At three o’clock on Monday afternoon, Rita Bayne died of respiratory failure.
On Tuesday, true to her word, Marian Prince delivered to the media copies of her sister’s handwritten confession, copies of Edwin’s letter to Thea, and the canceled checks he’d given her over the years. Thea had been paid from Michaels’s office accounts, and Rita had handled all the finances.
Marian also delivered the copies to Dora Peterson’s campaign people.
The senator called a press conference. I wasted a few seconds trying to adjust the television when he came on the six-o’clock news but then realized that the ashen tinge on his brown skin was not likely to go away.
He was surrounded by grim-looking campaign aides, a minister, and a tearful young woman who may have been his daughter. Dad and I listened as he read his statement:
“I am terminating my campaign for reelection and resigning my office in order to devote more time to my wife and family. As you know, my wife is currently hospitalized in critical condition due to an unfortunate accident. I need to be at her side through the coming weeks and with your prayers help her pull through this difficult period. Thank you.”
He did not look up from the paper in his hand, he did not mention Rita Bayne’s death, and he did not answer questions about his letter, his payments to the murdered Thea Morris, or his connection to Henderson Laws, also found murdered.
Dad clicked the remote and the screen went dark. “Media’s gonna give him hell.”
“He deserves it,” I said, amazed at the gall of a politician when he’s caught with his pants down. It was standard practice to trot out the old “wife and family” alibi, the need to be with them in a time of crisis.
“How come,” I asked Dad, “Michaels didn’t think about his wife when he was carrying on like a dog and chasing every leg that passed his way? Now Rita’s gone. All because of a dumb letter written by a stupid man to a woman who never really gave a damn about anyone …”
Dad looked at me. “You’re getting worked up, Mali. Michaels is out. Rita is gone. She’s gone. You can’t bring her back. You gotta let it lay. Ain’t but so much juice you can suck from a dry bone.”
“Let it lay? Kendrick’s still in jail. How can I let it lay?”
He didn’t answer and clicked the remote again, surfing the channels. There was Marian Prince on New York 1, in front of the wrought-iron gates of her sister’s apartment building surrounded by newspeople.
“Senator Michaels caused my sister’s death as surely as if he’d held a gun to her head. He’s responsible for her death, and probably for Thea Morris’s death, and even for Henderson Laws’s death. The police need to look at all of that because surely there’s a connection.”
Her sunglasses hid her grief and her voice was soft but she spoke directly into the camera as she held up the letters.
“He abused my sister and the trust my family had in him. He may be out of office but I won’t rest until he pays for what he’s done to my sister.”
I didn’t want to see any more and left the room. Too many questions were moving around in my head. And all led back to square one. Who had killed Thea?