed against her chest and her eyes stayed closed. In Richmond, a yawning, stretching Lynn thanked him as she tossed her script in her own silver car. "Al 'n' Bevo tomorrow," she said before shutting the door. "You promised." He nodded. Lynn sped off before Brannon shifted his own car back into drive and headed for his apartment overlooking Traveler's butt. -------- *Chapter 24* BRANNON AND Beaumont arrived at the A & B ice cream plant the next morning. Lynn wore cream colored pants and a white blouse, with a paisley scarf around her neck knotted loosely in front, like a Boy Scout. Brannon left his tweed jacket in the back seat. He didn't think the boys would mind. Alan Zinck wasn't in so Brannon asked for Bevo. The receptionist looked at the clock with a doubt born of years of experience with David Bevonis' comings and goings, but called Bevo's extension. The phone was answered but no one seemed there. "He said he'd see you," she told Brannon with a puzzled look. "At least, I think he said he'd see you." "Great." Brannon been there often enough to be a familiar face, so she let them go unescorted, but with a refresher set of directions. No sweetness hung in the air today, as he told Lynn about his other visits. "Maybe they have the day off," she said to him, eyes tracking the pictures on the walls (Modern Art, Rock concert poster reprints), ears picking up brief transmissions from open doors ("She saw him again last Saturday, Why would she?"; "What do you mean you're short of paper board?"). Brannon led her down the now familiar hall, past open doors revealing several T-shirt clad workers intent on computer screens or talking on the phone. Three men stood in one room crowded around a woman who was frowning at a broken ice cream cone. _Bad day at the plant_. A man in a "Metallica" T-shirt and faded blue jeans wished them a good morning. A tall, thin woman in a light brown A-line dress that made her look like a popsicle stick asked them if she could help. Her eyes said, "What are you two doing here?" "We're going to see Dave Bevonis," said Brannon with a smile that added, "And what we're doing here is none of your business, minion." Popsicle stick rolled her eyes and admitted they were on the right track. "Bevo is in R and D. Door's open, let's go in." Brannon ushered Lynn inside. Bevo sat slumped in his chair, his head -- ringed with a blue bandanna this morning -- nodding in time with the music, eyes dreamily staring out the window. Discarded headphones on the desk blared louder than Brannon played his car radio. "Morning, Bevo," he said with the predatory cheer of an insurance salesman. "This is Lynn Beaumont. She works for me." Bevo hadn't turned around yet, fascinated with his view of an empty warehouse and a street denuded of traffic. Heaps of papers and back copies of _Ice Cream World_, loose paper clips and pens dappled Bevo's desk. More incongruous than the shrieking headphones, though, was the gray felt-covered mannequin head, the kind that department stores use to display necklaces. Brannon picked up the headphones, then fitted them snugly over the earless head. The muffled music no longer prevented conversation. Brannon dropped the Accomack Sheriff's report of his uncle's death on the desk and stood back. Bevo spun around in his chair, both feet off the floor. He reached out and grabbed the edge of the desk to halt his spin, then grabbed two pens, beat a brief, sharp tattoo on his desk top, and looked up at Brannon with a distinct lack of interest. "What was your truck doing out there, Bevo?" Brannon tapped the report. Bevo didn't look at it. "Hey, man. It wasn't my truck." He hunched his shoulders, like a protester about to be truncheoned by Chicago's finest. Brannon explained that Bevo and Zinck owned A & B Ice Cream; the company owned the truck; hence _he_ owned the truck. "I don't dig all that Capitalist stuff, Brannon." He might have stuck out his tongue, too, but a faded image on his T-shirt did that for him. Brannon nodded, then dug out the copy of the report of Sauer's death. "Looks like your trucks run over somebody once every ten years or so." Bevo took the paper and squinted at it. Who's Sauer? Who's Kluepfel?" Brannon explained. "What can I say, man? You've got it all right there," Bevo said as if being hassled by the heat or pigs or whatever genus of law enforcement he feared at the moment. "I don't remember this Sauer dude at all. I don't handle traffic and shipping and things. I'm..." He tapped his nose and closed one eye. "R and D," Brannon said. Bevo smiled and lit a joint. At least Brannon thought it a joint. The stub of white paper enshrouding some dead plant matter smoldered. Where Bevo had gotten it, Brannon didn't know. Lynn told him later he'd pulled a drawstring bag out of a side drawer in the desk. The hits brought a mellow smile to Bevo's lips and a down-to-earth focus to his eyes. Rather than pushing his thoughts farther away, the burning drug attracted them, like a fire does insects on a summer night. "Those were interesting days." Bruff pointed to a dated photo of Al 'n Bevo on the wall. "I was just starting school. You guys are a bit older. Must have had quite a blast back then. Lots of good stuff. Drugs and women. Which was your favorite?" Lynn groaned. The men ignored her. Bevo smiled and recalled his great experiences with LSD, THC and a rather full range of hallucinogens. "I still like a little weed now and then." Bevo looked at the tiny stub in his fingers. He set the butt down on the edge of his desk, being careful not to let the ash touch anything flammable. Then the tall man let his thin fingers wander over the desk top, searching under papers. _Looking for his roach clip_. Brannon smiled. Bevo gave up, punched out the spark in an ash filled glass tray and said, "Al, he hasn't had anything since the day of the explosion. Shook him up." "The explosion that killed Linda Cook?" Brannon asked. Bevo smirked that look of the druggie insider that Brannon hadn't seen outside a Dennis Hopper film in fifteen years. "You know about that, too, do you?" "You told me." Bevo frowned. "You also told him that Linda Cook was really Bad Penny Porterfield," Lynn said. "I told you she was Bad Penny?" Bevo's blood shot eyes grew wide. Brannon nodded. "The Zinckster didn't tell you that?" Bevo adjusted the blue bandanna, which encircled his dome, then stood and walked over to Brannon. He moved slowly, his long legs slightly bowed from riding who knows what kind of drug-induced equines. He had his graying hair pulled back into a short pony tail and held in place with the kind of rubber band used to fasten the morning newspaper. He bent his thin waist, bringing his gaunt face even with Brannon's, who thought Bevo's marijuana-dilated irises looked like the prototype for CBS. Then Bevo stroked his beard, the kind Yasser Arafat would have if he let it grow more than a few days, and nodded at Brannon. "So I told you Linda Cook was really Bad Penny Porterfield, Brannon?" Bruff nodded. "I don't believe you," Bevo straightened up and walked over to Lynn. "I've never told anyone that, never. Not even the pigs." Lynn smiled. "Thank you for sharing that with us." Bevo burst out laughing. "Sharing?" He laughed again, then turned to Bruff and pointed back to Lynn, "Where did you get her, Brannon? Kidnap her from Phil Donahue or Opie Winfrey?" "She's an investigator, Bevo. She works with me." Bevo spun around and squinted at Lynn. He had simmered down to giggles. "And what does she investigate?" "I'm assisting Mr. Brannon in his inquiries," said Lynn. The Noel Coward script must have invaded all her colloquialisms. She smoothed her pants and smiled sweetly at Bevo. "We uncovered a few other things you neglected to tell Mr. Brannon about Linda Cook." Bevo threw his hands up and laughed. "Such as?" Brannon started to speak but Lynn cut him off. "That Linda Cook, alias Bad Penny Porterfield -- " "Or the other way around." Brannon smiled Lynn shushed him with a wave of her hand. "This woman had a third alias. She was also, perhaps originally and legally, Angela Capesta, daughter of the mob boss Angie Capesta." Bevo gurgled gutter words. His eyes flitted around the room and he gasped. "Then its' true?" Bruff said. Bevo stared at the smiling Lynn as his chest began to heave. "Zinck told you that didn't he?" Lynn smiled and returned Bevo's gaze, which flickered with a feral light fathered by decades of chemical ingestion. Lynn dropped her eyes from Bevo to her nails, but kept smiling. Brannon shouted, "Bevo don't -- " But Bevo did, move for Lynn, that is. He tried to grab her, but she avoided him with a graceful, sideways maneuver out of her seat. Instead of Lynn-by-the-shoulders, Bevo found himself clawing at the edge of the chair, trying to break his headlong fall, only succeeding in bringing the normally cushy furnishing abaft his skull with a sharp thwack. He crashed to the floor, puffing. "Zinck didn't tell us, Bevo." Brannon winced at Bevo's contretemps. Lynn, standing coolly as if awaiting a tray of cocktails from a tardy servant, gave Brannon a quick, hard look complete with gritted teeth. Since all he'd done was tell the truth, Brannon mouthed "What?" She shook her head and dismissed him with a wave. "What can you tell us about Angela Capesta, Bevo?" She looked down at Bevonis as if querying a man under a chair was an ordinary part of her life; which for all Brannon knew, it was. As an after thought, she reached out a hand to help Bevo up. He swatted it away. Bevo shifted on the floor and sat with his long, scraggly legs splayed out in front. He tried to muster up some bluster. "Who told you she was Angela Capesta? I want to know who told you she was Angela Capesta." He pointed a bony finger at Lynn, his blue bandanna having slid down, nearly covering his one eye, like a pirate. "What else do you know about Angela Capesta, Bevo?" Lynn walked across the room and sat on a two seat couch across from the speakers. It was just long enough for Ichabod Crane to use for a nap. "I ain't talking, man, until you tell me who told you about Angela Capesta." Despite using the masculine, Bevo pointed at Lynn as he pushed at the bandanna. The two of them stared silently across the expanse of Afghan rug covering Bevo's floor. Lynn broke the stare by taking a file from her purse and honing her nails. Bevo didn't move. Actually, he shook a lot, but still held his arm out, finger pointing at Lynn, bandanna slipping down. Brannon moved to break the deadlock. "We found out about Angela Capesta yesterday from -- " "Bruff," said Lynn in a sharp tone. She stabbed his behind with the nail file, not enough to penetrate, but more than sufficient to get his attention. While he rubbed, she said, "We learned of this during the course of our investigations. It is not the policy of the Fan Detective Agency to reveal its sources unless required to do so by a court of law." Brannon had a feeling that was more for his benefit than Bevo's. He didn't sit down again until they returned to the car. "What I can tell you, Bevo?" Brannon said, giving Lynn a look, which said he knew what he was doing. She mouthed, "I hope so." "Al thinks there is a link between my uncle's death and Miller, the driver who tried to steal your secret process. He thinks Linda Cook is involved and that she may want to kill both of you." "Oh." Bevo tossed the blue bandanna. "Didn't he tell you about this, Bevo?" Brannon asked. "Didn't he share his concerns with you? Warn you?" Lynn said. Bevo looked from Brannon to Lynn, then back again. He shook his head. "Maybe he did. I don't remember. I have a lot on my mind." He got up from the floor, one spindly limb after another, like roustabouts erecting the main poles of a circus tent, and walked back to his desk. Other than the pens and a pad, the top of his desk supported only old magazines and the silent earphones. Even his "IN" box was empty and dusty. Bevo sat down again, crossing his legs, bony knees poking through rips in his blue jeans. Lynn stood in front of Bevo's desk. She played with one end of her paisley scarf. "Don't you think you should help your partner and tell us all about this woman?" Bevo closed one eye and measured Lynn against one of his pens. "OK," he said, holding up the silver pen as a token of surrender. "I need some music to think," he announced as he ambled over to his CD player. "Mind if I play this?" He held up a golden disc, as if his visitors could read the minute printing across the room. "I love Santana," said Lynn, whose eyes bore no evidence of a squint to Brannon. "Go right ahead." Brannon, who knew Lynn didn't mean the historian or the shortstop, did mind, but held his objections. The rock came on, Bevo pumped it up, and Brannon flinched. Bevonis giggled and turned it down a decibel or two. "Thinking music," Bevo said as he passed Bruff on the way to his desk, where he sat and stared at his headphones. Brannon moved over to the wall farthest from the major noise source to inspect the narrow table pressed up against the wall, a side board. Two plastic trays, the kind used in cafeterias, rested there. Each tray bore a half dozen clear glass bowls, each bowl holding a dollop of what could only be melted ice cream. Six metal spoons were neatly arranged on each tray, all clean. A preprinted form headed "Quality Control Report" lay next to the trays. Someone had inked in today's date on the line provided and under that "Bevo" on the line printed along side "Quality Control Rep." Brannon touched a couple of bowls, determined all to be room temperature, and that a few had nuts or chocolate chips floating on top. Ignoring the pink and yellowish bowls, Brannon hunted for dark chocolate, found none, finally poked in a finger at random and tasted warm, souring cream, perhaps butter brickle. It occurred to Brannon that Bevo was much too stick-like for a man who owned an ice cream company. Zinck's girth was about what you'd expect; not too large, but you could tell he ate his products. Bevo didn't look in the least like he enjoyed the stuff, certainly not the way Zinck left his trays, bowls almost empty, the remains still cold enough to be lumps, not soup. As he walked back to the others, he pushed the sound tab on the stereo back several whole numbers, casting a wary eye at Bevo who didn't notice, himself being too occupied with Lynn's cross examination. "What about Bad Penny Porterfield, did she recruit you into the Weather Underground? Was she your leader?" Lynn leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on its arms, and held her chin. Bevo laughed nervously. "Leader? She was more than that. She taught me how to make my first bomb." Bevonis watched their faces for any reaction. "First bomb?" said Lynn. "You made bombs?" Then to Brannon, "You didn't say he made bombs." She looked at Brannon with far more irritation than the FBI had for Bevo. Brannon said nothing, did nothing. Bevo coughed. They turned to him and he took off from there. "Bombs are cool, real cool. Lots of chemicals. That's when I first got into Chemistry. In high school they don't tell you what you can do with chemicals. Just lots of memorizing periodic charts and valences and things. But that Penny, she knew, man, she knew. I'll never forget the first time she dragged me into the bomb room out there in Madison." Brannon looked puzzled. "Madison, Wisconsin? I thought you and Zinck met Linda Cook in Baltimore." "Yeah, that's the story we told the pigs -- stuck to it, too," he said proudly. Bevo grew expansive. "That's not all we didn't tell the pigs." He chuckled. "They still haven't figured out all this, either. Even I can't understand how come they never picked up on all this. They 're not completely stupid." "So how did you meet Bad Penny? Or was she Angela Capesta when you and Zinck met her?" asked Lynn. "She was Bad Penny then. We didn't find out about the Capesta business until later." Bevo rubbed his bearded cheek. "It wasn't until Baltimore, come to think of it." "What were you doing in Wisconsin?" Brannon asked. Bevo listened to the Santana. "We went there for a big war protest." He stroked the end of his beard. "There was a rally -- bonfires, speeches lots of waving red flags. Some kid even had a North Viet Nam flag. Posters of Ho Chi Minh. The next day there was a concert out in a field. Lots of weed being smoked, some of the best I've ever had." Brannon chuckled, never having heard any freak recall ordinary drug experiences, only "best ever" or "weird". "What about Bad Penny?" asked Lynn. "We met her at the concert." Bevo sat up straight and looked from Lynn to Brannon. "Outside the toilets. Those portable things that look like big tins can. Al introduced me to her. She had given a speech the day before. I can't remember anything she said, but everybody got all charged up and waved flags and burning sticks." "Burning sticks?" asked Lynn. "Yeah, you know, sticks wrapped with rags and gasoline, then set on fire?" Bevo pretended to hold a firebrand over his head. They nodded. "Go on," Lynn said. He didn't. Instead, Bevo drummed his desk with the palms of his hands in time to the music, which had grown louder, much to Brannon's consternation. With eyes were closed and head raised to the ceiling, he sung along using "Baa, baa, baa, bop, bop" instead of the words. Brannon didn't blame him, since he couldn't understand what they were singing, either. Silence filled the room like a sudden snow storm. The CD player searched for another groove, and Bruff tried to keep Bevo in his. "What happened next with Bad Penny?" Brannon asked. "She invited us to her apartment. We went the next day." Bevo reached in the middle drawer of his desk, pulled out a box and fiddled with some marker pens, the fat kind that have flavor smells. Bevo opened the black and doodled on a pad. Licorice filled the air. "She had quite a setup in the bedroom. The first thing I noticed about the place was she had taped cardboard over the two windows to make it dark. She had to turn on the light even though it was a bright shiny day. Didn't want the police to look in, of course." He smirked. "I thought she was into making stereos, repairing them. The speakers in our VW van had conked out around Chicago and we needed to get them fixed so I thought Al had brought us there to trade some grass for the repairs. Penny started to explain what all the electronics were for. I didn't need any of that and started to walk out. I mean, who needs Mr. Goodwrench to explain what he's going to do? Just go ahead and do it man." Bevo waved his hand. "Al pulled me back in the room and told me to listen up good. He was real serious. Said this was heavy stuff and I had to listen to what she was saying. I think I was kinda surprised when she said she was making a bomb to blow up the rot-sea building." Bevo held up the pad he had been doodling on. A large square had been divided into several sections. On one side, thin, rectangular ones contained the letters "TNT." Squiggly, whorly lines led back to a round clockface and to a cylinder with little "T's" on top. "She was making them like this back then." He explained the diagram as Lynn's eyes grew wide. "Why did Zinck bring you there?" asked Lynn. "Good question. He wanted to do more about the war. He was tired of going to rallies and marching. Nothing was happening. Penny's speech fired him up. He wanted to join her. I told him it wasn't my bag. He told me to wait, see what happened when they blew up the rot-sea building. So I said OK." Bevo shrugged. "No big deal." "What happened next?" Lynn prodded. "They blew up the rot-sea building," said Bevo matter-of-factly, as if she'd asked if the sun had come up that morning. "What did y'all do next?" "Went home." Bevo shrugged. "Speakers still didn't work in the van." "What happened to Penny? What about Zinck's plans?" Brannon said. Bevo looked at him with a blank stare. "Penny ran. The FBI was after her. I mean if you blow up the rot-sea building and call up the newspapers and TV stations and tell them you did it, the man is going to come after you, right?" Brannon nodded. "When did you see Penny again? In Baltimore?" Bevo nodded. "I couldn't figure out why Zinckster wanted to go to Baltimore. I wanted to go to Denver. But he insisted, so Baltimore it was. We crashed at a place in town. The next day, Penny showed up. Only she wasn't Penny any more. She was Linda Cook. Her hair was blonde, not red any more. And long, not short. And she wore shades all the time, even in the house. Put on weight too." "Was she making bombs there?" "Sure," Bevo said. "That's when I learned how to make 'em. She taught me. I had the knack, she said. I improved all her designs, made them more powerful and smaller. And safer, much safer. I'm big on safety." He tapped his desk. "I'm sure OSHA will be relieved," Brannon said. Lynn glared at him. Bevo doodled another design, this one using a plunger and blasting cap; more a booby trap than a bomb. "You told me you had only been in Baltimore a few days before the explosion that killed Linda Cook. Sounds like you were in Baltimore longer than that," Bruff said. "You got that right, Brannon. Zinck thought it would be best if we lied to the pigs about how long we'd been there. I thought we'd get caught lying and it would be worse, but we didn't. They just let us go." "Why?" He shrugged. "Happened." "You still haven't told us how you found out Penny was Angela Capesta," Brannon said. Bevonis snapped his fingers. "Zinckster told me." "What did he say?" Lynn asked. "He said Porterfield was her married name. She married a grad student when she was 18 or 19. He was a real dork. Studied Shakespeare or Cromwell or some other old, dead dude. She did it to get even with her old man. He was Angelo Capesta. Ever hear of him?" They nodded. "He was a big capitalist, a true capitalist. They called him Don Angelo. He had other names: Angie the Jet; Angie 'Big Tuna' Capesta." Bevo had been rummaging in his desk and pulled a out a book of matches and a small, thin, white object, whose tapered ends were twisted to hold in the familiar plant matter. "The pigs never did find that out. Even the reporters never got on to it. At least it never got in the papers and the pigs can never hide anything from the Washington Post or the New York Times? Remember the Pentagon Papers? Boring. I couldn't read past the first paragraph." Bevo moved into a position of deep thought. "You'd think they'd make a big deal over it, wouldn't you? I mean, the big bomber of the Weathermen is the daughter of a big time Mafioso? I never did figure that out. Zinckster thought she had connections. But how? It meant the pigs were out to get her and her old man, too." Brannon said, "Bizarre." "God, she hated her old man. She always said he turned her into a radical. She was a typical lefty-type. Interested in Civil Rights, against the war, for ecology -- only nobody called it ecology in the '60's. She was still in High School then, when Freddy Fitzhugh was President. I think she was even in the Young Democrats or something. Then Fred Fitzhugh got offed. She was devastated. Her hero had been ripped from her. Then the rumors began to spring up that Osage hadn't worked alone. Remember?" Brannon nodded. "The press hinted Osage had been a Communist -- with a capital "C". There were all kinds of conspiracy theories back then. Stories that Osage been to Moscow for training. Some people said the CIA had tried to kill Castro. That Havana had intercepted a CIA death squad. Castro was so furious, he decided to kill Freddy Fitzhugh and borrowed a Soviet agent named Osage. Lot of crap. So what?" Bevo gave Brannon a tight lipped smile. "That part, sure its crap. Angela didn't believe that part. She was devastated, couldn't believe the Cuban Commies would do such a thing -- I think she was starting her "Che" period, getting into that guerrilla bag; combat fatigues and boots and berets." Bevo recalled that fondly. "But maybe Osage wasn't Castro's puppet. Maybe it was the mob. The mob had a lot of reasons to want to kill Freddy Fitzhugh. There were Senate hearings into organized crime, lots of bread was spent trying to nail those guys. Sean Fitzhugh was Attorney General for Freddy. He led the attacks on the Mafia." Bruff thought it was odd Bevo would know all this, but let him roll. "Come to think of it, the mob had lots of reasons to off Sean Fitzhugh, too," said Bevo. "A lot of fingers got pointed at Angelo Capesta, who just happened to be Angie Capesta's old man. The Senate tried some investigating but got nowhere. But Angie, she wasn't satisfied. She couldn't stand the idea that her old man could get away with blowing up the President, her hero. So one day, after school, she went home and pointed a finger at him and asked, point blank, 'Did you blow up Fred Fitzhugh?'" Bevo pointed a finger at Brannon. "Did he admit it?" Bruff asked. "You know what? He didn't deny it. He didn't say he did, but he didn't say he didn't, either. He just said 'You are my daughter -- in Italian he said it, just like Marlon Brando -- and you ask such questions? "Well she was convinced he did it. She used to go on all the time about how the mob controls the government, controls the pigs. She'd talk about all the bribes her old man handed out. She'd talk about how the fascists always controlled the police, how the Nazis came to power -- the brown shirts, the black shirts. Hey did you know the brown shirts, the fascists who brought Hitler to power, were fags?" Brannon said he knew that. "What's your point, Bevo?" Bevo looked puzzled. "That's why she's a radical, Brannon. Because she thought her old man blew up Fitzhugh and got away with it. That's how she got her start. That, _Kemo Sabe_, is how the Lone Bomber got her mask." Lynn looked at Bevo. "Do you think she was telling the truth?" "I don't know if she was right about her old man or not, but she's right about Osage. He didn't kill Fitzhugh. It had to be Nixon. One of those Watergate guys. The ones who are on Saturday Night Live now. Haldeman? Ehrlichmann? Yeah! Ehrlichmann. He was the one with the magic bullet, right?" Bruff ignored him. "What about Linda Cook? Do you think Bad Penny Porterfield could have gotten on Fitzhugh's staff using the name of Linda Cook?" "Why not?" said Bevo. Brannon rocked on his heels. "Yeah, I suppose it would be easy enough. But why would she do it?" "She may have tried to convince Sean that her old man killed his brother. But then she blew up the rot-sea building and some others. When that Green Beret blew up Sean, she would have been too hot to be anywhere near Mike then. Not even as Linda Cook." said Bevo. Bruff shrugged at Lynn. "Anything else?" She said no. "Well I've talked enough. You won't tell Zinckster, will you?" Bevo winked like Haldeman did to Ehrlichmann. The way Bevo sat at his desk was like a child cringing in the corner of his room against the moment -- sure to come -- when Daddy would come stalking in with a leather belt in his hand and shout "you did this!" "No, I won't." -------- *Chapter 25* THE SUN TICKLED the old trees of Strawberry Street, sparkled and danced in their new leaves casting mobile silhouettes on the pavement. The warm air hung pregnant with late spring humidity that would soon give birth to summer's swelter. Brannon strode with a jaunty gait through this glorious Richmond June. The weather deflected somber thoughts of bombs and death plots. Yesterday Lynn Beaumont had transformed his afternoon from four diverting hours of classical music and wool gathering following the meeting with Bevo, into a Brannon Hell. Fidgeting, asking questions,_ thinking out loud_, Lynn had peppered Brannon with questions he wasn't ready to answer and demands for immediate action when he could not see the need. To get her out of the office in time for dinner, Brannon capitulated and conceded his nattering blackmailer the promise of an 8 A. M. rendezvous at the office to begin tracking down Angela Capesta. The prospect of a willy-nilly search for a Mafia offspring so overheated Brannon's brain, that immediate application of a one hundred page poultice of E. F. Benson nearly failed. At midnight, he'd almost resorted to Wodehouse. At 8:01, he'd ignored his ringing phone. A little before ten, Brannon walked into Pickett's Charge to find Hobie pouring coffee into Odd Ogg's mug. The table, one of three, gleamed as only new wood could. Ogg held a cheap, powdered sugar donut in front of his critical eyes. "You ought to sell real food in here, Hobie," Ogg said. "I need to fortify myself for tonight. We're going to go over to Emily's mother's and she's making chili Art Carney." Sue Pickett overheard Ogg's remark. "You mean chili _con_ carne, Odd." "No, the way her mother makes it, it looks like something that came out of the sewer." Brannon pulled up a chair next to Ogg. The short, squat man offered him a donut, one not from the case in front of Hobie. Sue looked at the bag from the shop down the street with distaste and fumed. Ogg crumpled the bag and handed it to her for disposal. She fired it at the garbage container behind the Pickett pastry case and stomped back to the apartment. "What's with her?" said a puzzled and offended Ogg. Brannon shrugged. "Time of the month?" Hobie finished polishing the glass top of the counter. Then he adjusted the Pickett pastry display to show six items in four rows by ingesting the offending twenty-fifth Danish. Work complete, he sat down with his friends. "When's the closing?" Brannon was planning his Daphne story, and this clanged against his brain. "Closing?" "The sale of the agency," Hobie waved his hands in front of his friend's eyes, a gesture Brannon detested. "You did sign the contract, didn't you?" Completely slipped his mind. "It's with the lawyer." "It's been there two weeks, Bruff. Hasn't he called you back?" Hobie thought better of that. "You have followed up with him, haven't you?" "I've been busy looking into Uncle Bruff's death. Have I got news for you." His smoke screen of enthusiasm failed to obscure his frantic maneuvers. A shrug, six point seven on the Pickett scale. "Okay. I suppose I'll have to hear this out. What's your news?" Brannon told them about the trip to Accomack County and the visit to Daphne. Ogg munched on his last cruller and licked his fingers. Hobie said "I'm listening", moved to his pastry, put three on a plate, noticed the imbalance, made it four; poured coffee into two mugs, balanced the lot in both hands and returned. "Betty Ann knew Linda Cook was not only Bad Penny Porterfield, but Angela Capesta. I'd bet that night at the party out on Chappateague, she told Mike Fitzhugh that she knew that. He was a little tipsy, wanted some fun, not strange allegations. So he waved over Linda Cook, wants to tell her Betty Anne's story, suggests a little drive out to a remote beach. I think that's why the two women were in the car with Mike. They went off to talk. Then Mike ran off the bridge, and Betty Ann drowned." Hobie shook his head slowly from side to side. "Sauer said Fitzhugh was shocked to learn Betty Ann was in the car. If he'd invited Betty Anne, he'd have known she was in there. Your explanation doesn't fit, Bruff." "You're right." Brannon drank his coffee. He got up and poured the last of the pot, considered a Danish, but the lingering smell of Windex overpowered his taste buds. Returning to the table, Brannon stopped to let a woman pass. She asked Hobie where the cook books were, thanked him, and moved straight there, adjusting the shoulder strap on her self-cleaning oven sized handbag. Brannon sniffed the air, and decided her scent complemented the Windex. "Lynn and I went to see Al 'n' Bevo. Only saw Bevo, though." Brannon told them Bevo had admitted to knowing Bad Penny longer than a few days. "She taught him how to build bombs. He said he was very good at it." "I'd like to meet him," said Ogg, the inventor of the "Hushboy". Brannon spotted the yellow tube leaning up against the front door, in the umbrella stand. Ogg wasn't wearing the battery belt. "It could be useful to know somebody who knows bombs." No one asked why. Hobie stared at the cookbook woman while Ogg said, "He may need new machinery, too. Didn't you say he was developing some new process for making ice cream popsicles? Maybe I can help him with that." Brannon scribbled down Bevo's phone number on a piece of the morning paper. The cookbook woman had picked out two, and a birthday card. Hobie moved to the register and ran the woman's credit card through the machine. Ogg stretched, realized he still wore his thin plastic jacket, and took it off. "Bermuda" read the one word over a map of the fish hook-shaped island chain. "How many times have you gone there?" asked Brannon, pointing to the map. "Never. My mother and father go a lot. They brought this back for me years ago. How about you? Have you been there?" "Yes, twice." Two honeymoons, actually. Brannon left that subject for another day. "It's nice. Expensive, but nice." Ogg nodded the oblong chunk of pink granite that served as his head. He combed his brown hair outward from the center, similar to the Beatles, but closer to Coiffure Moe Howard. The head topped an almost nonexistent neck. His big, green eyes bulged from high blood pressure. His nose was flat and wide but appeared almost dainty when measured against the cut of his mouth, which stretched almost from one hair covered ear to the other when he smiled. Though barely five and a half feet tall, his weight lifter thick arms and legs resulted from working out three or four times a week. Hobie returned to the table. "Bevo said Angela Capesta believed her father killed Fred Fitzhugh." Brannon let that hang for a reaction. Ogg spoke first. "The way I see it, Angelo Capesta ordered Fred Fitzhugh blown away. He set up Osage to take the fall, blaming the Cubans. He may even have thought that the government would invade Cuba, topple Castro, and re-install the Batistas, thereby restoring the good old days in Havana." Odd looked up from his coffee and glanced from Bruff to Hobie. "That didn't happen. His daughter, who is of the lefty persuasion, already resents where the family money comes from. She's even more incensed with things in general and the State of the Union in particular now that her hero, Fat Freddy Fitzhugh has been murdered. I bet she told her old man she was even more determined to do 'good works'. Then the rumors start flying that the mob was really behind Osage -- specifically daddy. Angela confronts her daddy and asks if the rumors are true. He doesn't deny it and she leaves home." "Sounds logical," Brannon said. Hobie nodded, a one on the Pickett scale. Ogg took a deep breath, flexed his right biceps, unconsciously massaged it with his left hand, and continued his reasoning: "In college she marries some guy named Porterfield, right?" He looked at Brannon. "That's what people tell me." Ogg reversed his arms, now massaging his right biceps with his left. He wore a red and black plaid lumber jack shirt over a white T-shirt. The cuffs were unbuttoned and turned up, revealing Popeye-like forearms. "Well why would a woman in the 1960s get married in her teens? I'll concede this was before Women's Lib, but we are talking about a major left wing radical who not only breathed fire, but created her own." Ogg looked at the other men for suggestions. Brannon said, "Bevo thinks she did it to spite daddy, pure and simple." Ogg nodded. "This Porterfield guy doesn't figure into anything else radical, does he?" "Don't think so," Brannon said. "Haven't heard of anything." Pickett stroked his beard. Ogg put a finger to his lips, then tapped the air. "Maybe all she wanted was a different name. Anything but Capesta. Just disassociate herself from that name." Hobie shrugged, a two. "What are Al 'n' Bevo's names? Last names, I mean?" "Zinck and Bevonis," Brannon said. "Not Porterfield, huh?" "'Fraid not," Brannon said. "Ogg's theory is plausible," Hobie said. "It explains her early days. Let me take it from there." Ogg and Brannon leaned in over their mugs. "Angela adopts the _Nom d' Guerre_ 'Bad Penny'. The press calls her Porterfield, her legal name." Hobie pursed his lips and stroked his short, graying beard. "She gets excited, joins the Weathermen movement, moves into a position of leadership and power. She meets the lefty hangers-on, Al 'n' Bevo -- who later reveal themselves to be true Americans by forming an ice cream company. She implements her plans. Bombs the local Army training facility, claims credit, and receives same. She likes the publicity, the thrill of the victory, the smell of powder. She tosses a few more incendiaries." "When the bombings landed her in hot water -- no, boiling oil is more like it, she dropped out of sight. We turn now to Sean Fitzhugh. He and President Austin don't get along, never have. Sean's personal achievement is racket busting. His brother had appointed him Attorney General to lead the war on crime. Both of them genuinely hated the mob and wanted to eliminate it. But that's Sean's only ticket, and its not enough to get him elected. He needs something else. Sean sees Austin is vulnerable on the war issue. He comes out for ending the war -- weakly, but it stuns people. Then Sean starts to move ahead in the polls. The left rallies round the man. Some think the far left is his only real support. His other theme is to reign in the mob. Unspoken is his promise to sort out if Capesta killed his brother." "Unspoken?" asked Ogg. "Remember he was a part of both administrations. His staff people worked with the Commission. That report officially concluded Osage did it working alone. Fitzhugh would have had internal problems if he criticized the Commission report without any new evidence." Hobie paused to see if his conclusions would raise any objections. With Brannon and Ogg nodding, he continued his speculations. "My guess is that when Angelo Capesta realized Sean was getting dangerously close to the nomination and election, he called a meeting of _capos_ where he got permission to hit Sean. It couldn't look anything like a mob hit, of course, so Angelo needed a perfect cover story. And who better than Scullard, a Green Beret with personal reasons for detesting the anti-war movement." "But why would Scullard work for the mob?" Ogg asked. Hobie shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "Not directly, of course. I'm sure there was a lengthy chain of command from Angelo Capesta to Scullard -- and equally sure many links in that chain were knocked off right quickly once Scullard's grenades went off. The FBI did look into the mob connection and came up with nothing -- just like they were supposed to. I'd say old Angelo covered his tracks well." "I've never heard that before," Brannon said. "I'm just guessing. Anyway, Bad Penny suspects that her father is behind this one, too, so she went to Mike to share her suspicions, maybe evidence -- although I think we would have heard about any evidence, if it existed. She might also have feared that Mike would be the next Fitzhugh caught up in her father's elaborate Sicilian revenge plottings. The anti-war movement's last established hope needed protection from her father." "But I thought Penny was outside the system?" asked Ogg. Hobie shrugged. "That is the missing link in all this. Anyway, Westervelt gets the nomination and loses to Mulhouse. Chappateague happens and derails Mike's Presidential hopes for all time, so he settles into the Senate for twenty years. Nobody mentions Chappateague anymore in polite Virginia Society." "Chappateague, Chappateague, Chappateague, Chappateague," Ogg shouted with delight. The few customers sidled toward the front door. Hobie found a small chip of icing from his pastry and pressed on it with his index finger. Then he popped it in his mouth. Ogg grinned. "Then the Mizelles called your uncle," said Hobie. Brannon nodded. "They want to clear Betty Anne's name after two decades. That involves digging up the past. But somebody doesn't want the past dug up. It has to be Fitzhugh. He's got the most to lose." "Does he?" Hobie said. "He'll lose his Senate seat," Brannon said. Hobie shrugged, a six on the Pickett scale. "I won't argue the point," Bruff said. "But it's the way I see it. The Mizelles called Uncle Bruff. Before he can see them, he's killed by a truck owned by the same people who killed Harry Sauer, possibly the major witness against Fitzhugh. Only the real witness was Hank Sauer, the living twin. I go to see him, and a few days later he's incinerated in his own home. The Accomack County sheriff says it was a gas leak, but there's no gas in Sauer's house. Wonder of wonders, its the same sheriff who scared Sauer into silence on the morning after Betty Ann's death." Hobie puffed through his beard. "Only one thing wrong with that." Brannon crossed his arms over his chest, gave Pickett a stern look, and said, "What?" "Why aren't you dead?" Ogg raised a finger, shook it at Brannon. "Yeah, right. Why aren't you dead, Bruff? If they killed your Uncle to prevent him from talking to the Mizelle's, why didn't they kill you before you went there? Certainly they'd've killed you after you talked to all those people." Ogg looked from Bruff to Hobie. Hobie stroked his short beard, coaxed a grin out of his lips. "Because whoever killed old Bruff and Sauer -- if its 'and Sauer' -- doesn't perceive my pal and future partner as a threat." Brannon glared back at Hobie. He'd thought of that, too. "Are you two partners now?" Sue called from behind the shelves of paperback mysteries. They hadn't heard her come back down the steps. She walked over and kissed Hobie on the forehead. "How do you like those stairs?" Ogg said Sue gave a "don't ask" wave. "It's so much better coming down those new stairs instead of having to use the front or back stairs, going outside, and running around to the front door. I like it now, I think I'll _love_ it the first day it rains." Ogg got up to examine the pistons which extended from the floor above, explaining to Bruff that his machine tool shop had specially made them, adding details about lubricants, slides and brass fittings that only Bob Villa would appreciate. He skittered over to the wall switch and retracted the stairs into the ceiling, which, save a slight electric whir, they did silently. Another flick of the switch lowered the stairs, a solid metal click anchoring them to the book shop floor. "Nothin' purttier," he drawled, a smile softening his features as he returned to the table. Brannon thought Ogg's feet almost danced to the music of the Pickett's encomiums. As he started to sit down, Ogg caught himself. "Pardon me, Sue." He offered his chair. She demurred, citing a need to get back to work; so he plopped back down. "What are you three up to?" Sue did get back to work. Hobie, knowing the real question, rehashed the conversation about Brannon's lawyer. When Hobie finished she kissed him again. "Don't worry, dear. Bruff will take care of it in his own time. Won't you, Bruff?" Brannon smiled back at her thinly disguised cheer, which flourished from his procrastination. Sue waltzed over to the front display window, where she watched the passersby while pretending to dust the books. "What about Al 'n Bevo? I don't see how they fit in," said Ogg. "The bombs," Hobie said. "That's got to be the link." Brannon shook his head. "If you believe Zinck, they didn't have much, if anything to do with the bombings. The police didn't think so and let them go. On the surface they seem a couple of old burnt out freaks who hit it big in ice cream. Perfectly harmless. Sowed a few wild oats..." "Bombs," said Ogg, with disgust. "That's all the past, unless you believe what Bevo just told me," Bruff said. "Do you believe him, Bruff?" asked Hobie. "It could be the drugs talking. Heaven knows the hallucinations that man has had." "Maybe, Hobie. You could be right." Brannon pursed his lips. "But the way he drew the bomb diagrams..." "You don't think its imagination? You think it really was reminiscing?" Hobie asked. Ogg shifted his attention to Sue, who was dusting in the immediate vicinity of his "Hushboy", though not touching it. "I believe Bevo, yeah," said Brannon. "It's Zinck I'm not sure of. Bevo's stories may be drug induced, but they stay the same. Zinck's change, get wilder. First he lets me think he doesn't know me and tells a story about a secret process to make ice cream on a stick and how his employees have leaked it to his competitors; but he's the only one aware of the leak. The Treasurer doesn't know, Bevo doesn't know. Then it turns out his truck not only killed Uncle Bruff, but Harry Sauer, years ago." "Same truck, same driver?" asked Ogg. "No," Brannon said, adding he doubted it could have been the same vehicle. "The Driver who killed Uncle Bruff was named Miller. Zinck thought he was the one doing the espionage." Or was he the one who suggested that to Zinck; Brannon couldn't recall. "When I asked him about Linda Cook, he got excited, worked himself up into a dither. Said Miller was really out to kill him and Bevo, presumably to silence them about their Linda Cook connection." "Do you believe that?" Hobie asked. "It's possible." Hobie nodded. Ogg rose and walked to his "Hushboy". He'd been looking at it, keeping an eye on Sue all the while, until he couldn't stand it any longer, had to get the tube away from her. Aiming the unpowered yellow tube out the window, he pushed the switch a few times, wound up the cord and brought it back to the table. "Where's the batteries?" Brannon asked. "In the car," Ogg said. His batteries he could leave in his Strawberry Street parked car, his invention he couldn't. Hobie picked up the tube, aimed it at Sue. She shouted back, ducked behind the map display. Hobie put the Hushboy down against the table. "You get that thing out of here, Oswald Ogg," she said, pointing from Ogg to the tube. Then she walked to the rear of the store, giving them a wide berth. "I mean it, Ogg." She kept him covered with her finger. Ogg looked at his watch. "I do need to get to the office." As Ogg left, another customer entered and Hobie waddled over to the front desk. The woman asked where the Judith Kranz books were -- she didn't see them in the window. "Don't carry them," Hobie snapped. He suggested she try Winn-Dixie, he thought he saw them there once, next to the National Enquirers. The woman left in a huff, not that Hobie or Sue cared, but Hobie stayed by the front desk, just in case. After a few moments and no more traffic, he moved back to the table. Brannon had been thinking. "What I don't get is what was Betty Ann Mizelle doing with Mike Fitzhugh on Chappateague Island? I mean if he was planning on meeting with Linda/Penny/Angela in secret, why bring Betty Ann along? To take notes? Even if he was porking her on the side, surely that was too great a risk. Even today he won't admit to Linda having been there." "I've thought of that, too." The two men looked at Sue with open mouths as she moved slowly from the back of the store and sat down in the chair Ogg vacated. "If he really wanted to be President, why didn't he explain that he was really with Linda Cook trying to prove that her father had killed his brothers? It sure sounds better than letting the world think he had been driving around drunk with a young woman on the eve of the nominating convention." "Because he thought he couldn't," Hobie said. "Obviously you are right, my love. If true, it would have been better to let that out. So the fact he didn't is highly significant. Mike Fitzhugh gave up a shot -- a damn good shot -- at the Presidency to keep secret his meeting with Linda Cook. Ergo, he felt revealing the meeting with Linda was potentially more damaging than the loss of the Presidential nomination." "Okay, Hobie," Brannon said. "Suppose you are right. What could be more damaging to a politician than giving up a shot at the White House?" "Not only that year, but forever," Sue said. "That incident has kept Mike from running for twenty years, probably forever." "Your guess is as good as mine," Hobie said. "But a lot of people have died keeping it secret." Hobie mumbled something about the effects of the morning's coffee and went up the steps to their apartment, the contraption silently snuggling into the ceiling after him. Brannon shivered and wondered what the world had in store for him next. "Have you seen Louisa this week, Bruff?" Sue asked. There were browsers in back, otherwise they were alone. "No, I haven't. Been busy. Up to Accomack with Lynn." "Lynn?" "Lynn Beaumont. She works for me. She's helping me with the investigation." "Wasn't Louisa helping you with background information? Don't you go over to her office all the time? Isn't Hobie helping?" Sue said. Brannon sighed. "Hobie helps. Lou has helped me with a few things. Lynn is my best investigator. Uncle Bruff thought a lot of her. She's excellent on disability claims." "Disability claims," Sue said slowly. Brannon nodded. "Well." Sue pushed herself to her feet. "I need to get back to work." She ambled off, slowly and painfully swaying her hips like a sugar cane worker returning to the field after a mid-day's portion of gruel. "I better be going, too," he said. Sue stopped. "You ought to see the new room. You haven't been in the new side of the store, have you?" "Not yet." Sue led Brannon back into the shop until they came to an opening rent into the middle of some book cases that had held used paperbacks. "We'll connect up front after we've completed the renovations next door." Plaster dust covered most of the books. Brannon understood why they'd cut through in the used book section. He ducked under a support brace and followed into the new store. On this side, mostly, it was empty. Sue led him up front where the previous tenant had left behind racks intended to display dashikis imported from Taiwan. "We'll put the pastry and deli in here. That way all the food will be away from the books," she said. Brannon envisioned glass cases of cold cuts and people reading magazines. He could almost hear the ding of the cash register. "Will you take cash?" The book shop only dealt in credit cards, a Hobie fetish as unbreakable as electromagnetic force. Sue giggled. "The shop will. Hobie won't. We'll need help to run all this." She swept her arms around the room. "Even if -- when -- you join us. We'll have to hire some staff, so they'll handle the cash in here. Easier to sell food if you take cash." Brannon nodded. "Nice." "I thought you'd like it." Sue moved to the front window and looked out. The empty display window had its lower two-thirds masked with kraft paper from a big roll. She had used a too thin-for-the-purpose marker pen to write "Opening Soon!!!!" on the outside. "So, how are things between you and Louisa?" Sue changed the subject some one hundred twenty seven degrees. "Haven't seen her since we ate at Pinochle," he said. "I've been busy." "You said that." Sue expected more, knew she'd need tongs -- the kind they use for C-sections, not salads. "I hope you two aren't going to have that fight again. You know, the one where you split up and we didn't see you around for a long time." Brannon didn't like her tone. Too hopeful. "No more fights." She moved over to Brannon, took his hand, then looked up at him with serious hurt in her eyes. "You never told us you had been married." He tried a sheepish shrug. "Twice?" Brannon nodded, his face reddening, while sweat gushed from the oppressive heat in the new room. Taking off his tweed jacket would relieve the heat, but the jacket was on the back of the chair in the bookstore. "You could have told us," she said softly, voice oozing trust the way a used car salesman's does when a buyer stammers about the financing. "I try not to think about it." "It?" "Being married." "People need to talk about these things, Bruff." Brannon didn't say anything. She patted his hand. "You'll tell us when you're ready." She took his arm and led him to the back of the new store. "This is what you'll be most interested in." Brannon thought she winked. "The game room?" Brannon half expected to see huge bolts of cloth and spools of thread lining the wall. "The game room. Ta-da," She stood outside the doorway and extended a hand, open palm down, for him to enter, so he did. Three pairs of saw horses occupied most of the floor, with six by ten foot sections of plywood perched on top. One or two quarter inch thick rectangles of Plexiglas lay on each makeshift table. Most were 26 inches by forty inches, the best size for covering the 24 X 36 inch paper maps used in most war games. The fluorescent over head weren't the best light to read little counters by, but he could work on that. One small window opened onto the alley between buildings, so sunlight would never stream in here. Bruff look around, growing happy, then noticed a smiling Sue. She'd surrendered her quilting room, happily. Why? "What do you think? Like it?" "Good." Then he noticed a fourth table, of sorts, pushed up against the rear wall and covered with a canvas tarp, and supported by three saw horses. Curious, he walked over, noticed the sand on the floor under the table. Slowly, he picked up a corner of the tarp. A box about seven feet by five feet and four inches deep was filled with fine grain sand. "Miniatures. You're planning on playing miniatures in here?" Brannon said with growing incredulity. "Hobie does. Won't you, Bruff?" She smiled. "Why?" "There's a lot of miniature players in Richmond, Bruff," Sue explained. "We can sell a lot more books to that crowd than if we restrict ourselves to board wargaming." "Books? You mean Barbie books?" That's what Brannon called the glossy tomes, usually imported form Britain, that had detailed portraits of every uniform ever worn by every army and navy in the history of the world. Miniature collectors spent most of there time researching uniforms, smelting tin soldiers and then p-a-i-n-s-t-a-k-i-n-g-l-y painting them with little brushes, worse than any nine year old girl and their Barbie collection. With that done, they'd take hours setting up a battle field, here a house (worse than the HO train crowd) there a tree, here a hillock. Brannon played board games. Pull out the box, dump out the pieces, set up, and begin playing. The game's the thing, not the pieces. Hobie sometimes wavered on this point, usually hiding his small collection of gray Civil War figures. "We need to talk," Brannon said. He didn't mean Sue. He looked at my watch. "I really do need to go, Sue. Thanks for the tour." He touched her shoulder, never kissed her, or other normal women, good-bye. She smiled. "Well, then. Things are going according to plan. Remember to call Louisa," she said. He nodded a tight lipped smile at her. Sue radiated a smile, there in the middle of the game tables. Bruff thought of the Cheshire cat. He marched out of the room, swerving a little to avoid a stack of wood poles leaning against the wall next to the doorway. He was intent on remembering his jacket, when it dawned on him. Those poles had lots of screws and wing nuts. Quilting frames. -------- *Chapter 26* BRANNON PLAYED telephone tag with Louisa for the rest of the day, or rather their answering machines did. After 10, with Ripken up, two on, two out, and Detroit leading 6-5, Lou called him back. "Rough day," she said, adding a sigh Brannon wished he could assuage. People spoke loudly in the background, voices merging to an unintelligible drone. "Sounds like you're burning the candle at both ends." "Impossible. The other end is always stuck in the cake. What's up?" "I wanted to know if you were free for dinner tomorrow night," he said. Ball two. "Tomorrow? That's Thursday?" she said, hand covering her other ear. Foul back, two and one. "Yes." Called strike. Brannon thought it looked low. "I suppose so," she said. "Okay. Your on. Where?" Long foul down the left field line, Ripken way out in front on a slow curve from Henneman. "The Jefferson. Lemaire." "Sounds good." Her voice contained a weary doubt she'd ever enjoy a meal again. "I'll see you at seven." She hung up. Off-balance swing at a sweeping curve; strike three, Ripken struck out. Bruff hadn't. * * * * "YOU HAVE AN Urgent Message from Mr. Morgan," said Honey Graham as she waved a small ream of pink paper squares under Brannon's nose. "Huh?" "And Garnett has been looking for you all week, but he's not here right now. He told me to hold onto you if you ever came back in," she said with a smile, which registered between maternal and uxorial on the grin meter. Brannon took the messages and riffled them with a singular lack of enthusiasm. "You look just like Bruff used to when he'd had enough." She reached for his head. "Only you still have all that gorgeous red hair." Brannon ducked back and said, "Any mail?" She followed him into his office and straightened the three stacks, which had tottered during the week. "You really ought to read your mail more often," she said, adding a stern look that meant he needed to spend more time in the office. Brannon tossed the pink slips onto an earlier pile, and reached for the magazines. "There are _two_ certified letters from Clive Morgan here," said Honey, snatching them off the top of the lowest pile and thrusting them into Brannon's outstretched hand, resisting a good mind to rap his knuckles. He shuddered to touch the legal correspondence, two maggot white envelopes heavily stamped and bearing green patches of ripped off cards. "What are you going to do about Morgan?" Honey said, not so much wanting to know the answer as challenging him to action. Morgan, Al 'n' Bevo, Louisa, Uncle Bruff, Lynn, other thoughts too terrible for human shape; all a swirling maelstrom in the cranial cavity of Broughton J. Brannon, IV. He collapsed in his chair, silent pain his only response for Honey, who watched him with the same awful fear mendicants trembled with before holy men. As if ionized by a lightning bolt, the storm cleared and peace reigned, leaving the issue settled in Brannon's mind. "I'm not selling." He tossed the letters, unopened, into the metal circular file where the other mail would soon follow. "Anything else?" he said, knowing his smile dazzled Honey as had his display of simple efficiency. Spluttering at this heinous act of wanton postal disrespect, Honey surveyed the room for a weapon of vengeance, stopping when her eyes reached Uncle Bruff's locked volume. "We should go through the journals today." Honey tapped the leather volume on the edge of Brannon's desk. "You do have the key?" "It's right here," said Brannon as he pulled open the middle drawer of his desk, torn between finding the key and having his time wasted by Honey's reminiscing, and not finding it and having Honey organize an invasive search for the brass filigreed object. "Well, it was here," he mumbled, rummaging through pens, pencils, paper clips and the odd newspaper clipping. "Let me help," said Honey, pushing the cuffs on her puffy sleeved blouse to mid-forearm. * * * * A STILL KEY-LESS Brannon arrived at the Jefferson well ahead of seven. After he parked on Adams, he strode through the main entrance, an unpretentious circular drive cut between stucco walls, like some California film personage's home. As uniformed young men handled luggage and parked cars, one young black in a red livery opened the front door and welcomed Brannon with a smile. Inside, he noticed no one at the Concierge desk and slid across the marble floor into the Rotunda. Off to his left two large plaques the sizes of small shop windows proclaimed "Rotunda" in tasteful raised brass lettering; lest anyone not know where they were. Like its more famous second cousin in Charlottesville, this rotunda also harbors a statue of Thomas Jefferson. Brannon sauntered over to the pure white marble likeness, regretting how the stone washed out the red-haired Jefferson's flames. The front of the pedestal proclaimed "Governor of Virginia, 1779 -- 1981" while the side pieces talked about writing the Declaration of Independence and the Principles of Religious, as well as being father of the University of Virginia. Only by strolling around to the rear could the uninformed learn Jefferson had been the third President. A large group of Black women sat comfortably sunken into the couches arranged in front of the entrance to Lemaire. They spoke in hushed tones as did everyone else, the Rotunda having the acoustical impact of a boom box on normal speech. All the women wore enough golden bangles to easily distinguish themselves from the kitchen staff, a necessary precaution given the gaggle of Old Virginians doddering through the Rotunda with large canes for support and permanent looks of bewilderment on their wispy white heads. Strolling between the two "Rotunda" plaques, Brannon found the edge of the upper lobby and descended a few steps to the top of the lower lobby, the one that opens on Main. Huge, marble columns loomed on either side of him, their tan hue streaked with darker zigzags of brown and black. These pillars supported a hallway that ringed the lower lobby and led to meeting rooms. The large Empire Room faced him, its French doors open, revealing white-jacketed workers setting up chairs in school assembly fashion. Other staff had mounted the large, circular banquet tables on special rolling carts and were pushing them to the freight elevator. Walking to one side, Brannon glimpsed himself in a large mirror and noticed his buttoned-down collar points weren't. Fumbling with the annoyingly tiny disks, he meandered too close to edge of the upper lobby and had to save his balance by placing his arm on the dark, wooden banister at the top of The Stairs. The story goes that The Stairs were used in "Gone With The Wind"; the scenes where Vivian Leigh drifts down to Rhett, skirts trailing, hand fan coquettishly unfurled. A quaint notion, but completely false. The Stairs should be in movies, though. At wedding parties the bride stands at the top of the steps and flings her bouquet down to a horde of bridesmaids waiting below, the clutch descending slowly, arcing out over the steps, hanging, now reaching dozens of grasping, gloved hands; bouncing up, shy and coy; now knocked back like some ACC rebound. Squeals of joy. Finally, the flowers come to rest in the hands of a twelve-year old who hugs them tightly to her developing breast. Pink roses against the yellow of her long gown, the first long gown she's ever worn. She's barefoot, heels kicked off under the table in the banquet room, her stockinged feet slide on the marble floor. She loses her balance, won't break her fall, won't take both hands off the roses. Her younger cousins are squealing with delight, grabbing at her; some helping, some grabbing roses. The bridesmaids turn and look at the pretty girl, all innocence and dreams, and shrug, say they didn't really want the flowers, look for sweethearts and dates. Parents home in swiftly on the girls, like white cells on a virus, grabbing and separating children. The girl in the yellow dress, now mussed, clutches the flowers and dreams while her mother says untruths about the future. "Bruff." Lou's voice echoed across the lower lobby. He stood at the Main Street entrance, near the ice cream shop, not remembering going down the steps. He looked at Lou at the top of The Stairs and waved, set out towards her. She wore a black jacket over a mid-calf white dress. Her purse, no more than a handbag, shined with the glow of patent leather. At the bottom of the stairs, he could see the robin's egg curve of her cheek bones and, half way up, the red flush of her face and her smile. Her hair sparkled (maybe it was only the gray), hanging loose like at Pinochle's. She extended her arm, which Brannon took automatically. They talked about the weather and other inconsequential items while mounting the few steps to the upper lobby and crossing the marble floor past Jefferson's statue, and into Lemaire. The Maitre'd greeted them from behind his glass podium, selecting two red menus as he asked about their smoking preferences. Brannon said they didn't and preferred the others didn't either. The Maitre'd smiled and directed them to the front room with a little whisk of the menus. He led them to a table set for two, lots of cutlery on both sides and on top of the plate, then pulled out a comfortable winged back chair for Lou and dropped Brannon's napkin in his lap. Bruff adjusted his own chair. The cloth reminded him of several dresses he'd seen on receptionists that week. Brannon found himself holding a menu in one hand and a wine list in the other. "Try the Oysters Jefferson, Bruff," advised Lou. "I know you'll like them. They've changed the presentation a bit -- used to serve it on regular corn bread, now they use thin wedges of something more like spoon bread. But the sauce is the same, and they still use Smithfield ham, so I'm sure you'll enjoy it, too." The waiter, who told them his name was Mike, brought out a plate of artichoke hearts and a blue cheese based dip. Not all that fond of artichokes, Brannon admitted these were tasty as they polished off the dish before the waiter returned for their order. "Oysters Jefferson for each us; the Virginia Chicken for the lady, and I'll have Stuffed veal with the Wild Rice Casserole," said Brannon. "And to drink?" asked Mike, pencil poised. Brannon said he needed a moment and flipped the leather bound wine list as he listened to the piped in music, mostly Gershwin and Teagarten, the rest by familiar but long forgotten composers. One older couple picked at the remains of their main course while debating the issue of desert with coffee, not so much concerned with the calories as the time. As Brannon ran his finger past the names of dozens of perfectly suitable, if pricey, wines, his attention strayed to another diner, a tall man, oddly garbed in a cashmere jacket, open-neck white shirt and black twill pants. Even though the lights were low, he wore big wrap-around-bubble sun glasses that reflected little dots of light from all the candles in the room. A yellow and blue cap crowned his head, one of those give away caps, the kind with a corporate logo shield in front and an adjustable plastic strap in back. "May I recommend the Quivern Valley Chardonnay tonight?" the waiter said, having given his customer enough time to choose something expensive, if only out of embarrassment. "It's a California white we started stocking last week and its been very popular. I suppose I shouldn't say this, but the gentleman by the door said its the best wine he's had all year." Brannon turned and watched cashmere and cap fill his crystal almost to the brim with the last of his Quivern Valley. "He looks like the kind of guy who gets his auto parts, not his wine, from NAPA," Brannon said, ordering a bottle anyway. Mike brought the appetizers as Brannon finished his version of Daphne McPherson's story. Mike said "polenta" with a big smile and an exaggerated drawl when Louisa said "The spoonbread looks good" to Brannon. As always, he didn't care about nomenclature, reveling in the plump oysters and the thinly sliced, well cured ham. He chewed with a slow intensity, savoring each morsel, banishing all thoughts of business, friendship Out the window, few cars parked on the Franklin Street and even fewer cruised by toward an empty downtown Richmond. What pedestrians there were walked as if tethered to the hotel, not venturing more than a couple of paces off the mercury vapor lit main drag of Franklin. One or two tested the permanently sealed doors that had been used as an entrance back in the days when there had been a private drinking club. Two garishly clad VCU students skipped down Franklin. Brannon directed them to Lou's attention. "Their haircuts look like pattern baldness -- checkerboard." She steepled her hand, elbows on the table. "So why'd you ask me here tonight?" "I'm convinced this has something to do with Mike Fitzhugh," he said, eyes still following the students. "True. How much, that's the question." "I'd like to see him. Sit down and ask some questions." "How 'bout tomorrow?" "You can do it? Set up a meeting for me with Mike Fitzhugh? Tomorrow?" Brannon said, marveling that she kept the senator at her beck and call. Lou shook her head. The tips of her black hair sashayed from ear to ear. "No, I can't set up a one-on-one." His eyebrows arched. She smiled. "You said you wanted to ask him some questions and _that_ you can do tomorrow. He's having a press conference at the Marriott at eleven. If you bring a camera, I'll say your my photographer. Then you're in. You can raise your hand to ask a question just like the rest of the working press. He might even pick you, he doesn't know your ugly face and has no bad memories of critical columns from you." "Not what I had in mind." She shrugged, sipped some wine. "Best I can do on short notice." "How 'bout long notice?" She struggled for a witty reply and was spared one by the arrival of the soups, both peanut. Mike, their waiter, placed bowls in front of each of them, and stood, roughly at attention. There were a few bits of chopped peanut marring the white porcelain. Lou looked up at him, puzzled. "Just add water," he said, straight faced. Brannon laughed, as Mike brought the tureen out from behind his back with a flourish and ladled the steaming, creamy peanut soup into the bowls. The waiter placed a sliver dish of sippets, rectangular chunks of toasted white bread, and, after ascertaining the meal was "perfect" so far, moved off. Watching Lou dip the end of her sippet into the soup, he said, "What's the difference between that," pointing to her bread and soup, "And a peanut butter and jelly and sandwich -- outside of the lack of jelly and the price?" She smiled, weakly, her mind on Brannon's problem despite the food. "This Daphne McPherson, have you tried checking her out, verifying her story?" "Yeah, of course I did. Didn't I tell you about our meeting with Bevo?" Lou said he hadn't gotten to that part, actually. "Well, yesterday Lynn and I -- " "Lynn?" "Lynn Beaumont. She works for me," Brannon said, then moved on, having gotten that detail straight. "Anyway, we went to see Al 'n' Bevo, but only Bevo was there. I asked him if he knew that Bad Penny Porterfield was not only Linda Cook, but actually Angela Capesta. When I did that, he got real mad, demanded to know if Zinck had told me that, and when I said, 'no', he started to go bananas, at first not believing me, then demanding to know who told us. Well I wasn't going to say, can't get Daphne mixed up in this," Brannon said, delighted with the new, improved version of the story. "Bevo started to grab Lynn, but I pushed him down, then calmed him." "Do I know this Lynn Beaumont?" Lou said when Bruff paused to finish his soup. Brannon couldn't recall Lou and Lynn occupying the same room at anytime and said "No. You know, he drew all these little sketches -- " "What's she like?" Brannon looked up, not knowing what Lynn had to do with the bomb drawings. "Is she older than us?" Brannon shrugged. "Younger. About twenty -- something." He pushed the last of his soup around with a sippet. "Anyway, he made all these drawings of -- " "Is she pretty, this young Lynn?" "Yeah," answered Brannon, not seeing any reason to dispute this indisputable point. "Oh." Lou sat back and folded her arms across her chest, thought better of her hair and flicked the loose strands behind her ears. "Bomb drawings," Brannon blurted out, knowing he was in trouble, not knowing why. "Bomb drawings?" said Lou, her finger making a circle in the air, then adding a straight line fuse. "Yeah, like that, only the insides, how they work. How the fuse goes into the explosives, how to hook up the fuse to a timer." Brannon shrugged. "His eyes really lit up when talked about making TNT. I think that was his job, making the dynamite. He called it 'practical chemistry'. Sort of better living through explosives, I guess." "Bevo admitted he and Zinck made bombs for Linda Cook?" "In so many words," Bruff said. "Once we told him we knew all about Angela Capesta, and that Zinck hadn't told us about her, he started to talk." Brannon ran a hand through his red hair, trying to remember the order Bevo had recalled things, finally deciding that didn't matter. "He said Angela Capesta thought her father had killed Sean Fitzhugh because Sean was out to get the Mafia. When she confronted her father, he didn't say yes, and he didn't say no." "Meaning Sean's death was a mob hit?" asked Lou. Brannon nodded, then told her Hobie's thoughts about Scullard and the curious blast patterns. "There were rumors about the mob being involved, but no one could ever tie the Mafia to Scullard," Lou said, stopping and sitting up straight when she spotted the waiter bringing the main courses. Mike, the waiter, and his unintroduced side kick set the platters in front of the diners, topped off wine glasses, offered freshly ground pepper and waited for Bruff and Lou to taste the food. Having pronounced the entrees "very good", and lacking other whims, Brannon smiled and watched Mike withdraw, backing off in a vaguely Chinese way. As he ate, Brannon watched NAPA hat linger over coffee, while the older couple skipped desert and charged out of Lemaire. A large group of charcoal gray clad businessmen occupied a circular table with no more noise than the Wehrmacht entering Paris and proceeded to play "Can you top this" with golf stories. Pronouncing herself full, Lou crossed her knife and fork on top of the remnants of the chicken and said, "What do you think this all means?" Brannon finished chewing a piece of veal, washed it down with some Quivern Valley, and told her. "I believe Bevo. I think the mob arranged for Scullard to kill Sean Fitzhugh, then eliminated many links in the long chain leading back to Angela Capesta. For some reason, after twenty some odd years, Capesta is worried again; probably because the Mizelles started making noises." "But that's got nothing to do with Sean." "It unearthed the name Linda Cook. If you find Linda Cook, you find Angela Capesta. If you find Angela Capesta, she might tell you what she knows about her daddy killing Sean Fitzhugh." Brannon paused for more wine. "To find Angela, you need to track back through either Mike Fitzhugh or Al 'n' Bevo. I think if Mike Fitzhugh knew anything about a person calling herself Linda Cook turning out to be Bad Penny Porterfield, he'd have kept that quiet -- too embarrassing. But if that same woman was really Angela Capesta and she knew that her father had ordered Sean Fitzhugh's death, I think he would have gone public with that." "So where does that leave us?" asked Lou, eyes rapt with attention. "I think Angelo decided to track down his daughter and began with Al 'n' Bevo. That's who this Miller character is, a Mafia plant in A & B Ice Cream. Miller's job was to find out if Al 'n' Bevo have kept in touch with the daughter. They haven't, from what I can tell. Miller likely agreed, but maybe Angelo wanted to be absolutely sure. So when Angelo found out the Mizelles wanted to hire my uncle, he had Uncle Bruff followed, then had Miller smash the Al 'n' Bevo truck into him." "To warn the Mizelles?" said Lou. "That too, but I think more to send a warning to Zinck and Bevonis that they had better be telling the truth," said Bruff. Lou nodded. "Al 'n' Bevo are too much in the public eye now to risk the publicity a double murder would bring." Brannon agreed. "Any way, the boys sure are scared shitless." A random lull in all the other conversations coincided with Brannon's last word, which normally could not have survived the competition of dozens of other conversations, particularly the golfing table; but lacking said competition, the word reverberated throughout the elegant appointments of Lemaire. Several gray heads swivelled, noses upturned with opprobrium, mouths expressing shock at this further descent in moral standards. Lou blushed and shushed Bruff. "Keep your voice down." "Huh?" All eyes followed Mike, the waiter, to their table, anticipating Brannon's ejection and salivating with the prospects of a good hiding, to boot. Sensing the eyes of the crowd, but oblivious to the cause, Mike presented Lou with an elegant parfait of alternating layers of vanilla ice cream and creme d' menthe and Brannon with a slice of fragrant lemon chess pie. The crowd almost moaned in disappointment as Mike poured two cups of coffee. Lou plucked off the cherry using its stem, put it in her mouth, then used the long spoon to dig down deep into the confection, dredging up the sweet green liqueur through the vanilla ice cream and the whipped cream on top. "That's why I need to see Fitzhugh." Brannon looked down at his plate, cutting off a hunk of the sweet-sour yellow pie, then savored the first tangy moment the morsel touched his tongue. "Fitzhugh? I thought you said a few a moments ago he had nothing to do with it," she said, not adding he had earlier wanted her to set up a one-on-one with the Senator. Brannon ate another forkful before he answered. "No. I didn't say he had nothing to do with it. I said he didn't know he had anything to do with it. But we know that Angelo Capesta thinks Al 'n' Bevo are a dead end, and that Lynn and I agree there was a file missing where the name Linda Cook should have been -- " "Might have been." Lou pointed the long spoon at him. "Yeah, yeah. Only Daphne McPherson says Linda Cook worked with Betty Ann." He said the last as if playing the ace of trumps. "And Hank Sauer said Linda Cook was with Mike Fitzhugh on the night Betty Ann drowned." Bruff sipped some decaffeinated coffee. "I need to ask Mike Fitzhugh about Linda Cook after that press conference you're taking me to. Be easier if we rode together, save gas, too." "I was going to walk over from my office," she said with a frugal tone. "I thought we could go straight from your apartment, actually," he suggested with a thoughtful wink. Lou reached over and patted his hand, the non-fork one. "We'll see." Brannon's hopes weren't the only thing that rose in anticipation. With thoughts deflected from the thickening plot, they finished up desert, paid the bill and walked arm in arm to the Rotunda. Brannon pointed up at the stained glass, yellow, browns and reds, interlaced "JH"s and other filigrees and expressed his pleasure. She smiled up at him, robin's egg cheeks glowing in the soft light. They kissed. Brannon took her hand and they strolled out into the circular drive toward Franklin. "Its a nice night out," he said. "The moon, the stars..." He waved and sighed, with extreme sensitivity. "It all makes me feel so ... so ... insignificant." "So? Isn't that how you always feel?" He squeezed her arm, and led her to the corner of Franklin and Adams, where they stood, debating which car to take. Brannon made the point his was parked in a zone that would be become "No Parking" next morning at Seven. Hers was the in Jefferson lot on Main. "Put it on your expenses," he said with a shrug. He took her kiss as a seal to the agreement. They headed across Franklin, hormones raging, parking forgotten. "Bruff! Look out! Run!" Lou dove back to the curb, pulling Brannon as best she could. They toppled to the sidewalk behind a parked cars. A truck cab barreled down Franklin, lights out, horn silent. It had run the light at Jefferson and couldn't possibly stop for them. Brannon peeked out over the hood of a Chrysler. Taking a chunk out of a Buick Regal, the cab bounced back into Franklin and careened down the hill towards Commonwealth Park. The brake lights blinked on at the Fourth Street light, then the cab barreled to the park and turned right. He rose, then helped her to her feet. "Maniac." Lou shuddered. Despite the muggy, almost sauna like evening, she was shivering against Brannon's shoulder. "A California maniac," Brannon answered. "What?" "He's a NAPA kind of guy," Brannon said, pointing to where he might wear a give-away hat. -------- *Chapter 27* "WHY DO YOU let the TV reporters get up close?" Brannon asked as he craned his neck to see around a cameraman. "Aren't newspaper reporters the better journalists?" Louisa ignored him. "I mean how can you let the local yokels like Liza LaFlatula over there elbow past so they can get a tape with them in the front row taking notes and getting credit for asking the question you posed from the back row?" Brannon leaned down and spoke the last into her ear like it was the microphone on a cheap tape recorder. Lou put her hand on his shoulder and firmly pushed him away, not merely out of general annoyance with Brannon, but so she could listen to Kevin Riordan, the Washington _Post_ beat reporter, theorize on the reason for the press conference. "He's going to announce for the Presidency, of course," said Riordan, a thin little man in his early thirties, whose soft brown hair was disappearing from so many points on his skull, that had the hair been an independent organism, it would have qualified as an endangered species. Lou let her stare say, "No." "If Fitzhugh gets becomes President, we're gonna need a little box on the 1040 where we can designate our dollar goes back to us," said a puffy man who wrote bilious editorials every year in mid-April. A self-satisfied smile curled Riordan's lips. "I've got _two_ sources that confirmed that last night." "Not gonna happen," Lou said. Riordan raised his nose. "His people think O'Dowd is very vulnerable after getting less than fifty percent of the Michigan vote." "He still won a majority of the delegates," Lou said. "Maybe he didn't beat the point spread." Brannon could follow politics. "_I_ think Mike Fitzhugh would make an excellent President," said a thin woman whose gray streaked hair was pulled back and tightly clamped from behind, producing precisely the same detested effect as prepubescent boys had obtained by jerking her pony tail in elementary school. "Don't you agree?" Her intense eyes found a startled Brannon, who hadn't expected to be polled today. He tried to pretend he hadn't heard her, but those slush-gray eyes demanded affirmation. "A great President? Nah, he'll never be one. But he can go back to the Senate and make sure nobody else becomes one, either." Riordan ignored these conversational toadstools. "If Fitzhugh announces today, he could win enough delegates to deny O'Dowd a first ballot victory. Then his people could work the back rooms and line up more strength with the party regulars. Anything could happen." Riordan left the thought as a pregnant elephant to be admired. "If he were announcing a run, don't you think your paper would have sent Mary McGrory and Haynes Johnson, besides you?" Lou turned away from Riordan, not bothering to point out the absence of Dan Rather and Peter Jennings or even their second fiddles of the month. As Louisa pushed her way up front, she stopped to grab Brannon's hand, not out of puppy love, but to drag the big lug along with her. Brannon, scanning the room with an intent look, nearly dropped the camera Lou had pushed on him that morning along with a Press Pass. "Looking for Connie Chung?" Lou said, pulling Brannon along. "No. Miller," he said, head still swiveling. "I don't think he'd try anything in a room this crowded," she said. "Security all over the place." "He's pretty good at disguises," said Brannon with a wary tone. Lou pulled him in front of her and rolled her eyes with contempt. "Right. Sunglasses and a plastic cap. Great disguise." "Well, you didn't recognize him." "I'd never seen him before," Lou said. "And neither had you, come to think of it." "That's Rick Skelton on the stage, isn't it?" "Yeah," said Lou. "And what's that woman's name, the one who works with Skelton?" "Mildred Baltzell," Lou answered without another glance at the stage. "The other people are all from Fitzhugh's Richmond office, in case you were wondering if any of them could be Miller." "If I spot him, you _are_ going to help me point him out to security." He poked her shoulder. Lou dropped his other hand and stepped into the fringes of the Fourth Estate pack. She'd explained the lack of independent witnesses and the likely attitude of the Richmond cops ("Oh, you two _had_ been drinking?") last night. Then were was Brannon's insane insistence on a personal audience with Fitzhugh. With no getting rid of him last night, what with the truck terror and, other more intimate agenda items, having Bruff tag along to the news conference couldn't be avoided. Keeping him steered clear of Fitzhugh would be a simple matter of hanging on to him until the politician had vacated the premises. But with Brannon, she never knew. Best to keep him within reach. "Hi, Lou," called Mel Unterschied of the Roanoke _Free Press_. Louisa greeted the roly-poly Unterschied and asked, "What's new?" "I hear this is going to be the safest election in history -- all air bags," said Unterschied, erupting into a booming laugh that infected those surrounding him; even the people who hadn't heard his remark. Then he noticed a pair of younger reporters sharing a sack of powdered sugar donuts. "Where did you get those?" He stuck his rutabaga-sized nose into the opening. "We brought them," said the shorter one, pulling the bag back in a miserly fashion. His taller brethren, brushed his hands to together to rid them of excess sugar and said through a mouth still bearing most of his last donut, "Would you like one?" Unterschied sniffed the air with a look of disdain on his face, as if he had the most cruller-sensitive olfactory system south of Philadelphia. His reaction said this cruller has a common sort of bouquet; the merest trace of vanilla. The corners of his mouth turned down as his eyebrows arched. "No, thanks. I believe I've lost my appetite." "How could you loose anything that big?" said the first reporter, his voice breaking into a high-pitched cackle. A piercing screech wrent the air, rendering Unterschied's response inaudible. The microphone was on. "The Senator is in the building," said a tight-lipped Rick Skelton. "We should be starting soon." "What's he gonna say, Rick?" shouted a well coifed young man in the front row. His cameraman, caught off guard, flashed on the high intensity TV lights, catching The Talent with a full-face photon torpedo. The young man staggered back from the uncued blow, toppled over the equipment from a Virginia Beach station and earned a lecture in decorum and grace from Tidewater's blondest female anchorperson, which consisted largely of the word "asshole" repeated in a hissing voice. "Bitch," he apologized, trying to kick his way out from under the gaggle of black cables that had engulfed his feet. "Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Michael Fitzhugh." Skelton's voice gave way to loud applause, which nearly drowned out the laughing and heckling of the working press. Disembodied applause, by Brannon's reckoning. Head twisting rapidly and mouth breaking into a smile, Brannon saw no one actually slapping flesh together despite the tumultuous adulation emanating from the hotel's speaker system. That none of the press had cracked a smile was more a function of brains inured to third rate pomp than polite attention. The Great Man strode across the stage, the boyish spring in his step dealing with the extra weight of middle age much like the suspension system of a '73 Cadillac burdened with the extended family of a migrant farm worker. The stage creaked and groaned as it resonated from the ponderous footsteps, metal camp chairs bounced and clanged into each other. The reverberations caused a stack of loose papers on one chair in the last row to topple and fly across the rear of the raised platform. "Talk about your crumbling infrastructure," Brannon said. "I heard he got a face lift," said Mel Unterschied to an uninterested Louisa Ferncliff. Brannon said, "Looks like they just lowered his body." Despite Brannon's disparagement, Mike Fitzhugh remained a handsome, if short, man. A well tailored, silver gray suit draped straight lines of material over bulging flesh; the product of banquet food and no regular exercise. A full head of dark brown hair with a few wise wisps of white, topped a well tanned face and a smile that sparkled with mischief. Reaching the podium, Mike Fitzhugh set down his speech and produced half-lensed reading glasses from inside his suit, then smiled at the world. Klieg lights snapped on, bathing the stage with a harsh, white light that flattened Fitzhugh's craggy face into the two dimensional puff pastry so familiar to Virginia's voters. Stepping from behind the podium to bask, Fitzhugh posed with his hands grabbing his lapels, which action also exposed bright suspenders. "How come when politicians tell us we're gonna hafta tighten our belts, they're always wearing suspenders?" Brannon said in a too loud voice. Lou gave him a "shut up" look, so he did. Fitzhugh moved back behind the podium, picked up the speech and studied it for a moment, then looked out at the reporters over the tops of his half-lensed spectacles. "Since y'all must be wondering why I called this press conference on such short notice, let me get straight to the point. I'm here to announce the end of my time in the public eye. Not only will I not run for President -- as so many of you have supposed -- but I will not run for re-election next fall either. Further, I plan on resigning my post as President Pro Tempore of the Senate when the current session ends around Christmas time." Fitzhugh paused and removed his glasses, smiling down at the assembled group of second string journalists that had just received the scoop of the day, if not the week and month. "I'll be damned," murmured several in the crowd. "You expected this, didn't you, Lou?" said Unterschied, admiration in his voice. She shook her head, unable to speak while she drank in the implications of the speech. Several hands went up, others called out questions about Fitzhugh's health. "Now, now boys," Fitzhugh drawled, his accent returning as he raised his hands and pushed down the questioning with gentle pats. "My reasons are personal. I'm simply too old to continue," he drifted off, as if already possessed by a mind battered by the ages. "The stresses and strains of leadership -- twenty-eight years of leadership -- have been too much on me. I intend to remain in the Senate, carrying out my fifth and final term and carrying on the vision of the future we all share, but I will not run for re-election in two years. Time for a younger man to take my place." "Dickhead," said Lou. Elsa Scoggs, from the Bristol paper, nodded in agreement. Liza LaFlatula, nominally the head of the female TV corps, also heard the sexist remark, but took no offense. The elegantly clad anchorperson's attention quickly turned to the chance that her husband, Longstreet Hickman, the current Lieutenant Governor, might replace the final Fitzhugh. Of course, he'd have to overcome the recent brouhaha about misplaced campaign funds, but no one remembered about that bribery charge anymore, now did they? As imperceptibly as Sherman marching through Georgia, she doffed her tiny microphone and headed for the phones. "Also I heartily endorse Paul O'Dowd for President. He will serve the country well." Brannon tuned the rest out. All around him reporters scribbled notes and cameramen exposed film and tape. The camera Lou gave him hung limply at his side, not that she minded. He watched Lou and Unterschied scribbling notes on tablets of pristine paper bound in leather and whispering profound observations to each other. He tried to get closer to Lou, but the others -- Riordan, the gray haired woman and the donut eaters -- more interested in what Lou thought than in anything else Fitzhugh might say; all bunched in tight, and forced him to pop out of her orbit. He tried to reach her, get her to focus on his case, what this meant about Linda Cook and Betty Ann Mizelle; how it involved Al 'n' Bevo. What it meant about Uncle Bruff's death and why the truck nearly ran them down. And other things. "O'Dowd." "Who's gonna get his seat?" "Primaries." The words drifted back to him as the crowd ebbed her farther away. He tried to concentrate on his case, but found himself staring her standing there in her pants suit; he remembering last night and other nights like it. As she stroked back her jet black hair, he noticed her robin's egg cheeks puffed with pleasure as she discussed political ramifications with Unterschied. Suddenly empty, Brannon dropped the camera and left it there (where a cleaning worker would later find it and pawn it a few blocks over for some drinking money), and didn't notice his feet shuffling on the worn carpet toward the exit. -------- *Chapter 28* ONE FOOT FOUND the accelerator of the Plymouth and, after waiting for the insertion and twisting of the ignition key, forced gas into the carburetor. The other foot tapped in three-quarter time to the Blue Danube Waltz, thinking music for the brain behind the steering wheel. Visions of Mike Fitzhugh fleeing the Terrible Swift Sword brandished by a tall, lean Broughton J. Brannon, IV flooded his mind. His damsel by his side, her robin's egg cheeks flushed and dark hair trailing them in the wind, his only gonfalon, he stalked the evil one. Fitzhugh had no escape, no hope. Sir Broughton paused to let his reflected glory touch the Lady of Ferncliff. And noticed she had slipped off to talk with Mel Unterschied. The horn that sounded behind him at the Leigh Street intersection was not a warning by a peripatetic dentist for him to stop grinding his teeth, but he ceased anyway. In anger, he revved the engine, burning rubber needlessly, and zapped onto 95 north towards Washington and Baltimore. Or Philadelphia or New York. Even Boston. Brannon glided the Plymouth, now doing barely fifty, off at the first exit and pulled into a Denny's, where he parked, went inside and drank coffee for awhile. The while ended when Brannon said, "I don't have a fucking clue about anything, do I?" Whether it was his use of a common vulgarity, the loud, forceful manner in which he uttered the word, or the John Brown about to burn Harper's Ferry glint in his eyes, he did take the hint barely concealed in the waitress' "Can I get you anything else, sir?" as she placed his check in front of him in much the way zoo keepers feed rabid lions. Dropping three ones on the table, he calmly tripped over his left foot. He strode out the front door, head held high and shoulders erect, though smarting from the sharp barking against the door frame he almost avoided. Brannon reversed course on 95 and headed back into the city, exiting on Boulevard and driving past the Diamond. At Moore, he turned right, then right again onto Altamont. As he approached Al 'n Bevo's factory, he pulled over and parked. No appointment, this time. Now Brannon would engage in honest-to-God, real Magnum PI work, the kind that didn't require Rick, TC or Higgins. As he sat in the car, reading the _Baseball America_ he'd left on the seat yesterday, he crossed his legs and really wished he hadn't had that fourth cup at Denny's. At two o'clock, Brannon emerged from the alley that an hour of careful observation had proven to be vacant. With a look of calm relief he started to wave at the familiar face behind the wheel of the tan Mercedes with "Znckstr" plates as it pulled out of the parking lot. Zinck drove slowly past Brannon, talking with Bevo in the passenger seat. They ignored the street person, if they noticed him at all. Dropping his hand, Brannon dashed across the street, fired up the Plymouth, u-turned and followed. Zinck stayed on side streets, which allowed Brannon to catch up in less than a minute. Indeed, he found himself directly behind the Mercedes and staring at his reflection in Zinck's mirror, as the boys waited for the light to change. They crossed Boulevard and followed Leigh for through a section the that was part residential and part light industry. As he shuddered at the notion of "residing" there, Brannon drove past the parking Mercedes. In his rearview mirror, Brannon watched the two aging hippies take two sacks from the trunk and head down an alley. One sack was kraft brown paper, the other white plastic, lettered in red with "Radio Shack". He watched Al 'n' Bevo disappear, before he followed. He listened to the sounds of the men moving along the broken cement and gravel alley, Zinck dragging his bad foot with a sort of crunching swish through the little rocks. The footsteps stopped and Brannon heard the sound of keys striking pavement, also the oaths of Zinck bending over to retrieve them. Frozen with fear, Brannon leapt back into action at the sound of a door slamming shut. He hastened to the end of the alley, and looked around at the three buildings, each with its own locked door, which formed the cul de sac. To his right, Brannon spotted low basement windows, half below and half above the ground, painted a dull white-green and guarded by iron grill work. He tried each door without success. Standing around and thinking produced no useful alternatives, so he was about to return to his car when the screechy sounds of Jimi Hendrix assaulted Brannon's ears from above. He spotted open top floor windows emitting the electronic noise. When rattling the door proved as futile as before, he loped around to the front of the building, where that door was locked tight, too. Brannon wandered across the street and looked up. He could see through the open windows at the ceiling where an unrotating fan depended from plaster whose curlicues were highlighted by a light from inside. He paced the street, remembering that smokers always had something to occupy themselves at times like these. He coughed and thought better of it. * * * * A SPREAD-EAGLED _Baseball America_ languished on the front seat, its every page devoured. Brannon's feet occupied the dashboard. Heavy eye lids had closed his right blue eye and were shooing out all customers on the left. His thumb was under his chin, its support about to be unnecessary. His right hand grasped an invisible ball with the tips of its square cut finger nails. Hoyt Brannon was about to deliver a 3-2 knuckler to Berra. Triandos squatted and held up the huge, about to be banned, mitt. The ball sailed to home, rotating one-and-a-half times.... _Whump_. _Whump_. The second sound woke him up with a start. The engine of the tan Mercedes caught and the driver pulled out into the street. Brannon's cat quick reflexes enabled him to watch the two ice cream makers cruise past without detecting him. Taking his feet off the dashboard, he assessed the situation. One, he could follow the Mercedes or, two, he could break into the now unoccupied loft. As the car flashed its turn signal to turn left back toward Boulevard, Brannon opted to try and break into the loft. Retracing his steps, he chose the back door, assuming he wouldn't be seen by anyone passing by unless they stopped to peer in, an unlikely event, so far. A Swiss Army knife blade popped the lock in the door knob, but the one on the door had a bolt inside. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed with no effect but fatigue. He searched the alley for a clue to another possibility and, after scouring the area for a few minutes, sighed and accepted the obvious choice. The glass did fracture, but not break, from his careful, yet firm, tapping. Daunted, Brannon stared at his watch, considered the likelihood of returning wage earners, then stepped back and fired the stone at the cracked pane. With hands over his own ears, he waited for a reaction, something clanging or buzzing or howling. When nothing happened, he pulled the sleeve of his jacket over his hand and reached through the broken pane. His fingers found the latch inside and pushed it. The bolt slid open. Inside, an unlit stairway led up. He mounted each step slowly, pausing frequently. At each landing he listened at the door but heard nothing on the first three floors, which he thought empty. At the fourth and top floor was a door unlike the others. He knocked and discovered it was made of metal and painted to look like wood. Pushing against the door while turning the handle did nothing, the line of five deadbolt locks having something to do with that. "Five," muttered Brannon aloud, running his hand over the brass plates and hoping for mirages. With no window to smash this time, Brannon stood with hands on hips, and gasped for air and inspiration. Then he turned around and discovered this landing had a second door. Pleasantly surprised to feel the handle rotate, Brannon opened the door to sunlit stairs leading to the roof. No taller than its neighbors, the building bore no signs of roof use. Brannon walked passed two frosted skylights to the front, and saw his car, sighing in relief that the tan Mercedes hadn't returned. He fiddled around with the skylights, trying to see if anything moved. Someone had painted the first one shut, so he tugged gently at the second. A three-over-three section shifted easily and rose. He swung the window up to a forty five degree angle and looked inside. Darkness and silence greeted him. Overhead, clouds effaced the sun, like puffy gray hands mugging a jovial drunk from behind. Wondering whether the distant rumble portended a storm or merely a timely landing out at the airport, he searched the roof and found a broken piece of wood which had once been a useful stave. Propping open the skylight would allow him nearly two and a half feet to squeeze through, so he grabbed the sill of the skylight and lowered himself, feet first. Which left him doing a reverse chin-up, feet dangling. Taking a deep breath, he released; a short drop, which he ended with a neat squat. Slowly he swung around first his right hand, then his left, without touching anything. His eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Encouraged, he rose and walked, at once bumping into a small chair. Rubbing his left thigh with one hand, he found the wall with the other. Looking like the title character in "The Mummy's Tomb," Brannon flailed away in the murk with outstretched arms, moving to the right and searching the wall with both hands. When he touched the familiar object, his finger flipped the switch. An over head light winked on. It was a long room. Off to his left he saw the other side of the metal door. The spot where he'd landed under the skylight was the middle of a sitting area. Two old couches covered with floral print fabric, and one knocked over wooden backed chair, defined the region. The fourth, open, end was guarded by two old stereo speakers. He'd walked between them to reach the wall. Beyond that area stretched the work zone. Zinck had left the Radio Shack bag on the floor next to a long table which ran down the center of the room. Chairs randomly situated on both sides of the table reminded Brannon of PBS documentary shots of old women at a quilting bee. In this case a "stereo bee" for Al 'n' Bevo had spread the guts of at least one FM tuner over the far reaches of the table. A cardboard delivery box containing half of a sauce-less cheese pizza occupied the middle of the table. The pie was cold to touch, though its existence heated his memory. The rest of the table supported various electronic components: circuit boards; batteries; tiny, multi-colored resistors looking like beads from a primitive culture. Two larger assemblies had blank stares on their digital displays. Brannon moved around the work area, running the tip of his index finger along the battered wood of the table and chairs. He paused and looked at the finger. The lack of dust disturbed him, the overall cleanliness as queer as a bait shop in the Gobi Desert. The mild rumbling in his gut didn't stop when he spotted the plain brown bag Bevo had carried. He pulled out copper tubing and a smaller brown bag, both of which he put on the table. Still at the bottom of the bag were thicker, wider pipes. "You don't repair stereos with pipes." Returning the big bag to the floor, Brannon opened the smaller pouch and pulled out what he first took to be three pair of white leotard bottoms, an estimate he revised upon discovering the leggings weren't joined at the crotch. _Rrrriinngggg!_ He jumped, not nearly as high as his heart. _Rrrriinngggg!_ A momentary calm spread through him when he spotted the black rotary phone on top of the roll-top desk. _Rrrriinngggg!_ A start, a hesitation, then a brisk stride over to the instrument, which he recklessly grabbed and answered. "This is Morgan Security," the cheery voice said. Brannon's heart sunk. "Is Mr. Franklin there?" He grunted. "No." "I'd like to offer Mr. Franklin a free security survey of his premises? Do you think he would be interested?" "I'd bet on it," Brannon answered with a suppressed chuckle. "After today I'm sure he will be." He hung up. As he cradled the receiver, Brannon noticed a pile of brochures, the glossy type produced by tourist boards. Brannon thumbed through views of Washington, DC, Virginia Beach, and Colonial Williamsburg. "Maybe they're going on vacation", he said aloud as he took up a thick packet addressed to the mysterious "B. Franklin" at this Leigh Street address. He unfolded a map of downtown DC that had been inexpertly refolded by someone who likely used a lot of tape on Christmas presents. Sites were circled in red ink -- The White House, Capitol, Senate buildings and a few of the larger hotels -- along with the routes to get to them. The Virginia Beach stuff was largely unopened, some of it still in mailing envelopes with dates of three weeks ago stamped in the corner. The Williamsburg material had been opened and looked at, again the maps refolded against the machine folds. Brannon spread each sheet apart and scanned for oddities, noticing only a red circle drawn around the Governor's Palace on the historic area map. He stared long and hard at the image of Bruton Parish Church, and exhaled his disappointment that Al 'n' Bevo had no New Age interest in Roger Bacon legends. Brannon unfolded a map of the greater Hampton Roads area. Military installations were all noted in red along with Colonial Williamsburg. Next to Camp Peary were several arrows pointing at the York River shore line and leading back to the letters "CIA" and "FBI". Not news, anyone living in Central Virginia knew government covert operations training facilities occupied that part of the York. Bored with the brochures, Brannon turned and surveyed the cupboards lining one wall. Opening one revealed lots of plates -- but no cups -- and other crockery. The next one held lots of scientific glassware; beakers, retorts, test tubes. The next shelf had porcelain mortars and pestles ("The vessel with the pestle holds the brew that is true", he couldn't help thinking), and wooden spatulas and mallets. A third cabinet held the contents of an odd assortment of bottles and boxes found in most homes, although not often stored together. A clear bottle, nearly empty, with a tattered, faded "Ann Page" label reading "White Vinegar" stood next to cream of tartar and a large yellow box of Arm & Hammer baking soda. Brannon reached for the vinegar, turned the bottled around a few times, then twisted off the cap. He held the opening just below his nose and the familiar sour apple smell wafted into his nostrils. He put the bottle down. A once large bag of salt, also Ann Page red, sat next to a cardboard box containing several sticks of white chalk. Five large, unopened bags of granular sugar from Safeway squatted on the lower shelf. Other new, unopened bottles contained hydrogen peroxide. He opened the next cupboard and found old bags of Epson salts, plaster of Paris, and powdered lime of the kind favored by suburban gardeners. The oldest and most beat up cupboard was filled with electronic detritus -- wires, switches, resistors, lots of colorful bangles. Either Al 'n Bevo made a lot of cute trinkets out of used electronic parts for sale at flea markets or they produced a lot of electronic gizmos in their spare time. The final cabinet was also metal painted to look like wood. Its two doors each had a handle with a loop projecting out through which locks usually go. Scuff marks indicated frequent locking over the years, only not now. A simple, bicycle lock itself sat on a nearby side board. Brannon tugged at the right door, opening it easily. The insides returned to the Krafters' Korner motif, looking like the kind of storage place you'd expect a potter to maintain: dirty shelves stocked with fresh new bricks of clay -- like it was the first day of grammar school. Other shelves contained little clumps, lumps and balls of what also looked like clay. Imported clay. Imported from Czechoslovakia, by the printing on the packages. Only Brannon doubted they were clay. There was enough Semtex to blast a new channel for the James, maybe out to Chesapeake Bay. Gingerly, he checked the cupboard for blasting caps or devices, found none and sighed with relief that the boys practiced safe demolition. He gently closed the door, then picked up the lock, slid it into place and snapped it closed, spinning the combination plate for good luck. He caught himself whistling. How many bombs had they made over the course of a quarter of a century? Fifty? A Hundred? How many had died? He picked up the apparatus on the long table. The wires were multi-colored, some connected to a resistor implanted board. Others hung loose but stiff. To Brannon it all made no more sense than the insides of an old pre-modular TV. The snap of a deadbolt terminated his deliberations. He dropped the parts and dashed under the open skylight. Not even Michael Jordan on his best day could have leaped up and grabbed the edge of the skylight. Frantically, Brannon shoved the coffee table under the spot. _Snap!_ The second deadbolt was open. Three more to go. He pushed the table into position and jumped up. The rim of the skylight was still a couple of feet from his grasp. Brannon jumped up, his fingers brushing the ceiling but far from the rim of the skylight. Always the optimist, he leaped again. Always the short, pudgy red head, he landed short again. _Snap!_ Three down, two to go. He jumped down and ran to a chair, which he lifted onto the table and scrambled to mount. _Snap!_ The fourth deadbolt was open. The extra three feet of the teetering chair enabled Brannon to grab the rim of the skylight. Groaning as he pulled himself up, he raised his head above the skylight frame and breathed the evening air. _Snap!_ The final lock clicked open. One last surge of fear rushed adrenaline to his arms which trembled from the exertion and searing pain. A few more inches and he could rest his torso on the ledge of the skylight. He screamed with pain, teetered, slipped and crashed down, bouncing off the chair and table and landing in a heap where he'd first entered. Collapsed in an athletic agony of a type he'd last experienced in gym class, Brannon's lungs sucked air as if it contained a powerful pain reliever. His eyes, the only organs not flushed with anguish, stared at the open door which framed the lumpy form of Alan Zinck. "Mr. Brannon. What a delightful surprise," he said with a tone which clearly said otherwise. Brannon moaned something which could have been the way speakers of a language more guttural than English pronounced "And good day to you, Mister Zinck". Zinck limped to Brannon's quivering form. As he struggled to extract something from his jacket, the ice cream manufacturer displayed a talent for guttural language translation heretofore dormant. "Fuck you, too, Mister Brannon," he said with a fixed smile, now widening to genuineness as his meaty hand pointed the Walther PPK at the commodious target of Brannon's midriff. -------- *Chapter 29* FLOWERS. FIELDS of flowers. Flowers stuck in the barrels of National Guard M-16's. Flowers surrounding caskets. Bouquets of roses. Rose Bowl floats. Jack Lord waving to the crowd from a pink convertible at the head of the parade. Hawaiian shirts. Dorothy Lamour in a sarong. Bob Hope sitting next to Jack Lord, telling jokes to a crowd of soldiers. The soldiers leaning on their muskets, a flower in place of each bayonet, as they listened to General George Washington exhort them. Washington talked about the traitor. What they did with traitors. He tried to move, but his hands were bound behind him and his feet impeded by something else. Looking down his long, long legs, he saw feet clamped firmly in place by wooden stocks. Nothing he did could pull them out. A crowd mocked his efforts. He couldn't turn his head to see them. Again he twisted his arms and wrists, but struggling only increased the pain. The crowd laughed at Brannon. Ben Franklin stood in the center of the loft wearing a frock coat and wire rim glasses. He removed the coat, revealing a white ruffled shirt and a red vest that hung down to his hips. His pants were mustard colored knickers, which revealed familiar white silk stockings. Brannon expected to see the stockings wend into black pumps with a shiny silver buckle. Instead they immersed themselves into red running shoes. Bruff shook his head and wanted to rub his eyes. Ben Franklin turned, revealing his long, stringy gray hair pulled into a pony tail and bound with a rubber band. Though the loft lights burned with incandescent glow, a flash of lightning burst through the skylights and outlined Franklin's profile. Brannon watched the contour shimmer, then alter into a more familiar outline. Behind those wire rims was the mug of Bevo Bevonis. The dull pain on the back of Brannon's head suddenly tightened into stabs of agony, like a self-sharpening pencil. Bound hands frustrated the urge to rub. Brannon winced as he recalled a gun stock crunching into his skull. All the aches and stabs and flashes of pain eventually canceled each other out, like terms in a vast, torturer's equation. He opened his eyes and saw Bevo unbuttoning the red vest. Sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the couch was not the greatest vantage point, so Brannon squinted at the lines running out from underneath the vest. The wires led into a box fastened to Bevo at his waist. The box was too small to require the antenna line running out of it and up Franklin/Bevo's sleeve. Bevo raised his arm into a "Sieg Heil" position. With his other hand he pushed a button on the box and Bruff heard a distant "click." Bevo threw his other hand in the air and danced an exultant jig. Zinck pranced into view holding a squat, bedside radio like object. Bevo pushed the button on his box several more times and Zinck's box "clicked" in response. But for the appalling electronic rock they danced to, the two costumed men could have been performing an eighteenth century jig. Brannon couldn't name that tune blaring from the small boom box on the table. He tried uttering a few words, but a fat, dry tongue muffled whatever sounds might have been heard over the rock. A signal of "full" from his kidneys formally signaled the conclusion of his reverie. Stretching his lips and clenching his jaw, Brannon watched Zinck open a drawer near the sink and take out some cigarette papers and a drawstring pouch from which he poured vegetable matter onto two squares of paper. Bevo eagerly grabbed one and rolled it into a small tube on the table top. The boom box tape clicked off. "Excuse me. Where's the potty?" Al 'n Bevo giggled like two junior high school kids caught smoking in the lavatory. Zinck put down his paper-wrapped chopped plant and walked over to Brannon. Bevo nervously lit the packet and pulled long and slow, collapsing his Ichabod Crane form into a chair. "Ah, you're awake," said Zinck, not sure what to do about that fact. He walked around the prone detective and tugged at the bindings. "Say, that's some bump you've got on the back of your skull. I'd have a doc look at that if I were you." Zinck's smirk ignited Bevo's own laughter. Brannon asked about the location of the facilities again. "Well, man, it's like this." Zinck's words were lost in giggles, then laughs. Bevonis added to the mirth. Brannon joined in, a comrade in tied arms. "I always did like your sense of humor," said Bevo, knocking Brannon over like a rag doll with a slap to the back, then rolling the detective onto his stomach with his right foot. "You're going to get quite a charge out of our next joke." "Quite a bang." Zinck burst into laughter. Thunder and lightning crashed over head. Brannon's kidneys emptied, the spread of the warm fluid taking his mind off his throbbing head. Zinck cursed the storm, then turned serious. "C'mon, Bevo hurry up. We need to get the stuff into the car without getting it all wet. I suppose we shouldn't get these costumes wet, either. Take 'em off and put 'em in the suitcases. I'll take the gear down to the car." "But she said I'm not to let the bomb out of my sight -- " "Shut up, Bevo!" Zinck's eyes burned silence into the tall hippie. Bevo shrugged. "C'mon, man. Dead men don't wear plaid, right?" said Bevo. Zinck pulled his crony over to the table where they changed into their T-shirts and jeans and began to pack the colonial garments. "I did okay, right Al?" "You did fine, Bevo." "Then how come I gotta march? I wanna throw the switch, like in the old days." "I told you, they want it that way." Zinck dusted off his hands. Bevo whined, Zinck ignored him. "Want any more of this pizza?" Bevo asked as he pointed to a half eaten box. "Yeah," said Zinck, reaching for a slice. He pulled his hand back with a jerk. "Christ, is that all that's left, this crap with no sauce?" "Yeah, she didn't finish it," said Bevo, grabbing a piece and heading for the microwave. "It's not bad if you heat it up." Zinck told Bevo to take the piece and perform an action male pizzas did not do with female pizzas even in the privacy of their own parlors. The smells of molten Romano and Mozzarella soon found their ways up Brannon's nose where they produced saliva for his dry mouth, and a connection in his neurons. "Say." They turned, Bevo as he put the slice in his mouth, Zinck as he snapped a suitcase shut. "That pizza, the one without any sauce," Brannon said. "What about it?" Zinck said. "You and Bevo bought one like that for Linda Cook. Back in Baltimore, on the day she blew up herself up. Only she didn't blow herself up, did she? She's right here in Richmond, right here with you." Zinck giggled in his high pitched way and looked at Bevo. "Do you see a Linda Cook in here?" Bevo shook his head from side to side as he stuffed more pizza in his mouth. "How about Penny Porterfield?" said Brannon. "That's who she was. Or Angela Capesta, that's who she _really_ was." Zinck's jaw dropped. "Who told you that?" He looked right at Bevo, who was trying to remember if he knew any of the three women the guy on the floor was talking about. A smile crossed Zinck's face as he looked down at Brannon. "Yeah, she was here. So what?" Brannon changed tack. "You killed my uncle, didn't you?" Zinck giggled again. "No, I didn't." He giggled. "Bevo did." Brannon followed Zinck's pointing finger over to his partner. Bevo pointed to himself with a "Who? Me?" look on his haggard face. "That's Miller," Zinck said. "Gonna arrest him?" Bevo turned around to find Miller. "Why did you have to kill him?" said Brannon, tears filling his eyes. "The Mizelles were gonna talk, stir things up. We couldn't have that, could we, Bevo? Two successful capitalists like us, could we?" "No, man." "Couldn't have the world knowing Bevo built most of Bad Penny's bombs, could we?" Zinck said. "Too much to lose, now." "But how did you know Uncle Bruff was going to see the Mizelles?" Brannon asked. "Fitzhugh keeps an eye on 'em." Zinck looked away from the prone Brannon, and not because the back of Brannon's skull had begun to ooze once more, adding to the blood crusting his scalp. "So you do his dirty work?" said Brannon. Zinck ignored him. "And Sauer. Bevo killed his brother, with the Kluepfel truck, then it was you two who rigged a bomb to look like a gas explosion." Bevo's eyes lit up. "That was a good one." Brannon continued while Zinck folded a long eighteenth century vest. "The same sheriff who covered up for Fitzhugh after Betty Anne's death filed a false report on Sauer's death. So Fitzhugh had to be involved again." Zinck looked up from his packing, and shrugged. Brannon scrunched around and tried to stare down Bevo, like a worm giving an ostrich the evil eye. "Like to eat at Lemaire, Bevo?" "Huh?" Zinck said, "He missed that night. Wasn't the first time, won't be the last." He gave Bevo a look of affection. Bevo, perplexed, moved over to the pizza, took the last slice, looked at Brannon, and shook his head. "I don't understand how you two, Bad Penny and Mike Fitzhugh all fit together," said Brannon. "Shut up," Zinck explained. "Yeah, shut up," said Bevo as he kicked Brannon in the ribs, then lifted his leg as if to stomp Brannon's head. "Enough, Bevo," said Zinck with a firm tone. "We'll deal with him like we planned. Get over here and help me with this." Bevo dropped the slice on Brannon's head and did as he was told. Flat on his stomach, Brannon could see nothing, so he compensated by tugging at his bindings. Choosing brains over brawn, Brannon stopped struggling with the ropes and concentrated on his predicament, deciding he needed to come up with an elaborate scheme if he was going to survive the day. His mind came up with several strategies full of dash and verve, as well as cool courage and calm resolve. All good tactics, but all dependent on the use of both arms and legs, such as they were at the best of times, and now wrapped tighter than spandex on a hooker's butt. What did people do in the movies and books? Or Houdini? Brannon remembered that the famed escape artist had died in an icy grave when he failed his final trick. Shuddering at the thought of ice, Brannon felt a rope slip. Flexing and relaxing muscles, he recalled, that's the answer. Calming his breathing, Brannon concentrated on attaining minute control of each muscle in his wrists and ankles. While the effort proved as fruitless as a banana tree in Manhattan -- Brannon having forgotten that the trick was to flex the muscles while being tied up, then relaxing them to loosen the bindings -- his mind did stroll onto other, unanswered questions. Rolling back onto his right side, Brannon watched as Zinck plugged a clock radio into a wall socket, then set it on the edge of the long work table, about ten feet away. He flicked a switch, and instantly one of Richmond's insipid rock stations blared forth. Zinck then pushed a second switch, looked at the digital watch on his wrist, and set the time to 10:44. "Think an hour's enough?" he asked Bevo. Bevo agreed that, barring traffic, an hour was more than enough. Brannon watched Zinck press some more buttons, set the alarm and then flip the display back and forth between 10:45 and 11:45. Finally, he pushed the alarm switch to "music," dousing the one Phil Collins tune that had yet to become a beer commercial, and picked up a set of wires leading out of the back of the clock radio. "Where are the clips?" Zinck searched the table top, wires in one hand, other hand sifting through the electronic rubbish. Bevo ignored him. Brannon said, "Planning to blow this place up?" "Yeah," Zinck said, preoccupied with finding his clips. "I hope you left enough time for all of us to get out of here," Brannon said. Bevo sniggered. Brannon prattled a bit about not being ready to die, and got on Bevo's nerves. The tall man picked up the Walther and started for Brannon, ready to enforce his quiet enjoyment of the loft, when a glint caught his eye. Dropping the modern weapon, Bevo reached for a large, flintlock pistol which Zinck had set on top of the a suitcase. As he rubbed the burnished maple stock, Bevo extolled the pistol's many virtues by frequently invoking the name of sacred excrement. "It's only a reproduction," said Zinck, who had begun to spend his ice cream generated wealth on antiques in recent years. "It shoots, though." Bevo closed one eye and aimed down the barrel, resting the heavy weapon on his left forearm. He scanned the room, puffed cheeks forcing a "pow" sound through pursed lips, then settled on Brannon as his target. Bruff said, "Hey" and tried to roll away. "Don't point that thing at people, don't you know any better?" said Zinck, knowing this was one of those days when his friend struggled between right and wrong, right and left, up and down. "Hey, man, it isn't loaded," said Bevo, invoking the epitaph of many sufferers of sudden lead poisoning. "Gimme." Zinck wiggled his fingers. Bevo surrendered the pistol to Al, who laid it on top of the vest in the suitcase. "If I could only find those clips -- " "These? "Bevo held up the missing red and black caps. Zinck snatched them, then turned back to his task. He twisted the leads from the detonator with the corresponding wires from the clock radio. Then he took the detonator over to the old cabinet, opened the door, and pushed two electrodes into the Silly Semtex Brannon had discovered earlier. Or what was left of it. Brannon quickly solved The Mystery of the Missing Semtex when Bevo groaned at the strain of hoisting the two red suitcases from the floor. "Well, I'm ready. How about you?" Zinck said. "Ready, Zinckster." Brannon hadn't noticed Bevo slip on the black trench coat, appropriate apparel for a bomber. Brannon half expected Bevo to hurl a bowling ball with a fuse. Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed, its brilliance muffled through the dull green of the skylight. "Go on down, I'll be there in a minute," called Zinck to Bevo. "You wouldn't want to reconsider this, would you, Zinck?" Brannon cried over the thunder. Zinck smiled and shook his head. He headed for the door with the last two suitcases in hand. "How about a last request? It's traditional to give a dying man a last request." "You don't smoke." Zinck laughed as he placed the suitcases on the landing outside. "No, I'd just like one question answered." Zinck glanced at the clock on the table: 11:07. "Okay. But make it quick. There's enough time to let us get far away. My man, Bevo, however, has not built this type in years, so I'm a little nervous he's rusty." Zinck gestured for Brannon to ask the question. "The bump on my head. You or Bevo didn't give me that, did you?" "No, we didn't." Zinck smiled. He hurried to the door. "It was Bad Penny Porterfield, wasn't it?" Zinck smiled and waved his fingers at Brannon. "Zinck! Why is Penny Porterfield here?" Zinck smiled and began to shut the door. "Why did she come back?" Zinck paused to shrug. "Why are you afraid of her?" "There are some things I'm taking to my grave, too, Brannon." He slammed the door shut. -------- *Chapter 30* RAIN BEAT ON the skylight. Brannon stared at the clock on the table: 11:13. The rumbling thunder faded with each boom, as if it, too, was rushing from the sight of Brannon's certain death. 11:14. Brannon, covered in cold sweat, fouled with his own excreta, lay on the floor kicking and struggling, not giving up, yet not realizing even a small gain. He alternately flexed and relaxed the muscles in his forearms. Nothing. He lay on his right side, arms behind him, legs wrapped with a grayish rope from ankles almost to knees. He tried tweaking his calves, but the only freedom of motion allowed him was rolling onto his stomach, then onto his left side. If only he'd taken Clive Morgan's money. A thick, salty tongue cried out for cool beverages. He assumed the salty taste came from the sweaty rivulets running down his face and over his lips, but his teeth clamped the edges with a painful grip. His scream pierced the dark, escaping into the rain swept street where even the homeless had found shelter from the summer storm. His chest heaved with agony from his exertions but which was nothing compared to the anguish of despair, which enveloped his being. 11:20. "Lynn." He sobbed. Seconds, then minutes, vanished as Brannon berated himself for stubbornly trying to do it his way. If only he'd brought Lynn. If only he had let Lynn, Lou, or Hobie where he was; even brought in the police. If he'd called Honey and let her know.... "Honey." The word froze him. Honey was Penny. Honey was Penny and Linda Cook and Angela Capesta. Who else would have known Uncle Bruff had gone to see the Mizelles? Who else knew everything he was up to? Her age was right, and she had come into Uncle Bruff's life around the time Linda Cook had ceased to exist. His forehead furrowed like a Nebraska cornfield in the spring, Brannon struggled to remember every fact he could about Honey Graham. She had taken the key to Uncle Bruff's journal from his desk after he'd recovered it from Garnett. The journal must contain Uncle Bruff's conclusions about Honey, facts he'd ferreted out, damning evidence. Only Uncle Bruff hadn't quite put it all together, needed to go to the Mizelles for some final pieces to the terrible puzzle. _BOOOOOMMM!_ Brannon screamed. A flash of white light through the skylights, followed by another tree crackling boom, as intricate in its reverberations as the last cannonade on the Fourth of July. 11:42. He heard the rain pelting down on the roof and skylights. Hard, driven tattoos, bursting against the skylights, furiously trying to break through the thin, green glass. _CRASH!_ The room was bright for an instant. The report of the lightning strike and its flash were coincident. 11:43. In the calm aftermath of the storm, the roof top din diminished to a gentle hissing. Brannon sighed with relief until he noticed a slight buzzing coming from the alarm clock. 11:44. "Not even Gabriel's trumpet. Just a cheap Japanese buzz into Hell." _BOOM! FLASH!_ The sound of rain continued on the skylight. He listened for the buzz in vain. The hum of the refrigerator was missing, too. He unclenched his tightly flinched eyes. All dark, even the clock. Rumblings moved off, flickers of lightening penetrated the opaque skylights and drawn shades. The smell of his own excrement pounded through his nostrils, kept him from the blissful sleep his relief wanted as its reward. He relaxed, muscles the consistency of watery grits, clothes so saturated with bodily fluids he might as well have been caught in the storm. He forced open his heavy lidded eyes to confirm the blind stare of the clock face. Comfort enveloped him with its soft cloak, told him everything was all right; relax and enjoy it. He let his brain stand down from the red alert, let the adrenaline drain from his veins. Only one eye left on the dark clock face now, a vestigial sentry now that the power grid slept, mending its own overload wounds. BUT WHAT IF THE JUICE CAME BACK ON? Brannon's eyes popped open, his legs twitched and his arms struggled vainly to be free. Twisting and contorting his limbs, Brannon's body rotated counterclockwise on the rug, lacking only the accompanying, high pitched "Whoop, whoop, whoop" to complete the Curly imitation. What if the clock was the kind that beeped when the power came back on? Would that set off the bomb? Did the radio need to play to trigger the device? The plug. He spotted the clock's cord inserted into the wall, as it had been for over an hour. Barely a foot off the ground, Brannon could get at the electrical switch if he could roll over to the wall. Like a lumpy, Flintstone's tire, he rolled himself across the dark room and until he plowed into the long table. An object fell off and hit him on the back. Rolling back, he spun himself, using his elbow as a pivot, and rolled around the obstacle. He stopped again, got his outlet bearings, and revolved over to it, face up to the wall, arms bound behind. If he could sit up with his back to the wall, he thought he could use his hands to jiggle it out. As he tried to rise, his nose bumped into the plastic plug. Without a second thought, Brannon bit the cord, jerked his head back, and pulled the plug out of the socket. Now a safe sleep overcame him, and it wasn't until the dawn's early light that he discovered the object that had fallen off the table was a serrated knife. -------- *Chapter 31* LOUISA FERNCLIFF hopped the scattered puddles deposited on Strawberry Street by the thunderstorm, as if it were a dog frenzied by all the poles to choose from. She paused to inhale the last of the cool, clean morning dampness, already dissipating in the sun's intensifying rays, before she entered Pickett's Charge. Holding an _Examiner_ under her arm and a paper cup of coffee marked with a familiar red and green emblem in her left hand, Lou pushed through the front door. While she let her eyes adjust to the lack of sunlight, she sipped the coffee and winced. The tinkle of the door bell brought Sue Pickett out front, her short, round form moving with determined speed to her friend. Sue wore a loose fitting black top whose pants also had a faint inlay of geometric patterns, giving Ferncliff the feeling she was a head pin about to be nailed for a spare. Sue stopped short and said hello, adding a pleasant word about Lou's gray pants, light blue blouse and dark blue blazer. "This is terrible." Lou stared at the coffee cup. "I got it on Broad Street." Lou sniffed the air, redolent with a cinnamon-laced brew. "Here, let me make it better." Sue took the paper cup, moved behind the pastry counter, and, with her ample back to the reporter, poured the contents into a ceramic one bearing the initials "LF" in blue. She handed it back to Louisa accompanied with a smile. "Better?" "Mmmm." Ferncliff nodded. Sue offered Lou one of the Boston Cream donuts she herself had eaten several of that morning. Lou shook her head no and said, "Why are you eating that stuff, Sue?" "It's for a worthy cause." "?" "'Cause I'm hungry." The larger woman ended further caloric discussions by devouring the item under discussion. "What's so urgent?" Lou said, a yawn emphasizing her inconvenience. "Bruff's here." Sue said after her final swallow. "He's hurt bad." She pointed toward the back of the store. Lou dropped the paper on the pastry counter and hurried in the finger's direction. She spotted Brannon in a comfy chair, head slumped forward and right hand applying an ice filled Richmond Braves towel to the back of his head. There was blood on the towel. "Are you all right?" Louisa asked with genuine concern. He grunted. "Who did this to you? Where did you get this?" She touched the towel. "At the Diamond, of course," said Hobie. "Where else would you get an R-Braves towel but at the Diamond?" Sue shushed her husband and began to explain Brannon's injury. * * * * "BAD PENNY Porterfield did that?" Louisa said. Brannon grunted. "Why was Bevo dressed like Ben Franklin, Bruff?" "I wish I knew that, too." "And Zinck," said Hobie. "Don't forget Al Zinck was there, too." The look on Brannon's face said he never would. "You need more ice. I'll get more ice." Sue started to take the Braves towel, then added, "And I'll get a clean towel from upstairs, too." They listened as she lowered the new staircase. "Let me see," said Lou with a sigh as she lowered herself onto the arm rest of the chair that held the battered form of Brannon. "Al 'n' Bevo make bombs over on Leigh Street?" Bruff nodded, his head pounding from the effort. Lou noticed and patted his arm. "When you regained consciousness, Al 'n' Bevo were trying out an electronic gizmo that must have been a remote control firing device. They didn't tell you where they were taking the stuff, did they?" "Williamsburg." Brannon sounded like a frog. Lou's face formed a silent question. Hobie said, "They were wearing Eighteenth Century clothing and Bruff said he'd found maps of Williamsburg and the Peninsula with lots of spots marked -- the military and CIA bases along with the Governor's Palace and the Capitol. I bet that's where they took the bomb." "Or bombs," said Lou, looking away from the two men. "Yes, bombs," said Hobie, stroking his beard. "And lets not forget the pizza." "Exploding pizza?" Hobie explained Angela/Penny's/Linda's craving for sauceless pizzas. "So she was there, too. And Zinck admitted to Bruff that Fitzhugh is tied into all this. Seems that's how they found out about his Uncle Bruff going to see the Mizelles. Fitzhugh's people keep tabs on the Mizelles and they told Bevo to become Miller and get rid of Uncle Bruff." Hobie looked down at Brannon's towel covered head. Brannon said, "Bevo was the one at Lemaire. He was NAPA." Lou wrapped her arms around her chest and shuddered. "I'll take care of him." Sue returned with a white terry cloth towel wrapped around several ice cubes and offered it to Brannon. He exchanged it for the bloody Braves towel, which Sue placed into the pristine first section of Louisa's _Examiner_ and tossed to Hobie. "The key still has to be, Who is Linda Cook?" said Hobie, dropping the newspaper encased towel to the floor. "I think I know," said Brannon softly, eyes lowered as he applied the new poultice. Eyes widening, the other three said "Who?" a lot, like a trio of garrulous owls on a moonless night. Brannon leaned back in the chair and looked up at Lou, still perched on the arm rest, and said, "Honey." Sue and Hobie mistook the word for a term of endearment and gasped "Lou?" through incredulous features. "Honey Graham," said Lou, trying to recall the image of the woman she had seen on her few trips to Brannon's office. "She is about the right age, Bruff. But what else do you know about her that makes you think that?" "She knows everything Uncle Bruff did and everything I do. She alerted Bevo when Uncle Bruff went to the Mizelles, and again when I talked to Sauer. She made the reservation at LeMaire for me that night. Plus she and Garnett wanted to buy me out, get me out of the picture. When that didn't work..." Lou drew Brannon's head to her chest and patted his back, letting her nose browse his wavy red hair. "Hey, what's up?" Odd Ogg strode into the room, a smile breaking his granite face. Hobie took Ogg aside and filled him in. Lou pulled Bruff closer. "You need to go to the police." "No, they'll never believe me," Brannon said as sat up. "But they're going to kill again." Lou's gaze searched for his eyes. "No they won't. We'll stop them." Brannon said. Lou stood up, brushing nothing off her pants. "Bruff you need to get serious, real fast." She held up both hands, pulling down a finger on her right hand as she made each point. "One, Al and Bevo have gone to Williamsburg with a ton of explosives and we don't know why. Two, there's still a pile of Semtex in a loft on Leigh Street that could go off any moment -- " "I pulled the plug." Brannon waved her off with his towel. "Three, this involves Mike Fitzhugh, who is more than you can handle." "That's why you're here, Lou." Brannon smiled "Four, we don't know for sure they really went to Williamsburg, or what they're going to do -- " "I thought that was 'one'", said Brannon. "I think I can shed some light on that," said Hobie, who had picked up the front section of the Examiner. "The President is making a speech in Williamsburg this afternoon at the Old Capitol. Something to do with peace in the Balkans. Says here, he's a giving a medal to a Serb and a Croat. Then there is to be a parade down Duke of Gloucester Street to the Governor's Palace. There, they'll have a sit-down dinner for the President, Vice President, the French President and the German Chancellor and the Cabinet and Congressional leaders." "Will Mike Fitzhugh be there?" asked Louisa. "Says in your paper he will," Hobie said. "Why is the President speaking in Williamsburg?" asked Odd. Hobie turned the page. "He's wants to talk about Healing America and the need to return to the basics of Democracy. Get people involved, local government, local solutions. He's going to talk about how Jefferson moved the capitol from Williamsburg to Richmond so it would be closer to the western part of the State." "But that's West Virginia now," said Ogg. Hobie ignored him and moved on, "Chancellor Kohl is going to talk about the end of the Cold War." "You mean they found a cure for the common cold?" said Odd Ogg with a grin. "And on the benefits of Reunification." "I'm against Reunification," said Odd. "Why?" said Louisa. "I don't want West Virginia back." Sue groaned. Odd smiled and said to Hobie, "What's the best thing ever to come out of West Virginia to Richmond?" Hobie said, "Not now, Odd." "An empty Greyhound bus." "I still don't get what this has to do with Alan Zinck dressing up like Ben Franklin," said Lou. Hobie shrugged. "At least they will have an interesting meal. A choice of Peanut Soup or Corn Chowder, followed by Rappahannock Oyster Loaf and Salmagundi." Hobie paused to mull the main courses. "Virginia Ham and brandied peaches; Corn Pudding, Brussels Sprouts with chestnuts, and sweet potatoes. Each dish will be made by the chef of one of the taverns like the Kings Arms, or Chowning's Tavern; or one of the local restaurants like The Trellis or The Frog and The Redneck here in Richmond." Hobie paused. "You'd like the dessert, Sue. Alternate layers of chocolate, vanilla and rum raisin ice cream; pockets of apricot and raspberry jam and a center of imported Swiss fudge. Then the whole thing is covered with a thick layer of bittersweet chocolate and topped with meringue." Sue's eyes lit up. "And some of your favorite people concocted it." "Who?" Brannon said, a chill running down his spine. "Prepared by Alan Zinck and David Bevonis of Richmond." Eye brows arched. "Interesting name for this, too. Bombe Royale." -------- *Chapter 32* "CAN YOU DESCRIBE what you saw them holding, Bruff?" asked Odd Ogg. "I told you, wires led into a box around Bevo's waist. It was small, but had an antenna line running out of it and up Bevo's sleeve. When Bevo pushed a button on the box, I heard a click, and Zinck ran in holding radio. Then Bevo pushed the button a few more times and Zinck's box clicked and they cheered. That's all I remember." Ogg groaned and shook his head. "That's not much to go on. Do you know how many potential frequencies that leaves me? Hundreds, thousands, that's how many. AM, FM, short wave." He sighed. "This is hopeless," said Lou. "We don't know where the bomb is, we don't know what it is, and we don't know how to stop it from blowing up the President. Other than that, we're in good shape." "You don't actually know they're going to assassinate the president, do you, Bruff?" asked Lynn. Brannon looked up from Ogg and his Hush Boy. "What else could they be doing here?" "You haven't seen them in Williamsburg, have you?" said Lynn, well-tanned arms crossed over her chest. "Well, no." Then Brannon explained about the Seventeenth century clothes and the maps. "I didn't have time to tell you all that over the phone," he said with a contrite tone. Then he changed his tack. "You're sure Honey didn't follow you?" Lynn rolled her eyes. "I told you, she was on another line when you called. I didn't tell her anything -- just like you ordered, boss. Just got Janes and headed right out here." Lynn yawned and stretched, white T-shirt rising above the top of her military green Bermuda shorts to reveal a cordon of taught, tanned, tummy. Then she pushed her reflecting sunglasses back, pinning her blond bangs back behind her ears. Brannon's full f-stop eyes took it all in in full view of Lou who was chewing on one of her own dark bangs. "Why don't we just tell the police, Hobie?" Sue said as she tugged at her husband's arm. "In the first place, we wouldn't tell the police, we'd have to tell the Secret Service. In the second place, if we told them, they'd think we're crackpots and lock us up, at best. They wouldn't believe us until the President had been blown into the York River. We'd prevent nothing. Ergo, this is the only course of action available to us." The six of them were standing -- actually Ogg was crouching over his Hush Boy -- on Duke of Gloucester Street in front of the Silver Smith shop. The afternoon sun cast shadows back toward the Capitol. Sounds of fifes and drums tuning up reached their ears. The smell of apple cider from refreshment stands along the parade route filled the air. Brannon saw Janes sauntering down the sidewalk, behind the crowd lining Duke of Gloucester. His light brown suit, crisp white shirt and black tie gave many tourists the impression he was a Jehovah's Witness on the prowl. "Did you see them?" asked Brannon. Janes shook his head. "You're sure you know what they look like?" Brannon said, his voice a mix of disappointment and scolding. "Yes, boss. She gave me this." Janes motioned toward Sue with the section of cardboard ice cream container bearing Al 'n' Bevo's smiling faces. "Lot's of folks dressed up like Ben Franklin back there, though." Janes' facial expression disparaged the only other description he'd been given. Ogg continued to fiddle with the Hush Boy. In order to assuage the Secret Service agents lining the parade route, he'd stenciled "Sound Boom" on the side of his invention and made Brannon carry a large, obsolete video camera with "Channel 44" stenciled on its barrel. Red paint descended from the bottoms of all the letters, only recently dried in the Virginia humidity. Lou flashed her press credentials to the only DSS agent who had shown an interest, and said she was freelancing for Channel 44, a new UHF station in Bristol. The Secret Service agent had heard of Bristol, supposed its denizens had a legitimate interest in the doings of the President, and wandered on, pressing his own communications device deeper into his ear as the drums banged louder. "Hey, isn't that Honey?" yelled Brannon in a shrill voice as he pointed to the shady side of Duke of Gloucester. Several of the surrounding tourists idly glanced around, baffled by the red haired man's fear of natural sweeteners. "No," said Lynn, spotting the woman with the unnatural golden hue. "That's just some other old woman." "Yeah," said Lou as part of a loud exhale caused by rapidly sucking in her slightly bulging belly. She flipped down her sunglasses and turned away from the honey-colored woman who had graduated high school a few years before she did. The random banging of the drums and tooting of the fifes coalesced into a few bars of Beethoven's, _Yorkesher Marsch_, before the fifers snapped their instruments to their sides. The snare drummers rapped their sticks against the rims at seventy beats per minute, and the color guard started up Duke of Gloucester. A cheer went up from the crowd and scattered applause rolled up the dusty street. Next marched several regiments of Colonial troops wearing red and blue coats, bicorne and tricorne hats and hefting Brown Besses fixed with gleaming bayonets. George Washington astride his charger drew a round of applause. Ogg stood up, his Hush boy held at present arms. "With that red hair of yours, you could make a good living dressing up as Thomas Jefferson for things like this." "Jefferson was tall, lanky and muscular," said Louisa. A smattering of applause, mostly from young children, rippled through the crowd. A large coach with the ensign of King George of England bore five men in Savile Row suits. None of them represented the descendants of the Hannoverian monarch, however. The President of the United States waved to the crowd over the four Secret Service agents riding the buckboards. The agents wore off-the-rack suits concealing quick release Uzzis that could each pour one hundred rounds into the crowd of innocent bystanders in the nanoseconds immediately following the assassination of the President. Flanking the leader of the Free World were the representatives of the Serbs and Croats. Brannon thought either small, dark man, with slicked back iron gray hair, could be the direct descendent of the murderer of the Archduke Ferdinand. Riding backward in the front seat, and wondering how many front pages they'd grace tomorrow, sat the Chancellor of Germany and the Prime Minister of France. A less elegant brougham pulled by a solitary, black gelding bore the bulky figure of Vice President Knox and Claude Piggott, the Speaker of the House. Both men waved to the unseen crowd, exchanging caustic comments about the five men in front of them and not having a clue as to why they each would never lead such a parade. "Isn't Fitzhugh supposed to be in that one?" Brannon handed the page from the morning paper to Lou. She read the parade description again. "That's what it says here. The second coach should have the Vice President, Speaker of the House and President Pro Tempore of the Senate. That's Mike Fitzhugh, but I don't see him anywhere." Brannon shook his head and pointed to the empty seat in the brougham. "That gives me the creeps." The rest of the procession marched on foot, led by two jerkin clad men removing horse droppings with twentieth century scoops. Next came the chefs, sou-chefs, and general kitchen help bearing the dishes for the great feast. "Wow, that stuff looks great," said Hobie. He pulled the cord on his salivary glands. "Those aren't real, I mean those are real," said Sue. Hobie raised an eyebrow at her. "They are real," she settled on. "They won't be eaten, though. They've been shellacked and positioned by a couple in Northern Virginia who does this kind of stuff. They make props for movies, like the wedding picnic in _Fried Green Tomatoes_." Festive wheel barrows pushed by sou-chefs held displays of ham, beef, and fowl dishes. Next came bearers in culinary white holding trays of beets, corn pudding, red skin potatoes and game pies. Before each dish two women in mob caps and petticoats held a banner bearing the name of the dish, the tavern or restaurant, and the chef responsible. "Seems to be more dishes than on the menu you printed this morning, Lou." Hobie's tone accused Louisa of personal error in the matter. She shrugged it off, newspaper lifers get used to this type of public reaction right quick. "I don't get it, why are they parading all this food around?" Lou said. An elderly woman with several guide books under her arm had been listening to the friends, and turned around. "It's _Williamsburg_." Then she turned back to the parade, there being nothing further to explain. "Good thing the food's fake," said Brannon. "I don't think the chefs are going to make it." Sweat poured down their faces, as they wilted in the Virginia heat. "Those Colonial costumes look about as comfortable as being buried next to an ant hill by Indians -- native Americans, excuse me." "Oh, look," said Sue, as if there was something else to do right then. She pointed to the last float in the procession, a large hemisphere, cut side down, about three feet in diameter. "The Bombe Royale." Sue reading off the marquee carried by two corseted wenches. The crowd nattered with disappointment at the mutant spaldeen half that been painted pink and covered with plaster filigrees. True, pastry tubes had been used so the effect was authentic, but even the small children in the crowd knew it was fake. "The paper said it was covered by bittersweet chocolate and decorated with a meringue. That thing is pink," Hobie said with haughty disdain. "Isn't that a wire kind of sticking out of the pink thing?" asked Lynn. "Yup. Sure is," Brannon's stomach began to flutter, rather like it did before his weddings. "He doesn't look much like the picture on his ice cream," said Janes with more than a trace of accusation in his voice. "Probably the cocked hat," said Lynn. "Or the silk waistcoat and the all the brocade on his sleeves. Maybe even those knee length pants, buckle shoes and the white silk stockings." "I've seen those before, I think," said Brannon, unpleasant memories throbbing against his skull. "What's he up to?" said Louisa. "Do you think the bomb is in there?" said Hobie loudly, over the bag pipe band bringing up the rear of the parade. "You mean that's a big refrigerator?" said the guidebook laden lady, wondering how they were going to get the Bombe Royale out when she couldn't detect even a trace of a door. "I've got an idea." Ogg pointed the yellow Hushboy at the pink bombe and pulled the trigger. An electric whine like an amplified Choldny plate rent the air. "There's your bomb, Bruff. At least there's your black box. Inside the Pink thing." Ogg pulled the trigger again. "Ogg! Don't! You'll set it off!" Sue snatched at Ogg's shoulder, trying to turn him away. He released the trigger and the whine stopped. "I'm jamming it, Sue, remember?" said Ogg with disgust. He pulled the trigger again. "It won't go off as long as I do this." The whine continued. The four kilt clad men pulling the caisson that bore the Bombe stopped walking. After a brief conversation consisting mostly of shrugs, the leader (he had the biggest pompon on his Tam O'Shanter) walked back to the whining pink hemisphere and poked it with his thin bladed ceremonial sword. Ogg smiled. Puzzled, the man doffed his cap and scratched his bald pate. The crowd murmured its own bewilderment. "We had a refrigerator that hummed like that when we lived in South Ozone Park," the guidebook lady said to Sue. As she began a lengthy critique of her late husband's mechanical shortcomings, Brannon tuned her out and watched Bevonis. Bevo had stopped marching, but not moving. Circling the Bombe, he held both hands out in front of him, palms to the Bombe, and jiggled them in the time-honored, "calm down" fashion. Bevo then raised a finger to his lips and shushed. The whine continued, so he adjusted his granny glasses and looked up at the second floor of the Geddy House. Brannon followed his gaze, but noticed nothing but a wooden ladder on the roof that had been there for many years. "Zinck is around here with the transmitter," Brannon said. "We've got to find him." Lynn and Hobie huddled, then issued search pattern orders. "This is all your fault, Bruff Brannon," Sue said. "I told you, Hobart, no good would come of consorting with this man again." Hobie ignored her. "I'm staying with Bruff." Lou crossed her arms. Lynn had told her to check out the spire of Bruton Parish Church. "I got an idea." Ogg put down the Hushboy. Immediately the whine stopped. The man in the kilt kneeling along side the right wheel of the caisson stood up and smiled, despite the stain besmirching his knee. The round of applause confirmed his diagnosis and rewarded the quick thinking that led him to such an effective application of oil to the wheels of the gun carriage. Ogg fiddled with the controls on the tube. "I'm reversing it." He looked up at Brannon and Louisa, not noticing the others had fanned out to find Zinck, none having any idea what he looked like while not on an ice cream carton. "There, that should do it," said a satisfied Ogg. He pointed the tube down toward the Capitol. His finger was on the trigger, now to no effect. Slowly he panned the tube past the Mary Dickinson Store behind him, then reversed his traverse and aimed at the Greenhow Store across Duke of Gloucester. He brought the Bombe back into his sights, only this time no whine emitted from the pink blob, now turning off Duke of Gloucester towards the Governor's Palace. "Let's go." He headed for the street corner. Brannon grabbed Lou's hand and pulled her along as he fought through the Palace-bound crowd. Raising the yellow tube to shoulder height, Ogg panned the green leading to the Palace. Two young boys in navy blue tricorne hats leapt in front of him, waving, and shouting "Hi, mom", though she was even now circling the vicinity and calling their names. Ignoring them, Ogg finished his weep of the Wythe and Brush-Everhard houses, and after about giving up hope when the Foundry proved harmless, pointed the Hushboy at the windows on the second floor of the Geddy house. A whine emitted from the corner bedroom window. "Bingo," Ogg said. "He's up there, Hobie." Brannon followed Ogg's finger. Hobie charged into the Geddy House, bolting past the woman checking for Patriot's Passes. She yelled at him, but he moved quickly up the stairs past irritated tourists. He puffed his way up the stairs, not having moved that quickly since his high school gym days. Grasping the pineapple newel topping the banister on the second floor landing, he heard the whine. "Excuse, me, folks." Pickett pounded his way through a clutch of Japanese tourists, all Mickey Mouse sweat shirts and Nikons, and into the right front bedroom. There, a short, squat bald man in a silk coat and white leggings scratched his pink noggin while he stared with a baffled expression at the whining black box on his belt. "What the....?" mumbled Zinck as he side-stepped the hurtling form of Hobie Pickett. The Japanese tourists gasped as Hobie crashed into the rope bed under the window. Zinck snatched together the ends of his vest, which hid, but could not muffle, the still yowling transmitter and set off down the back stairs. "Stop that man!" Hobie shouted, but no one did. -------- *Chapter 33* "ISN'T THAT ALAN Zinck?" a large woman from Long Island asked her sister. "I didn't know he limped like that." Her sister, who now lived in Bergen County, admired the way the confectioner hustled in the Virginia heat. "You'd think a man with all that money would find a surgeon who could fix that." The Long Island sister nodded. "He's late, the others have all gone inside. That's it, isn't it? I mean the parade's over, right?" "Yeah." The Bergen County sister looked around for her boys. "I wish I had some of his ice cream. I could use a Waffsicle right now," said Long Island. "Why is that man, the one with red hair, running after Zinck?" the Bergen County sister asked. She'd spotted him charging past her sons and nephews. Her sister shrugged. "Maybe they have an Al 'n' Bevo shop in Merchant's Square." They herded the kids in search of ice cream. * * * * THE MAN WITH red hair fought the tourist tide ebbing from the Palace, then gave up and watched the end of the procession enter the front gates of the Palace. Bevo followed the Bombe Royale past the forlorn figures of Lynn Beaumont and Janes Johnson. They watched four red coated guards clang the iron gates shut, then secure the premises with a chain and lock. "Where's Hobie?" said Sue, worry in her voice. Brannon hadn't noticed her arrival at his side. "Saw him go into the house on the corner." Brannon waved at the Geddy House. "Ogg told him to." "You left him there?" Sue said, an accusation, not a question. "Yeah," said Brannon, turning to track down Zinck. "You seen Ogg, Sue?" Sue's response caused several members of an Episcopal Golden Age group to snap off their hearing aides. Brannon watched Sue Pickett hurry through the crowd towards the Geddy House. "Don't just stand there." Brannon swivelled around again. "The bomb is inside the gates with Bevo, and the President and Vice President are standing on the steps of the Palace having their pictures taken, not ten yards from the Bombe. What are you going to do?" Lou crossed her arms and looked up at Brannon with her green eyes, now hard as jade. Brannon saw Odd Ogg emerge from the shadows of the Brush-Everhard House. He held the yellow Hushboy pointed ahead of him in the classic bayonet attack position as he marched towards the Palace Gate, eyes on the pink Bombe Royale. "C'mon." Brannon grabbed Louisa's hand and pulled her toward the Palace. They got to the gate as Ogg finished explaining to Janes and Lynn how he had lost track of Zinck in the crowd, then decided to switch the Hushboy back to jamming to mode. "I figured as long as his buddy stayed next to the bomb, Zinck wouldn't set it off," Ogg said. Brannon said he wasn't so sure about that. "Not much time left, Bruff. The batteries're low. I can jam Zinck's signal for maybe fifteen minutes, tops." "Then what happens?" asked Lou. "Kaboom!" said Ogg, mushrooming with one hand. Inside the Palace, several Secret Service Agents had gathered around the whining Bombe. The leader pushed his ear mike deeper down his aural canal. Brannon heard him say, "We have a situation here," before the agent turned his back. Two agents listened to the smiling man in the kilt explain how he had oiled the screech away the first time, and propose to do so again, if they'd just let him reach in and get the -- "Bevo!" Brannon spun around to see Alan Zinck gesticulating frantically. He followed Zinck's eyes back into the Palace grounds and saw Bevo moving his gray pony tailed head up and down slowly. The agents hadn't noticed him. As the lead agent walked away from the pink Bombe, and the other two agents gently pushed the kilted oiler off to the side, Bevo took a half dozen long strides to the fruit of his labor. There, he bent over and picked up the trail of the caisson. "What's he doing?" said Lynn. What Bevo did was begin to push the gun carriage toward the President. Lou began to scream, Lynn pulled at the gate, Ogg said, "Oh, shit," and Janes backed off. Oblivious to the commotion, photographers directed the President to shake hands with the Serb, then the Croat, then stand between the two Mittel Europeans with an arm draped around each. The Vice President and the Speaker of the House tried to engage the French President and the German Chancellor in conversation, but settled for obviously posed shots taken by _Der Stern_. With a blank, unemotional face, Bevo trudged on, like a Kamikaze pilot who'd missed the lesson about using a Zero. "Batteries won't hold out much longer," said Ogg through clenched teeth. Zinck held his hand on the black box at this belt. Slowly he backed away from the Palace toward the Wythe House. Brannon ran for him. "Al, don't." Brannon waved his hands over his head, like he was trying to stop the Palmetto Express from certain derailment up ahead. Zinck reached into his capacious, Kaptain Kangaroo style side pocket, but snagged projecting bits and pieces in the rich material of his coat. Brannon ran on, now half way to Zinck. Looking down at the offending pocket and using both hands, Zinck eventually brought out his flintlock pistol. With his right hand on the trigger, Zinck pushed back the screwed in flint. Bruff charged on, knocking aside a tall woman in a flower print dress and a hideous copper hue to her hair. "Brannon! He's got a gun!" Janes bellowed. The pistol now cocked and ready, Zinck put both hands around the shiny, ebony stock and aimed down engraved barrel at Brannon's gut. Not more that ten paces away, Brannon dove for Zinck as the black powder exploded with a flash and a cloud of smoke. The report rolled over the sheep dell, and echoed from the Palace weather vane. The flash and boom stunned Brannon, causing him to stumble on the crushed oyster shell sidewalk. Balance lost, Brannon smacked into the startled Zinck, knocking them both to the ground. Brannon landing on top. He consolidated his position by sitting astride Zinck's waist and tugged at the black box. Zinck hit him with the flintlock, several feeble blows to the ribs. Brannon blocked the pistol with his left forearm and completed the removal of the black box from Zinck's belt. With a grunt, Brannon hurled the box over the fence into the side yard of the Wythe House. Then Zinck bit him. Brannon clutched his wounded hand, freeing Zinck for mayhem. The aging hippie swung the pistol and whacked the detective upside the head, knocking him over. Zinck got to his feet, and again reached into his pocket. Brannon braced himself for the pistol's twin, then flinched as Zinck hurled an object at Bruff's head. The small, lead pellet thwacked Brannon right between the eyes. As Zinck ran off down Henry Street, Brannon retrieved the pellet. It was the bullet from the flintlock, which had trickled out of the barrel while in Zinck's pocket. "Forgot to use wadding," murmured Brannon. He rubbed his bruised scalp and wondered why his friends were all looking into the Palace grounds. "He's got a gun!" shouted one of the kilt wearers as a wild-eyed Bevo waved the twin of Zinck's flintlock. Lowering the pistol, Bevo smiled, then inanely pointed it at the President, who was still posing with the Serb. Several DSS agents poured 9mm shells into his body, more than enough to get the job done. Ogg switched off the Hushboy and patted it. One DSS bullet strayed from its target and came to rest in a window sill three yards to the right of the Serb. He spat into a flower bed, no one noticing that either, and rued the lost possibility a graze wound from an American bullet would have afforded Serbia. At least several hundred square miles of soon to be undisputed Croatian soil, he thought. "How's the boss?" asked Janes, remembering the hand that signed his paycheck. "Bruff!" shouted Lou as she headed off for the fallen detective. Her green eyes filled with tears, which might have been a natural reaction to all the saltpeter in the air. "I'm coming." She puffed between gasps, her lungs about to give up. Stretching her arms out toward him, she wanted to enfold Brannon and succor his wounds. Only he was already receiving aid and comfort from Lynn. "There, there, Bruff. Does it hurt when I do this?" said Lynn, meaning the pokes to his scalp, not the press of her bosom against his left cheek. "I'm fine," said Brannon with a smile. Then he looked up. "Oh, Lou." "Yes, Bruff?" Ferncliff's nostrils flared and her jaw muscles quivered. "Did you see that woman with the copper red hair? The one in the flower print dress? She looked familiar to me." He pointed down Henry Street to the retreating form. Louisa needed no more than a glance. "That's Mildred Baltzell from Mike Fitzhugh's office." Lou did a double take. "I wonder why she died her hair that horrible shade of red?" Brannon told her. -------- *Chapter 34* "ARE YOU SURE they both went in here?" Brannon pointed to the white frame house not two blocks from the Capitol. "Yes, boss," said Lynn, eyes invisible behind her sunglasses. Lou said, "Do you think its safe?" Brannon flew off whatever handle he had left. "No, I don't think its safe to go in there. There are two murderous lunatics in that house. Maybe more." He looked at the closed front door and the dark, curtained windows. A recently mown lawn and a shady side plot of peonies spoke of middle class care. "Well?" said Lynn. Brannon collapsed against the trunk of an old oak whose roots were enjoying the arboreal pastime of cracking the sidewalk. His head thumped where Zinck had thwacked him with the pistol. The scrapes on his knees and elbows pulsated with threads of agony and his ankle throbbed with a dull ache. Other body parts had similar protests, but had to wait in line. Lynn and Lou bickered over whether or not they could trust any Federal agents (Brannon heard the word "cahoots" used) or should run as fast as possible to the Virginia State police, the Williamsburg sheriff, or the William and Mary campus cops. His own mind pummeled him for being so stupid as to think he could be a detective. If he'd sold to Morgan when he should have, they'd be sitting around Pickett's Charge straightening out book displays, drinking coffee and invading Poland with little squares of cardboard. Tomorrow morning they'd read Lou's column about the terrible tragedy in Williamsburg and how Mike Fitzhugh had finally made it to President in such ironic fashion. Would that have been all bad? What possible difference could it make to the lives of Hobie, Sue, Lou and Bruff if Mike Fitzhugh were President? Why should they care about a man whose daily appearances as a shadow on an electronic screen served mostly to prompt jokes and sarcastic comments? He reached in his pocket for a tissue to blow his nose. Instead his hands found the key to Uncle Bruff's book. The key had been filched from Brannon's desk by Ray Bogar's son to complete the science project on lightening. Ray had returned it as Bruff headed out the door on his way to Fitzhugh's press conference, and he stuck it in his pocket without it registering. Now he fingered the key, shining in the westering sun, and thought of the tales it would unlock. Three generations of Broughton J. Brannons and their heroic acts of courage, written by the doers of the deeds themselves. Would he expand the collection? Or would the last pages remain forever blank, mute testimony to the end of the line. "I'm going in," Brannon said. He pushed open the unlatched front door. "Did he just go inside?" asked Lynn, blonde head swiveling like a DEW line radar station. "Who?" Lou said. "C'mon." Lynn trotted off to the house, Lou following. They stopped at the door and listened. * * * * INSIDE, BRANNON heard voices arguing, one certainly Zinck's. He walked slowly from the entrance hall into the living room. He took no notice of the curios displayed on mostly reproduction sideboards and tables, and had no interest in which were genuine antiques and which mere bric-a-brac. The voices came from a book-lined den off the living room. At the open roll top desk, but spun around to face the other two in the room, sat Mike Fitzhugh. Facing the Senator, with backs to Brannon, Alan Zinck and the copper haired woman argued. "Look, Bevo fucked up. Okay?" said Zinck. "It's over." The copper haired woman's reaction made it clear it was anything but over and okay. Fitzhugh listened with polite, even bemused attention. The TV familiar visage retained traces of the politician's perennial smile even in the face of abject disaster. As Brannon tuned in the conversation, Fitzhugh raised a hand and the bickering stopped. "We have a visitor." The others turned around with glares exuding hatred and fear. "Come in." Brannon did as he was told. "You must be Brannon," said Fitzhugh, not bothering to rise. "Nice place," said Brannon. As Fitzhugh explained the house belonged to a William and Mary Political Science Professor who Fitzhugh kept on retainer, Brannon looked down at the senior Senator from Virginia. Fitzhugh wore a white shirt, red and white striped tie, and chalk-striped navy blue pants. He'd tossed the suit coat over the back of the couch, the only other seat in the cramped room. Brannon's eyes followed Fitzhugh's right hand as it stretched back toward the open desk surface which held the morning's _Examiner_ and Washington _Post_, past over them, and headed for a large, automatic pistol. Fitzhugh picked up a pack of Camels instead. "We'll have to kill him," said Mildred Baltzell, her tone that of a Tidewater hostess with an extra man at her table. Fitzhugh lit a cigarette, then tried a high pitched laugh, as if that could both excuse and exonerate. After a puff he said, "What brings you here, Brannon?" "I know what you're up to," said Brannon. "And what would that be?" Fitzhugh raised an eyebrow and dropped the smile. Then he looked past Brannon. "Ah, more visitors." The others looked into the living room. "Ah, Ms. Ferncliff. We meet again. But I don't know your friend," said Fitzhugh. Brannon explained Lynn. Fitzhugh looked her up and down, imagination filling-in what his eyes could not detect. "Nice shorts." Lynn turned to Baltzell and said, "Nice hair. Most older women don't go for the punk look, Millie." "Mildred," the woman said, icicles dripping off each letter. "Mr. Brannon, you were explaining why y'all have come here," said Fitzhugh in a conversational tone. Brannon shrugged. "You can never be elected President, but you know there's only three beating hearts between you and the White House. This afternoon, you tried to remove them all at once." "Hold on, Brannon. That's an awfully wild accusation..." "No, Fitzhugh, its simply the line of succession. I didn't remember it right at first, that's what took me so long to put it all together today. If the President and Vice President both die, who's next?" "The Speaker of the House, of course," Lou said. "Right. But I remembered wrong. I thought it was the Secretary of State; just like Al Haig did 'way back when. That's why I didn't follow what was going on," he looked at Lou. "And if the Speaker of The House gets blown to smithereens, too? Then who's number one?" Louisa looked straight at Fitzhugh. "The President Pro Tempore of the Senate." "Right," said Brannon. Fitzhugh puffed on the cigarette. "You must have more than that, Brannon. So far everything you've said is in the Encyclopedia." "She's Linda Cook," said Brannon. "So?" Fitzhugh raised a hand to silence the copper haired woman. Zinck squirmed under Linda Cook's glare. "And Bad Penny Porterfield," said Brannon. Fitzhugh pretended to study the older woman as he ground out his butt. "Bears a resemblance. What's your point, Brannon?" "And she's Angela Capesta. Really Angela Capesta, if you know what I mean." Fitzhugh nodded. Angela's mouth opened, a dull sound emerged, then snapped shut. Had her eyes the capability, all three men would have been rendered smoking cinders. "Man said, 'What's your point?' Answer him." Zinck shoved Brannon. Lynn pushed back. Brannon grabbed her wrist, then said, "cool it, I'll take care of it." Lynn shrugged him off as Zinck tried a push back. Lou started haranguing Angela. "People." Fitzhugh held up his hand for silence. "Y'all have business to discuss." He rose and picked up his suit coat. As he put it on, he looked Mildred straight in the eyes and said, "Handle it." He then turned, avoided eye contact with the others, and started for the door. Brannon grabbed his arm. "Hold it, Fitzhugh. You're involved in this up to your eyeballs. Stay until I tell you you can go." Fitzhugh bristled. Decades of deferential treatment had removed tones like Brannon's from his aural dictionary. Brannon shook his fist. Fortunately, Fitzhugh outweighed Bruff by a considerable proportion. The Senator smiled. "I hit back, boy." "Bruff," Lou said. "Don't." "You better stay, Mike. You're not laying all this shit on me." Zinck's face had reddened. "This doesn't concern me." Fitzhugh shrugged off Brannon's loosened grip and fingered the material of his sleeve as if it were Teflon. "This afternoon they tried to kill the President. You told them to." "Bullshit." "You can't possible deny what just happened out there," said Lou in her reporter voice. "No, but I do deny any foreknowledge of these two." Fitzhugh added a sardonic smile. "Huh," said Lou. Fitzhugh said with a thickening drawl, "Y'all are right, I can't deny an incident occurred. But my friends were telling me what happened when y'all walked in. I don't believe the President came to any harm." "Not the first time a Capesta has tried to kill a President," said Brannon. "First time one missed." The copper haired woman started to protest. "That old wives' tale," said Fitzhugh. "Do you think I'd keep her on my staff if her father had killed my brother?" "It is rather complicated, but it might do you good to hear what I have to say, Fitzhugh," said Brannon. "This is ridiculous," said Angela. "Hear him out," said Fitzhugh. "So she is Angela Capesta," said Lou, her voice trembling. Fitzhugh shrugged and looked back at Brannon. "Can you be quick about it?" He added a wink that might have given pause to Savanarola. The copper haired woman gave Fitzhugh a look from somewhere near the intersection of Contempt and Fear as she sat as close to Fitzhugh as possible. Lynn half-sat, half-leaned on the other end of the couch, while Zinck and Lou continued to stand, Lou blocking the doorway, Zinck back to the books. Brannon stuttered. "I can't decide where to begin, so I'll just ramble a bit." Brannon stared at the book-lined walls as he began. Fitzhugh crossed his legs. "Do tell." "Betty Ann Mizelle died because she found out her coworker, Linda Cook, was really Bad Penny Porterfield. She wanted to take this to her boss, Mike Fitzhugh, but she was naturally afraid. Afraid of speaking to her hero, and afraid she wouldn't be believed. So she waited for proof." Brannon pointed to Mildred. "That was how you discovered her, wasn't it Angela? Searching your desk late at night for proof of your 'real' identity?" Angela stared at Fitzhugh, in silence. "I'll take that for a 'yes'. You knew you had to do something about Betty Ann, but nothing happened until the party at the Fitzhugh cottage at Chappateague. What happened that night, Linda, did you confront her, knock her out, and put her in the back seat before going for a ride?" The copper haired woman crossed her arms on her chest. "Was that an accident, or did you plan to drown her that way?" Brannon said to then-Linda. "An accident," said Fitzhugh. "I didn't plan to run off the bridge." "But she did," said Brannon, pointing again. Fitzhugh stared at the woman. "Sauer remembered you running after Linda Cook and screaming 'Murderer'. Do you remember that, Mike, or has time blotted that memory out?" Fitzhugh looked away from Mildred down to his feet. "I remember, yes." "What did you mean by 'Murderer', Mike?" said Brannon with a quiet, forceful voice. "She did it. Killed Betty Ann, I mean. When it first happened, I thought was all a horrible accident. I mean, I didn't even know Betty Anne was in the back seat." Fitzhugh fired up another Camel. "She started to horse around in the car just before we got to the bridge." He sat on the desk chair, hunched way over, elbows on his knees, speaking into clasped hands, eyes averted. "So that's why you missed the turn?" asked Brannon. Fitzhugh agreed. "Then what happened?" "I backed up, and tried the bridge again," Fitzhugh looked up and stared right at then-Linda. "We started over, then she stomped on my foot, the one on the gas? Then she wrenched the wheel toward the right. Shocked the hell out of me, I just sat there, couldn't even scream. Watched us go off the bridge and into the water, like in some bad dream. I think she was laughing, kind of a Wicked Witch of the West laugh?" All eyes to Linda, who sat on the couch, legs crossed, arms folded across her chest, mouth clenched in silent protest. "Then what?" "We hit the water, it was like hitting a wall, and I bumped my head, thought I would pass out. Actually, I was scared I wasn't going to pass out. Cowardly I know, but I knew I was going to die; drown, and I wanted to pass out so I would feel no pain. The way Betty Ann did die. Only I didn't know she was back there." "But she didn't die like that Mike," said Brannon. "She came-to when the car hit the water. She drowned in agony; her face all contorted in pain -- that's how Sauer found her -- trapped under water, screaming for help under thirty feet of dark, deadly brine. Betty Ann died the horrible death that woman planned." "I didn't know she was back there," Fitzhugh repeated, eyes vacant, cigarette hanging out of a corner of his mouth. "When Sauer and I found the body, I realized she must have put the girl there. When we were sitting on the beach I remembered how she had grabbed the wheel, deliberately tried to -- " "An accident. That's what he told the press," said Mildred. Her eyes burned with defiance. "He's also said he was alone with Betty Ann, but let's get back to that later," Brannon said. "In the years after, you had to kill the Sauer brothers to keep them quiet. Al 'n' Bevo did that for you, right?" Fitzhugh shrugged. "And Bevo drove the truck that killed my Uncle." Brannon's voice trembled. "Bevo told him that, I didn't," said Zinck, brushing at his sleeve. "Good thing he's dead, now." Fitzhugh's eyes silenced the babbling Zinck. "Why did he have to die?" Brannon's eyes glistened with the moisture about to streak his cheeks. Fitzhugh punched out his cigarette. "Insurance." He lit another. Brannon's gaze wrapped around Fitzhugh's neck, encircled pulled, choked. Fitzhugh coughed, snorted white smoke. Brannon's brain double clutched, his eyes hardened on Fitzhugh. He pointed to Zinck. "It was your money that got them started in the ice cream business, wasn't it?" Fitzhugh smiled. "A small investment that paid a handsome return." "And when Al 'n' Bevo got arrested in Baltimore after the blast that 'killed' Linda Cook, you pulled some strings and had the boys released." "Executive Privilege," said Fitzhugh with a smirk. "But you'll never be able to prove I had anything to do with that." "No doubt." Brannon turned to Angela. "How did you first meet Fitzhugh?" Angela crossed her arms and glared back at Brannon. "Answer him, my dear," said Fitzhugh. "It's a matter of public record. Or would have been, if the press ever bothered to look." He said the last with a condescending smile to Lou. "We met at the Senate committee hearings looking into my father's involvement with the death of his brother Frederick. Shortly after, he became my lover. Then I dumped him." Fitzhugh's face said, "Yeah, sure." Brannon said, "So when 'Linda Cook' showed up looking for a job on Mike Fitzhugh's staff, he'da hadda a pretty good idea who you really were, even if your hair was blue?" Angela's face showed contempt. "Yes, I knew who she was," said Fitzhugh. "But -- " " -- Knew she was Bad Penny Porterfield, or knew only that she was Angela?" insisted Brannon. Fitzhugh stroked his chin for several moments. "Both." "So why did you hire the most wanted woman on the FBI's list? At least you had the sense to disguise her and use another alias." Fitzhugh leaned forward, elbows on knees again. "Politics. The country was taking a big turn to the left. My brother Sean had some inkling of that, but he underestimated the potential. As Penny Porterfield, Angela had become a leader in the anti-war movement. Millions of kids were in the streets, all of whom would have worked for whichever candidate opposed the war. Sean tried that, but it was too late. Westervelt had a near-lock on the nomination. If Sean had lived, I still don't think he could have brought it off." Tears clouded Mike Fitzhugh's eyes for the first time that day. "I brought Angela on board to repair the damage, bring the kids back to the party. Try to give them a voice -- through me -- that the establishment candidates had taken away in Chicago." "But she was already with you before Chicago wasn't she?" "No, she was not," said Fitzhugh firmly. "In fact, that's why she was with me at Chappateague that night. We wanted to get away from the others and begin to discuss strategy, begin to make plans for bringing the young people and all the disaffected back into the party. All the Blacks and Asians -- " "Cut the shit, I've heard that speech, Fitzhugh," said Brannon. He moved down to Fitzhugh's face, gave a deep, contemptuous laugh, then stood erect and said, "Is that your story now? The two of you drove off to a remote beach to discuss political strategy? And just happened drive off the bridge and drown Betty Ann, the one person who knew all about Angela?" Fitzhugh leaned back, calibrating where his prior statements now allowed him to move. "That's right," he drawled. "Pretty innocent," Brannon said as he nodded. Fitzhugh smiled back, _see, I told you I'm not involved_. Brannon shrugged, started to move toward the door. Then he spun around and pointed a finger at Fitzhugh. The Senator dropped his smile. "So why haven't you told every this? Why didn't you say so right away? Sure it looked pretty bleak, being caught with a nice girl dead in your car, while you and America's Most Wanted, here, survived. But you could have blamed it on Angela, just like it happened. You could have told everybody Betty Ann had told you about who Linda Cook really was, that she caught you by surprise at the party. You could have said you went for a long drive with Betty Ann and Linda to sort things out, thinking it was all absurd -- Bad Penny Porterfield in the typing pool. You could have blamed the whole thing on her." Brannon pointed at Angela. "But you didn't. You, a United States Senator, took the fall for a woman on the run, the daughter of a Mafia bigshot; the same man who many people thought had killed your brother, Fred and suspected of killing your brother Sean. The public would have believed you in a heart beat." "You weren't there." "Right, but I spoke to the only other person who was there." Brannon eyed Fitzhugh, goading him to speak, but the Senator had volunteered more than enough. Fitzhugh rose. "I think _that_ is finally enough. I'm going." Brannon blocked his way again. "You haven't answered the key question." "What _key_ question?" Fitzhugh said. He was about to push past Brannon when he stopped. Bruff turned to Lou. "Hobie was right, for a piece of slime like Fitzhugh to tell the world his driving caused a young girl's death, _knowing_ it would end his political ambitions, well, there had to be something a lot worse he was covering up." Then Brannon turned to Fitzhugh. "The key question, Senator, is why did you call her a murderer that night?" "I told you, Betty Ann -- " "Don't patronize me. You didn't care about Betty Ann. There was something else. When Scullard killed your brother, Sean, there were many more unanswered questions; curious blast patterns, dummy grenades on Scullard's body; how did he know where to go? A lot of people pointed to the House of Capesta again." "And again they were wrong. Angelo Capesta had nothing to do with Sean's murder," said Fitzhugh, swatting away Brannon's thoughts. "I didn't say Angel-_o_ Capesta, did I?" Brannon moved over to Angela, leaned down over her, one hand grabbing the back of the couch for support. "That's what you told him that night, right? That you had killed Sean." Angela snapped her head away from Brannon. "You couldn't wait for Sean Fitzhugh to have his term in the White House, maybe two terms; eight years. You had to have Power then, right then, didn't you? You thought if Sean were dead the Party would turn to Mike, so you killed Sean." "No." Angela tried to get up. Brannon pushed her back. "You hired Scullard. You and Al 'n' Bevo built the device that killed Sean. What did you do, slip it in his pocket?" Angela snarled. Zinck said, "For years I'd wondered exactly how you'd done it." "Then you left a trail implicating your father, knowing there would be many willing to overlook the possibility they had the wrong Capesta." Angela jumped up. "The war. Sean wouldn't stop the war. Only you would have stopped the war, Mike. Sean wanted it to go on." "Bullshit, the war," said Brannon with contempt. "You wanted Power for yourself. Just like today. You didn't kill for the Vietnamese, or the homeless or racial equality, you killed for you. So you could have power over people, make them do your bidding. That's what this is all about, you getting power, not him." Brannon pointed to Fitzhugh. "He's been Senator for over twenty years. Maybe it ain't top dog, but its pretty good. And all the while he's had all this power, you've had nothing, nothing. Got to you, didn't it?" Angela turned away. "Actually you didn't have nothing, you had one thing. You told Mike you'd implicate him. Say he'd help you kill Sean. Actually he did, unwittingly." Brannon turned to Fitzhugh. "You arranged for her to get into Sean's victory celebration. She sneaked in Scullard and the bombs all right, but the key was getting in." "She said she'd see to it I hung with her. She'd planted enough evidence to bury me in the muck. I ... she -- " "Left a trail from Fred's death back to you, too?" Brannon said. Fitzhugh nodded. Brannon turned to Angela. "Only knowing that one thing was worse than nothing because if you used it, you destroyed him and would have no shot at power." Angela ground her teeth. Her eyes darted to Fitzhugh. "That's how you held her off all these years, wasn't it, Mike? Dangling your presidential chances in front of her, maybe even believing in them yourself? Because it would have been better to get elected the regular way and as long as you had that chance, it was worth holding on to. But no more. You realized that this year. No more chances for Mike Fitzhugh." Brannon pointed at Angela. "You knew it, too. Only you had to have yours. So you rounded up your old pals, Al 'n' Bevo, and made another bomb. The thing I don't understand is, how could you get anything out of this?" Angela's eyes turned to Fitzhugh, softened. "He said he'd marry me." Zinck snorted. "First Lady Bad Penny Capesta Porterfield? Stupid bitch. Did you actually believe that?" He turned to Fitzhugh. "Did you tell her that?" Fitzhugh's glacial face stared past Zinck, out through the door. Roaring with laughter, Zinck shook his head from side to side and waved his hands in Angela's face. "Never happen. Never." He straightened up. "Stupid bitch. Why didn't you get yours when Bevo 'n' me got ours? You think you're so smart, look at what you've got now. Diddly shit. He's gonna pin this whole thing on you. He's not going to _marry_ you, never was, never will." He began a limping little jig. "Yup, we got ours, Bevo 'n' me. We got -- " Angela's eyes flashed with fury. She lunged past the men, grabbed Fitzhugh's gun off the desk, and wheeled back around. The first slug tore off the top of Zinck's head. "Here, have some more." The second and third rounds buried deep in his torso. Lou screamed. Fitzhugh rose. "Angela, there's no need..." "And here's yours, Mike." he cracks of the four rounds she fired into the Great Man's body covered her screams. Lou, hands over ears, eyes shut, screamed again. Lynn, wary and catlike, moved away from the door. Brannon sighed, almost a sob. Angela inhaled deeply as she looked down on the two bodies. She spat on Fitzhugh, then snapped her head up, suddenly aware of the other three. She ran from the room, tripping over Zinck's carcass and hurtling head first into the far wall. "Well, get her, Bruff," shouted Lou. "She's got a gun," said Brannon, raising his arms in a monster shrug. "She's already fired nine shots," said Lou. "Eight. And it only takes one," said Brannon. "She'll get away." "Quite possibly." "Are you afraid of her, Bruff?" Lou said with unconcealed disgust. "Not of her; of her gun." A look of distaste. "Then I'm going after her." Lou ran from the room. "Lou." He tried to grab he. "I think we should stay here and call the police," said Lynn. "You do it." Brannon pushed past. "Don't, Bruff." This time Lynn caught his arm. "She killed my uncle." Lynn nodded, dropped his arm. "We'll both go." They dashed outside, into the middle of the street. Nothing disturbed the ancient quiet of the residential area. Lynn stood with hands in her pockets. "Well?" Brannon shook his head as he scanned the horizon. "Help me." Lou's voice. "It came from over there, towards town." Lynn pointed. Racing around the corner, they found Louisa sprawled on Scotland Street, holding her knee, grimacing in pain. "I fell and hurt my knee. I'll be okay. You need to follow her. She ran around the corner over there." Brannon hesitated. "Go." He went onto North Henry Street, Lynn bounding beside him like a cat at play. "There she is." Lynn pointed to the copper-haired woman as she ran into the big parking lot at Prince George and North Henry. Brannon spotted Angela sticking out above the rows of vehicles. She ran through the diagonally parked cars, heading back toward Duke of Gloucester. Brannon and Lynn split up, she heading down North Henry, he cutting through some underbrush. Angela cut left to avoid the outlying shops of Merchant's Square. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Lynn had stopped. A pink Lincoln Continental blocked her route, as a small, gray head peered over the dashboard and attempted to navigate the turn into the Inn; much as Captain Kirk might dock the Starship Enterprise at a space station. Penny, the pistol no longer visible, hurried but did not run across Duke of Gloucester. She ducked under some low pines and into a series of parking lots. Brannon followed. He puffed his way to the corner of South Henry and Francis. He didn't wait for the traffic to clear before he dashed through honking tourists onto the big, open field spreading before the Public Hospital exhibition building. There he saw Angela had halted. Her head turning from side to side, she moved three paces left, then four right. "Angela, stop," Brannon bellowed. Not seeing the pistol, his courage returned, plus compound interest. He ran head long towards the frustrated radical. Angela turned slowly towards Brannon, her mouth open, her eyes vacant. Her left arm rose stiffly, bringing the pistol into Brannon's view. "Whoa." He stumbled, did not fall. She leveled the gun at him and fired. Brannon staggered, the bullet hitting him in the upper left thigh. He dropped to the muddy ground and clutched his wound. The blood oozing through his fingers only served to increase his whimpering. The fusillade which ended the life of Angela Capesta, Penny Porterfield, Linda Cook and Mildred Baltzell safely passed over the prone Brannon. It would have entered the dirt embankment near the Hospital, as planned, if any of the dozen or so rounds fired by the four Secret Service agents had missed. "I think we got the shooter," said the lead agent into the small microphone around his neck. "Tall, copper haired female, like you said. Were there others?" He then added there was a civilian down via her gun fire. One agent felt for the corpse's pulse since it was procedure, while the other two hastened to cordon off the crowds drifting up from Merchant's Square. They ignored a red faced and stiff-kneed Louisa Ferncliff. "Bruff," she called at the fallen form. Brannon managed to roll on his back and look off to his left at Louisa, running to him with outstretched arms. "Bruff." This time from his right. He swivelled his head to see Lynn Beaumont calling to him as she ran up the path leading from Nassau Street. "Bruff, are you okay?" He turned left. "Bruff, do you need help?" He turned right. The two women converged on Brannon, his head rotating. Left. Right. Left. Right. -------- *Richard W. Browne* Richard W. Browne lives outside Richmond, Virginia, the setting of much of BRANNON'S CHOICE. He has worked as a commercial writer, specializing in finance and employee benefits. His fiction has appeared in mystery magazines such as Red Herring Mystery Magazine. BRANNON'S CHOICE is his first published novel. Another work, A CORPSE IS A CORPSE, was a finalist in the 1998 Malice Domestic contest, and is represented by a literary agent. ----------------------- Visit www.hardshell.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.