TWENTY-ONE

LOUISE TURNED HER head abruptly away and pretended not to see me pass quickly through the campaign headquarters to the office in back. Marion Senske was not happy about my presence, either. She was sitting behind her desk, observing while an image consultant instructed C. C.

The consultant was tall, with shoulder-length auburn hair. She was wearing a conservative two-piece, double-breasted blue suit with gold earrings and a thin gold chain around her throat. She looked like she should be running for governor.

“As I said, there are two things to remember,” she told C. C. “Use the right grip—two firm pumps, yes?—and maintain a pleasant facial expression. It’s important that you look interested. I know that will be difficult. You shake, what, a hundred hands each day?”

“More,” C. C. said, rolling her eyes.

“That makes it even more crucial that you leave a positive impression. Most of us make assumptions about a person’s level of success, trustworthiness, credibility, economic standing, education, social position and sophistication based on that first meeting—within seconds in fact. And consider: The vast majority of the people you meet during the course of a campaign will never shake your hand again. Therefore, the first impression you make is the one they will carry with them, quite possibly forever.”

I was leaning against the doorframe watching the show, when the image consultant noticed me and decided I would make a good prop.

“Smile when you approach the voter,” she instructed as she moved toward me. “Extend your hand.” She did. So did I. “One hand. No limp-fisted fish, no bone crushers, no two-handed sandwiches.” She took my hand and, true to her word, gave it two firm pumps. “Hi, I’m Deborah Dixon.”

“Will you marry me, Debbie?” I asked. C. C. giggled. Even Marion cracked a smile. Deborah was not amused.

“You will occasionally have to deal with inappropriate behavior,” she told C. C., turning her back on me.

“Ms. Dixon, could you and Carol Catherine continue your instruction in the next room, please? I must speak to Mr. Taylor.”

Deborah agreed and moved past me. C. C. extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Carol Catherine Monroe and I would be happy to marry you,” she said smiling broadly.

“I’m sorry, Miss Monroe. My heart belongs to Debbie. It was the first impression that did it.”

C. C. giggled some more and followed Deborah outside.

“Close the door,” Marion told me. I did. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I had a rather disagreeable encounter with an associate of yours last night,” I told her.

“I know. He called me.”

“Did you have a pleasant conversation?”

“We did not.”

“Pity.”

Marion did not waste any time. “I could see to it that you lose your license, that you never work as a private investigator again,” she said.

“Is that what you told Freddie?”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do and if you and C. C. had already won the election I’d be plenty worried. But since you haven’t and since I’m in a position to help see that you don’t …” I shrugged.

Marion pursed her lips and tapped her toe. “How?” she asked.

“There’s something you should know about Freddie,” I replied. “He’d love to see his name in the newspaper.”

Marion leaned back; the chair creaked under her bulk and I wondered what advice Deborah would give her.

“All right, how much?”

“There you go,” I told her, “making assumptions based on a first impression. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

“Goddamn it, Taylor! How much?”

I’ve never had a lot of money, so it’s easy for me to get along without it, easy for me to put my hands behind my head and say, “Marion, I’m for rent, but I’m not for sale.”

“Ten thousand dollars,” Marion bid.

I shook my head knowing full well that, like everyone else, I probably did have a price. I just didn’t know how high it was …

“Fifteen,” Marion said.

And I didn’t want to find out. “I don’t want your money,” I told her.

“What do you want?”

“Information.”

“What information?” Marion asked, obviously preferring to give me money instead.

“Where were you and C. C. Friday night between nine and midnight?”

“Mankato,” she answered without hesitation.

“Witnesses?”

“About twenty-five hundred, not counting those who saw us on TV.”

“Mankato is an hour’s drive,” I said, thinking out loud.

“More like an hour and a half,” Marion volunteered. “Galen Pivec drove us there and back in the Buick. Why?” she asked, then answered herself. “That’s when Thoreau was shot, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

Marion smiled. I smiled back.

“Of course, we have no idea where Freddie was, do we?”

“Mr. Taylor. If I had wanted to kill Dennis Thoreau or have him killed for the videotape, I would have the videotape. I certainly would not have called you or …”

“Your friend in the police department,” I volunteered.

“Exactly.”

“You never spoke with Dennis Thoreau yourself, did you?”

“What are you suggesting?” Marion asked.

“Nothing much,” I shrugged. Then I added, “You told me that Joseph Sherman never contacted C. C.”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s what you said,” I repeated. “Only I know for a fact that Sherman spoke with C. C. on Thursday.”

Marion opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“Didn’t she tell you?”

Again Marion had nothing to say.

“You once told me that you were in charge around her,” I said as I rose from the chair. “I’m beginning to doubt it. I’ll be seeing you, Marion.”

I was halfway to the door when I had another thought. “Why didn’t you have Freddie deliver the money to Thoreau?”

“Freddie was hired to expose secrets, not keep them,” Marion answered without looking up.

Made sense.