The Incumbent Page 7

  Paul’s wife was a winner. She was a few inches shorter than me and round like a barrel. Her eyes were like blue lenses that focused an inner light. She often served as hostess during the dinner hour.

  “Madam Mayor,” Paul said with a flourish. “We’re honored to have you.”

  “Oh, knock it off, Paul. I eat here at least once a week.”

  “In that case, you know where the kitchen is. Fix your own lunch.”

  “It would never measure up to your standards.”

  He led us to a large booth in the front corner of the restaurant. The sun was high overhead, shinning through a now cloudless sky. The remaining fragments of rain clouds had gone wherever clouds go. The sky was bright and the ocean vivid blue. The air, scrubbed clean by the driving rain, was untainted by smog or haze. California knew how to dress up.

  The three of us took our seats, joining Randi, who had beaten us there. I introduced the girls to my aide and they all shook hands. I noticed that Randi let her eyes linger on Celeste a moment or two.

  Paul handed us menus and then took our drink orders. I asked for tea, Randi asked for water with a slice of lemon, and the girls each requested a Coke. Paul then scurried away. He always scurried. No wonder he was thin.

  The conversation remained light while we perused the menus. I glanced at the items, which included various seafood dishes and some traditional lunch fare like hamburgers and sandwiches.

  “Get whatever you want, girls; it’s my treat,” I said as I set my menu down. Looking at it had been a waste of time. I knew what I wanted before I left the office.

  “Cool,” Michele said.

  Celeste sat quietly, staring at the menu. I doubted she was at all hungry.

  Paul returned with our drinks and set them down with practiced precision. “Is everybody ready?”

  I looked around the table and everyone but Celeste nodded. She had, however, set her menu down. “I would like a shrimp salad and a cup of the gumbo,” I said, then turned to the others. “I love the gumbo.”

  Randi ordered a bowl of clam chowder and Michele asked for shrimp fettuccine. I looked at Celeste, fearing that she would say she wasn’t hungry. Emotions could be taxing, and she had expended a lot of emotion over the last eighteen hours. She needed to eat.

  “Can I have a hamburger?” she asked. “I don’t much care for fish stuff.”

  “It’ll be a blessing,” Paul said and then trotted off.

  “He’s weird,” Michele said with a giggle.

  “He’s one of the nicest people you will ever meet,” I said. “He is a little weird, though, but only a little. My husband used to go fishing with him.”

  “Really?” Randi said. “I didn’t know that, and I know everything about you.”

  “You don’t know as much as you think, woman. My husband went through a stage, one of those back-to-nature-regain-the-masculine- role things. At least that’s how it appeared to me. About once a month he and Paul would go out on a half-day boat. Other businessmen would go with them. Peter used to tell me that he was fishing for business as much as bass or yellowtail or whatever they fish for.”

  As if on cue, two elderly men walked by our window, fishing poles in hand, and headed toward the distant end of the pier. Others were walking in the opposite direction. The pier is a place of constant activity. Inside, the chatter of the crowd filled the air as thoroughly as the aroma from the kitchen. A mix of humanity occupied the room: men in shirts and ties discussed the day’s business next to men in faded jeans and torn work shirts, and mothers with young children sat lost in conversation. Each table or booth was a world unto itself, a galaxy that floated in isolation from all the galaxies around it. There was laughter and there were whispers and at our table there was awkward silence.

  Celeste sat with slumped shoulders, staring at the table, shutting out the rest of the world. After Peter’s murder, I often felt I stood out like a bride in a red gown. Often I imagined that people were looking at me, pitying me or maybe casting a glare in my direction, like the fishermen on the pier casting their lines into the depths of the ocean. No doubt Celeste felt the same way.

  Here we were, doing a perfectly normal thing, in a perfectly normal place, surround by normal people, yet nothing was normal for Celeste. Somewhere, someone was holding her mother, or worse. It was a brutal truth held back by the hope of good news, that somehow it had all been a misunderstanding or a very bad dream. No matter how hard the coals of that hope were stoked, the truth always came crashing in like cold water.

  Michele yammered on about different things—friends Celeste knew, school, moving out on her own—but her efforts failed. She was being a good friend, putting on a strong face and attempting to give Celeste something else to think about. I knew from personal experience that never worked. Everything appears trivial in the stark light of tragedy. There was no use avoiding the subject. It was on everyone’s mind.

  “Celeste,” I asked, “do you want to go by your house and pick up some clothing and personal items?”

  “I suppose. Will the police let us in?”

  “I think so. I’d be happy to check.”

  “I’ll do it,” Randi said, pulling a cell phone from her purse. She paused. “Do you know the number?”

  I shook my head. Randi entered three numbers, then asked information for a Santa Rita listing.

  Turning my attention back to Celeste, I said, “If you’re uncomfortable about going in the house, I’d be happy to go for you.”

  “Me too,” Michele said.

  “That’s okay,” Celeste said. “I was in there last night. I can’t hide from this.”

  She was courageous; I had to give her that. “Let’s do that right after we eat. Michele can help you pull some things together. How does that sound?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  My heart ached for her. This young woman of nineteen years appeared to have aged a decade overnight. She looked as if someone had scooped the life out of her.

  “Mayor,” Randi said. “I have Detective West on the phone. He said the house has been cleared, but he wants to talk to you.”

  I took the phone. “Hello.”

  “Mayor, is Celeste with you?”

  “She is.” Celeste looked up.

  “Her father has been looking for her. He wants to talk to his daughter. May I give him your cell phone number?”

  “Is he in town?” Celeste cocked her head to the side; she had made the connection.

  “No, but he’s flying out here. He’s at the airport in Galveston now.”

  I took a deep breath. This was awkward. “Did he leave a number?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Why don’t you give that to me and I’ll pass it on to Celeste. The decision is hers to make.”

  He agreed and relayed the number while I searched frantically for a pen in my purse. Randi had one at the ready. I jotted the number down, repeating it to make sure I had it right. I said goodbye and handed the phone back to Randi.

  “My father?”

  “Yes, he’s at an airport in Texas. He wants to talk to you.”

  Her face flushed. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “I thought you might say that. That’s why I didn’t give my number.”

  “He doesn’t care about us. He’s been gone for years. He never calls. Why does he want to come out here now?”

  “Celeste, the choice is yours. You’re over eighteen; you can talk to him or not. This is a . . . an unusual situation. He may just want to make sure you’re all right.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t know him like I do.”

  “True. I told Detective West I’d give you the number. What you do with it is up to you.” I pushed the napkin across the table. She stared at it for a few moments, then picked it up, gazing at the scrawled numbers. Then she slowly began to tear it into strips.

  That took care of the phone number, but her father was flying to California. He would arrive in a few hours.

  Wha
t then?

  chapter 6

  I returned to my office at 1:45, having finished lunch and taken Celeste to her home to pick up clothing. The drive to her house and then to my home had been as solemn as lunch. There was a contagious heaviness that followed Celeste and infected the rest of us. I invited Michele to stay at the house with Celeste and she agreed. We took the time to swing by Michele’s place so she could pick up her swimsuit. She was thrilled to exchange a day in her apartment for one in a house on the beach. I made them swear there would be no wild parties, frat boys, or motorcycle gangs. This time when I arrived at the office, I parked in the rear lot.

  Randi was already at her desk when I walked in. “Did I miss anything fun?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about fun, but you missed a call. Celeste’s father has telephoned twice.”

  I had checked my messages at the house when I dropped the girls off and had none. I would have been surprised and upset had someone given my number to Celeste’s father. I have a private number, yet another security precaution. There is nothing worse than being awakened at two a.m. by some drunk who wants to talk about the pothole on his street. “Did he leave a message?”

  “I told him you were out, but he’s an insistent man. He said he’d call every half hour until he got ahold of you.”

  “Swell. Is he calling from the airport?”

  “No, he’s calling from the plane. He’s already in the air.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to him when he calls.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I closed the door to my office, sat down, and did nothing. The morning had been grueling in several ways, and now I was facing a phone conversation with a man who was undoubtedly upset. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I tried to focus on other matters. I was to give a speech the next week to the Chamber of Commerce, as well as deliver a talk to the Young Republicans. I was also due to have dinner at my parents’ home the next evening. I needed to call and bring them up to date, and inform them I’d be bringing company.

  Beyond the door I heard the phone ring. I looked at my desk clock. Fifteen minutes had passed, making it two o’clock. I had a feeling Celeste’s father was on the phone. Randi’s voice came over the intercom: “Mr. Christopher Truccoli. Have fun.”

  “As if,” I replied as surly as possible, then snatched up the phone with an imagined confidence. “This is Mayor Glenn.” I tried to sound professional and busy.

  “Mayor, this is Christopher Truccoli, Celeste’s father.” His voice sounded tinny.

  “Yes, Mr. Truccoli; I understand you’re calling from the plane.”

  “Can you hear me all right?”

  “I hear you fine, sir.”

  “Good. I want to talk to my daughter.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “It was my understanding that she was with you.”

  “Celeste stayed with me last night. I didn’t want her to be alone.”

  “I appreciate that. How is she?”

  “She’s doing well, considering what she’s facing. She’s a strong young lady.”

  “How do I get in contact with her?”

  There it was. The question I had hoped wouldn’t come. I inhaled and spat out the truth of the matter. “This is awkward for me, sir, but she has made it clear that she doesn’t want to speak to you.”

  “That’s crazy; she’s my daughter.”

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Truccoli, the decision is hers, not mine.”

  “She’s staying at your house?”

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “Give me that number; I’ll call her there.” His voice had slipped up a quarter octave and he was becoming agitated.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can and you will!”

  It was clear that bullying wasn’t something new to him. It was time for a different tactic. “Mr. Truccoli, if you’re going to speak to me, then you are going to do so with a civil tongue and demeanor. Do you understand?”

  “I will speak to you any way I choose.” His voice was just a few degrees from shouting. I was glad I wasn’t sitting next to him on the airplane.

  “No sir, you will not. I’m perfectly capable of hanging up the phone, and trust me, I’ve hung up on angrier people than you.”

  “What kind of person are you to come between a father and his daughter, especially at a time like this?”

  “I do not stand between you and your daughter. I am merely honoring a young woman’s request.”

  “She’s a child.”

  “She’s a legal adult.”

  “But I’m already on the plane. I’m thirty thousand feet over west Texas.”

  “That’s something over which I have no control.”

  “Who’s your supervisor?” He was shouting. I heard another voice, that of a woman. I couldn’t make out everything she said but I did hear, “. . . have to be quiet . . .”

  I almost laughed at his question. “My supervisor is the citizenry of Santa Rita.” I heard swearing.

  “Are you stupid, woman? Don’t you know what has happened?”

  “I can assure you I am not stupid, and yes, I know what has occurred, as much as can be known at this point.”

  “So you’re not going to give me your number?”

  “No sir, I am not.”

  “How am I supposed to talk to my daughter? You tell me that.” I was pretty sure he was grinding his teeth.

  “I suggest you get a hotel in the area, and as soon as you get settled, you can call Detective West and tell him where you’re staying. I’ll ask West to pass that information on to me and I promise to give it to Celeste. What she does with it will be up to her.”

  There was a momentary pause, then, “Son of a—” The line went dead. I hung up the phone and a moment later Randi opened the door and peeked in.

  “I assume you were listening in.”

  “I thought you might need an ear witness.”

  “He is one unhappy man.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be getting a box of chocolates anytime soon.”

  “Somehow that’s a relief.”

  Randi laughed. “I’ll call West and fill him in.”

  “Thanks, Randi.”

  My head began to throb.

  Randi buzzed the intercom and announced, “One Mrs. Agnes Anderson for you. She’ll tell you I’m right about Congress.”

  “You didn’t tell my mother about that, did you?”

  “Of course not, but I will if you want.” Even over the intercom I could hear the smile in Randi’s voice. She was enjoying herself.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t. Mom thinks I could be president this time next year if I would just apply myself.”

  “Hmm. President, eh?”

  “Don’t get any ideas.” I picked up the phone. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Mom spoke with lilting, almost musical tones, which was to be expected: she was a first-class musician and teacher. Never quite able to reach the level that would allow her to play viola in a large symphony, she had been content to teach at the local high school. The image of her flashed to mind: tall, thin, short gray hair, large caring eyes, and a mouth more accustomed to smiling than frowning. The gray of her hair, which she used to call “highlights,” was dominating, and she no longer hid it under chemical color. I doubted I would follow her example. “I was just calling to see how you are . . . I mean, with all that has happened.”

  “Happened?”

  “About your friend. It was in the papers. Are you okay?”

  The newspapers, of course. I had not read the morning edition, something I normally do within minutes of walking through my office door. This day, however, was hardly usual.

  “I’m fine, Mom. There’s nothing to worry about.” Telling my mother not to worry was like telling the ocean not to send waves to the shore. It was a law of nature. Mothers worry; my mother worried at championship levels.

  “That’
s what your father said, but I wanted to be sure. What happened?”

  I spent the next five minutes bringing her up to date, leaving out the fingerprinting and the bit about my business card.

  “That’s horrible.”

  “We’re all waiting to hear from the police. With a little luck, we’ll know something soon.”

  “I hope so. What are you doing for dinner . . . you and Celeste, I mean?”

  I hadn’t thought about dinner and told her so.

  “Well, why don’t you two come over tonight? We can push our weekly dinner up a day.” I normally had dinner with my parents on Thursdays. One week my mother cooked, the next I treated them to a meal at one of the local eating establishments.

  “I suppose we could do that. Let’s plan on it, and I’ll mention it to Celeste when I get home.”

  “Great, I’ll make an enchilada casserole.” Mom was the casserole queen. Fortunately, she was as good a cook as she was a musician. “Is six-thirty okay?”

  “That will be great, Mom. Can I bring anything?” I already knew the answer.

  “No, I have more time than you do. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I hung up and found myself looking forward to the evening. I might have been just shy of forty, but visiting the home I grew up in always brought a sense of comfort and security. My parents were in their early sixties, but they seemed ageless to me. Spreading gray hair, new wrinkles, widening waddles, meant nothing to me.

  Truth was, I could use a few hours with the two people I knew loved me unconditionally.

  At 4:50 Randi announced I had another call. This time it was from Detective West. I was just packing my briefcase, throwing in a few files I needed for an upcoming closed-door session of the council, and “the File,” as Randi had taken to calling it.

  Hoping for new information, I snapped up the phone and said hello.

  “This is a courtesy call, Mayor,” West said. “Mr. Truccoli was just here and was bending my ear. He’s less than pleased with you.”

  “I gathered that when I spoke to him this afternoon.”

  “He wants to see his daughter.”