Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5) Read online

  Oh, brother, I can't do this. It's like picking on a little kid.

  Okay, one more time, I will play along with him to see if there is anything I can make any sense of. "Pete, why is it the Masons in particular? Why do you fear them?"

  "Because the Masons are the primary group the inner circle uses to control the world.

  “I look him in the eye. "Are there other groups? That this 'in­ner circle' uses?"

  "The Council of Foreign Relations.”

  "A great many influential people belong to the CFR," I com­ment.

  He nods. "That's why they're successful; the inner circle pro­motes their careers in their plan for world domination.”

  "Like who?"

  "Like all our presidents, the media—“

  "The media?"

  He nods. "The women can belong to the CFR but not to the Masons, so that's why no woman has been in the inner circle."

  "George Bush is in this inner circle?"

  "Very close to it," he says, eyes narrowing.

  "What media people are in the CFR?"

  "Barbara Walters. Diane Sawyer. Henry Kissinger. Dan Rather. Peter Jennings. Tom Brokaw. But the other organization the inner circle uses is the Trilateral Commission. And when a man belongs to two or more of these groups, you know he is at the top of the chain, the closest to the inner circle you can get. George Bush is all three, a Mason, CFR and TLC. Bill Clinton is in all three, too."

  "But one's a Republican and one's—"

  "That's just a pretense, the political parties. The inner circle is a master of creating conflict to hide its presence. Ross Perot is a Mason. Imagine their power—Bush, Clinton, Perot—three left­-handed Masons!"

  I opt to skip the "left-handed" part of the conspiracy and put a frying pan on the stove and turn it on. I put a little bit of butter into it. "So who else?"

  "Gerald Ford is a Mason and CFR. So is Newt Gingrich. So are the Rockefellers, David Senior and Junior, and John D."

  I salt and pepper his steak. I find a Dole salad in one of the produce drawers in the refrigerator and fix that, too. "So how does this plan for world domination relate to poor little Castle­ford?"

  "There are chains of commands. And just like how the Ma­sons killed John F. Kennedy for straying, for defying their dom­inance, the Masons here in Castleford killed your father."

  I sear the steak without responding and turn down the heat. I stick two slices of bread into the toaster and push them down and then get out the garlic powder. "You think my father defied someone's dominance here in town," I finally say.

  He nods vigorously. "And I think they killed that Tony Mey­ers for the same thing."

  "Pete," I say, coming over to stand in front of him and put­ting a solemn hand on his shoulder, "this is my father you're talking about. So don't mess with me. If you know something definite that makes you say these things, you must tell me."

  He looks down. "It's just that I've heard things, Sally."

  "Heard them where?"

  "Around." He is uncomfortable and is looking around, as if for an escape.

  The toast pops up and I walk over to butter it and sprinkle a little garlic powder on each slice. I flip the steak on the plate and bring it over to the table with the salt and pepper. I give Pete a napkin and fork and knife. I bring over the salad. I pour him a glass of seltzer. "Would you like some onion?"

  He shakes his head no, mouth full. He is smiling. "Very good," he says while patting his mouth with his napkin.

  I sit down across from him and watch him eat. So does Scotty from the floor. Scotty doesn't beg; he just breaks your heart.

  When Pete's gotten deep into his supper, I say, "You really don't know how Tony Meyers knew you were going to Kae­gle's Pond?"

  He stops chewing. Then starts again. And shakes his head. He's definitely lying. Earlier Pete was convinced Tony Mey­ers was waiting at the pond to kill him.

  "Who are you protecting, Pete? I won't tell anybody. I know you won't tell me because you're scared someone might get hurt. Isn't that right?"

  He's stopped chewing again and is breathing heavily through his nose, watching me.

  "Is it the waitress at Casey's diner? The one who told me to meet you? Are you afraid she'll get in trouble?"

  He shakes his head.

  "Who?"

  He struggles to swallow and when he does, he drops his knife and fork onto the plate with a clatter and then just sits there, like he's waiting for the electric chair to be turned on and end his misery.

  "Who is it, Pete?" I coax. "You know you can trust me."

  A tear falls from his left eye and it makes me so sad, for I am reminded that in his poor, tormented mind, this world is such a dangerous place. And this murder has confirmed it for him.

  "Papa," he whispers. "Papa told the man to go there."

  "But you told me before that your father was at the seniors center that day, for War Day.”

  His face starts to screw up. It's so hard to know what is going on in his mind.

  "Not Papa,” he finally says, dropping his head.

  Poor guy. He is so confused and so scared. I go over and give him a hug. "Everything's going to be okay,” I tell him, patting his shoulder. I step back. "We'll talk another time about it."

  "The cops think I'm crazy,” he says, starting to look more like himself. "I heard one of them say it when I was at Carmella's.”

  Ha! So he was there.

  "Did they treat you okay?"

  He nods. "Except the cops kept saying I was a nut. Carmella didn't."

  "Eat your dinner, sweetie," I say.

  And, as if there is a great weight off his shoulders now, Crazy Pete does.

  After dinner, when he starts talking about the sign of the X, I have had enough for one day. Scotty's been given the little scraps of fat from Pete's steak already, and now even he wan­ders away, bored.

  I get dressed, put Scotty in the back of the Jeep and drive Crazy Pete home. Scotty and I go with him to unlock the front door and make the rounds inside the house to make sure all is well.

  All is well.

  Instead of going home, like most sane people would at nearly 2:00 a.m., I drive back to the paper and let myself in. Scotty comes along. I want to see if there is a way I can access a mem­bership list of the Castleford Masonic Lodge of twenty-one years ago.

  You just never know.

  24

  The phone rings at eight-thirty and I remember I never called Spencer or Doug back last night. I take a breath. "Hello?"

  "Somebody did set off explosives at Tranowsky's Auto Body yesterday," Joe Bix announces. "But it doesn't look like a pro, since he blew up half the parking lot with it."

  "Did they find anything inside? Anything left?"

  "If you mean bodies, no. The fire marshal says to all appear­ances, the building was empty, save a few old pots of paint and the lifts."

  "That's weird." I think a moment. "Are we sure there are no plans to build anything downtown? Someone who'd want to clear everyone out of there?"

  "Downtown? Hell, Sally, the city would give it to anybody who wants it."

  True. The city still owned a lot of real estate downtown be­cause of the run of bankruptcies, tax repossessions and aban­donments after the mall was built.

  "What about insurance? How much did Tergar have?"

  "Only personal injury. The building itself wasn't worth five bucks, and the land has been appraised at less than ten thou­sand."

  "Huh." I climb out of bed and pad through the house in my bare feet to let Scotty out the back door. "Why would someone want to blow it up?"

  "Nobody seems to know, but they did blow it up."

  "What kind of explosives?"

  "They're not saying."

  "Of course not. It would be all they have to go on," I say to myself. "Well, thanks for letting me know."

  "That was a pretty good piece you put together last night," Joe slips in.

  "Thanks. I just swung by and found the gang
trying to fill space."

  "Yeah, right."

  I make some coffee and call Doug. He's not there, so I leave a message. Then I call Spencer. He's not there, either. I look at the clock and know I have to hustle. I promised Mother we'd "do" church before brunch.

  "You look..." Mother is searching for a word.

  "Tired?" I suggest.

  "Worried," she decides.

  We are sitting on the back deck of Mother's house and are about to eat. We have already been to the Congregational Church where the minister said to me, as he always does, "And how wonderful it is to see you here this morning."

  "Yes," Mother confirms, "you are worried."

  I make a sound indicating she may not be far off in her obser­vations, but I am too determined to eat my eggs and bacon and potatoes and biscuits while they're hot. And so I do. It doesn't take long.

  Mother is eating fruit salad, glancing through the piles of sec­tions that make up the Herald-American and the New York Times on Sunday. She is on "The Week in Review" of the Times when I finally say something.

  "Mother?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Who was in charge of the investigation of Daddy's death?"

  There is a decided pause on my mother's part before she slowly lowers the paper into her lap, making it crinkle. "What do you mean, investigation?"

  "I mean, who determined his cause of death? The police? The fire department?"

  "Well... " Mother looks off into the distance, toward the lake. “Let me think..." Her eyes narrow slightly. "The police, I sup­pose." She meets my eye. "Why?"

  "I just wondered."

  Mother is suspicious. "Does this have anything to do with Tony Meyers's murder?"

  "No, Mother, of course not. I was just wondering. Last night at the fire at Tranowsky's, the fire marshal was conducting the investigation. I just wondered who does it if a building falls down in a flood."

  "I should think the city engineer would have been responsi­ble," Mother says. "Try City Hall. I'm sure the records are read­ily available." She resumes reading her section of the paper, but then brings it crumpling back down again in her lap. "Why would you be interested in that after all this time?"

  I shrug. "I was on the fire line last night, passing sandbags near the Mobil station. It made me think of Daddy."

  She pours fresh coffee for herself, sips, and then says, "There's something else, isn't there?"

  I look at her innocently.

  "You were acting funny during the sermon this morning."

  "I wasn't acting funny."

  "You were paying avid attention," Mother says, "which in my book, when it comes to you, is acting funny."

  I shrug again and pretend to read the paper, feeling Mother's eyes still on me. The sermon was on monogamy. Slowly I bring my eyes back up. "I met someone in New York this week."

  "A man," Mother adds.

  I nod. "And I really, really like him."

  Mother nods, waiting.

  "Enough that I know I don't want—that I can't—well, you know, be with Doug in the same way right now."

  Mother waits, but I don't say anything else. I go inside to use the bathroom and come back. After I sit down, she says, "Does Doug know?"

  "I think so."

  "What does that mean?"

  I sigh. "It means we met yesterday and he went out with someone else last night, but then he called later, saying he wanted to see me. He said he thought he had acted badly. But when I called him this morning, either he went out or he's not answering, and I strongly suspect the latter."

  Mother sips her coffee. "Your relationship has never been simple."

  "Tell me about it," I sigh, petting Abigail, who has come up on the deck with Scotty to hunt for scraps.

  "So you want to see this man in New York."

  I nod. "Very much."

  "But if he turns out to be nothing—which he very likely could be, since you don't know him—“

  "I obviously don't feel committed to Doug the way I should be," I interrupt, irritated. I have a feeling Mother is somehow going to make me feel awful.

  "So you're willing to let Doug go. And I mean really let him go, Sally, let him move on?"

  I look at her.

  "And not change your mind if this new fellow doesn't work out? You won't come back to haunt Doug when you're lonely?"

  I know what she's saying. She's been through two breakups of ours already, when I vowed it was over, only to see me go right back to Doug.

  "Sally," she says with that special tension in her voice that means she's trying her best not to lecture me but feels com­pelled to, anyway, "please take this the right way—“

  I'm waiting.

  "You have to grow up."

  She's caught me off guard with this one.

  "You cannot go on playing around with people anymore, Sally. You're thirty years old—not twenty, not fifteen. You can't do and say things and then not mean them. You've got to learn to bite your tongue and hold yourself in check until you're cer­tain how you feel—until you know to what lengths you're pre­pared to go in order to make good on your word."

  "But Doug—" I start.

  "Doug needs to grow up, too!" she nearly cries. "Both of you! Sometimes I swear the two of you think you're still in high school and just haven't noticed that everybody else has grown up, made decisions and moved on to the next phase!" She offers a quick smile to lessen the impact of what she has just said. "Sometimes I think you and Doug will still be hanging out like you did in high school when you're in wheelchairs... And heaven forbid one of you wakes up, because each of you has to have the other in order to keep this fantasy going, that you have all the time in the world."

  What she says is painful, but true. It has something to do with the sex life Doug and I have shared and the fact it began when we were teenagers. And the way I have acted this week doesn't reassure me much that my relationship with Spencer, if it can even be called that, is rooted in maturity, either.

  The thought makes me feel scared. Anxious. I don't know, I just don't know.

  "Perhaps it's because you've been living in Castleford again," Mother says. "But whatever it is, Sally, I don't think your relationship with Doug has been very progressive for ei­ther one of you. As for your new friend—he is single, I hope."

  "Of course he is, Mother."

  She nods once, as if saying, Well, at least you got that part right. "What does he do?"

  "He's an executive editor at Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe."

  Her eyebrows go up. "How old?"

  "Thirty-five."

  "Divorced, I take it."

  I shake my head. "No. He's kind of like me."

  Mother sighs, shaking her head. "Thirty-five and never mar­ried—"

  "Mother!"

  "I just want you to be careful."

  "Oh, so Doug being married and divorced by age twenty­-seven is some kind of excellent credential?"

  "Darling, let me explain something to you," she says, leaning forward to place her hand over mine. "I love you and your brother more than life itself. I think you and your brother are two of the most wonderful human beings that ever walked the face of the earth. I think you are kind and generous and hard­working and, heaven knows, bright—too bright, I often think. And you're lucky, too, Sally, because men find you attractive­—despite, well, you know, the way you can be."

  "And what way is that, Mother?"

  "Difficult."

  I wait for her to elaborate and she doesn't.

  "Difficult," I repeat.

  She nods. "Yes."

  "How so?"

  She withdraws her hand and sits back in her chair. "In what ways do you think you might be difficult?"

  "Okay." I think. "I have an erratic schedule—"

  "The problem is not your erratic schedule," Mother hints to me. “It's the fact that you prefer it that way. That you're always running around like a chicken with its head cut off."

  "Well, thanks a lot!" I can't help but laugh.r />
  "Well, it's true, Sally, your life is just in chaos all the time!"

  "It's not chaos to me."

  "And that's part of the problem!"

  We both giggle.

  "All right, all right, all right," I mutter, surrendering. "What else? Okay I've got kind of a problem with authority."

  "Yes, like any authority who is not you."

  "How long have you been waiting to beat me up, anyway?"

  "Go on. I promise you, it will be worth it."

  "Okay. I've got a control thing, I guess."

  "But not too much," she says encouragingly.

  "And, I don't know, I'm impatient."

  "That's not a fault, honey, that's genetic—you're just like your father."

  After a while, I say, "Sorry to disappoint you, but at the mo­ment I can't think of any other major faults I have."

  "You're loyal to a fault," Mother tells me. "And it's that, well, shall we call it excessive sense of loyalty that has kept you with Doug. He's seen other women, and yet you've remained loyal."

  I avert my eyes. "Not anymore, Mother."

  She is silent for several moments. I glance at her and can tell this is not a confidence she particularly wants. "Darling, listen to me. Knowing you the way I do..." She sighs. "I'm just going to tell you the way it is."

  "Please do," I say glumly.

  "If, in the next year or so, Sally, you don't figure out what it is you're trying to do in your personal life, you won't know for at least another ten years. And by that time, if you want chil­dren, it will be too late."

  I roll my eyes and fall back in my chair. "Oh, brother!"

  "I'm just telling you the way it is. So if you don't want to have children, fine, then keep this up."

  "Keep what up?"

  "Carrying on like you're a schoolgirl instead of a thirty-year-­old woman who has a major career decision to make."

  "My career? How did my career get into this?" I suddenly feel hostile, and Mother or no Mother I am sorely tempted to fwang some leftover biscuit at her with my fork.

  "Because your career is part of the problem," Mother says. "You've got to stop diddling about and focus on what it is you really want to do."

  Now I am just sitting here, dumbfounded.

  Mother softens slightly. "You have brains and talent. And you and I both know that coming back to work at the Herald­-American was not your great career goal in life. And yet, you seemed to want to settle back down in Castleford, and since that was the case you obviously thought the Herald-American would do. But clearly it hasn't been enough. And now you've been given an opportunity of a lifetime—"