NOW
Sydney pulled her car in front of the Millerman home a few minutes earlier than Phoebe had suggested she arrive. The house was dark. No car was in the drive. An overlooked remnant of yellow crime-scene tape clung to a rosebush in front of the white clapboard Dutch Colonial.
She’s going to be home soon. She’s going to walk into that house and nothing’s going to be the same. Her husband is dead. Her home will be trashed. She’s no longer the city’s first lady.
Sydney recalled the weeks and months after her father’s death. She and her mother had sleepwalked through a dense fog of pain and bewilderment. How could he be gone? What was normal supposed to look like now? She remembered having to manually override her instinct to set three places at the dinner table. To correct herself each time she responded to a teenage friend’s invitation with “I have to ask my dad.”
You’ll never get over this, Phoebe. You’re forever changed. A widow now. Every truth you held will be tossed aside.
But grief was something a person could get through. New routines established themselves. The expectations of daily life contributed to a protective scab covering your heart’s wound. New people entered your world, promising a future that could take many different routes.
Like Clay. She smiled at the memory of his kiss. He’d made himself vulnerable to her by sharing his home and the story of raising his son. I wish you could meet him, Dad. You’d put him through the wringer, I’m sure. But Clay would be up to the task. You two would be friends.
She sent a silent thought to her father, wherever the universe held him.
I love you, Dad. Ever and always.
A dark Chevy pulled into the Millerman driveway, snapping Sydney back to the moment. A tumbled shock of salt-and-pepper hair told her it was Phoebe behind the wheel. Sydney left her car and walked up the drive.
Phoebe remained motionless in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead. Hands on the wheel.
Sydney tapped on the window. She hoped her smile would encourage the older woman to remember she didn’t have to enter her home alone.
Phoebe responded with a mirthless, abbreviated purse of her lips. She got out of her car.
“Look at me. Miss Hotshot First Lady. With nobody to walk me in but a stranger. How’s that for a turn of the tide?”
“Every friend starts out as a stranger. You ready for this?”
Phoebe took her time looking at her house. Her face gave no clue to what emotions she might be experiencing. Sydney assumed years spent in the glare of public politics had taught her such inscrutability.
“Roger and I bought this house when we didn’t have two dimes to rub together. Spent the entire first year with nothing but a bed and a card table.” She glanced toward Sydney. “We made good use of that bed, I’ll tell you what. Our idea of a fun Saturday in those days was to walk through furniture stores. Pretend we were outfitting a particular room.” She nodded to the second-story windows. “Two of those bedrooms were supposed to be for kids. One’s my office. The other we use for extra storage.”
“If only life went the way we hoped.”
Phoebe shrugged off the platitude. “It’s part of the ride, isn’t it? Seeing what each day brings. God, he wanted kids. We both did. I sometimes wonder if maybe he wouldn’t have become who he did if we’d been able to have a couple. Might have given him some balance. Showed him there was more to life than power.” She paused. “We spent a lifetime filling this house up. Thing by meaningless thing. Now it’s my job to empty it out again.” She squared her shoulders. “Come on, stranger. Let’s see what the cops left me with.”
The dark shadow of graphite coated the front doorjamb and porch railings. Leftovers from the forensic team’s fingerprint search. Phoebe held the screen open with her hip while she inserted the key in the front door. Sydney noted the slight tremble in the widow’s hand.
Phoebe clicked on a hallway light when they stepped inside. Sydney gasped. Phoebe remained composed.
The graphite smears covered nearly every surface on the entryway and front room. Dark stains, unmistakable deep tinges of rusty red leaving no doubt they were blood, soiled the hardwood floors and plaster walls.
“Where’s my rug?” Phoebe asked. “Roger bought me that Persian for our sixth anniversary.”
“The police must have taken it. Evidence. Would you like me to make a call? See what else they might have?”
Phoebe ignored her questions. Her eyes lingered on the rust-colored streaks along the walls. She walked down the hallway.
“This is where I found him.”
Sydney followed her.
“His chair’s gone,” Phoebe said. “And look.” She pointed to two holes in the wall where plaster had been removed. “What do you think that’s about? Bullet holes? Handprints?”
“I could try to find out. I have a friend who’s a detective. As a matter of fact, he’s the lead on this case.”
Phoebe spun around to give her a curious stare. “And you’re looking to clear the woman he’s arrested? How’s that work out over Friday-night beers?”
“As you said, it’s all part of the ride. Want to check out upstairs?”
The two of them climbed a staircase in the rear of the house. Sydney was grateful to see nothing was disturbed on the second floor. She could sense Phoebe felt a similar relief. At least one part of her home was untouched by the savagery of her husband’s murder. Phoebe sat on the bed in the master bedroom, looking like a woman who couldn’t take one more step. She pointed to a pair of upholstered chairs flanking a small table on the opposite wall. It was the kind of arrangement decorators offered up as a place for morning coffee or evening wine.
The still-taut fabric suggested the setup hadn’t gotten much use throughout the years.
“I want to thank you, Sydney. For being here, I mean. This is harder than I thought.”
“Maybe it’s too soon. Would you like to go back to the hotel? I can arrange to have a crew come in and clean up this place.”
A weary smile crossed Phoebe’s lips. “You mean someone like Windy? This would be right up her alley. What with her eye for detail.” She ran a hand across the heavy damask bedspread. “But this is my home. My mess to clean up. I thank you for your kindness. Truly.”
Phoebe seemed lost in memories as her fingers traced the intricate pattern of the bedclothes. After a while she brought her attention back to Sydney.
“You said you wanted to speak to me in confidence. We seem to be sisters of the trench, don’t we? No other person on earth has walked me past my husband’s blood smeared on my living room walls. What’s so secret you’re willing to step into my little house of horrors?”
Sydney thought about challenging Phoebe’s description. But the few interactions she’d had with her had taught her Phoebe was a woman who used gallows humor as a first line of defense. She’d let that protection stand.
“I’ll speak frankly.”
“I’d appreciate it. There’s enough bullshit in my life to choke an elephant.”
Sydney imagined that was part and parcel of a life in politics. “You told me Windy would have represented one kind of woman the mayor might have been interested in. Young. Vulnerable. Alone. You compared him to a lion seeking out a wounded zebra.”
Phoebe nodded. “I had no illusions about the man my husband had become.”
“I’m sorry to tell you I’ve come to learn your assessment was accurate. Mayor Millerman had indeed been using Windy. Sexually.”
“Sex had nothing to do with it, Sydney. Sex was just the weapon. It was always about power with Roger. I’m sorry Windy got used that way. Nobody deserves that.”
“No. They don’t.” Sydney was impressed that Phoebe held no jealousy or recrimination toward Windy.
“I’ve also learned your husband used Windy to exert his power over others. Well, at least one other. Windy tells me he arranged for her to put another man in an incriminating situation. She says she has a feeling your husband taped the encounter.”
“You mean like blackmail?”
“Maybe.”
Phoebe shrugged. “Roger was never one for pornography. If there was a tape, I’m certain it wasn’t for his own viewing enjoyment. Any idea who the man was?”
“Brooks Janeworthy. Do you know him?”
“That foppish flower? Of course I know him. He’s been to dinner here at least two dozen times. Drank tea instead of coffee after dinner. Always looking for Roger’s support with zoning variances or tax packages. He’s become a very wealthy man thanks to my husband.” She paused. “Brooks Janeworthy? Now there’s a bet I would have lost. I figured him to be about as asexual as fungus. Too caught up in his own appearance to cast a longing eye on anyone else.”
“Apparently even fungi have desires.”
“But why would Roger need that kind of hammer over Janeworthy? I always got the impression Roger had the upper hand in their relationship. Brooks never seemed to fight him over anything. Roger selected the parts of town to be developed. Brooks followed his lead like the lapdog he is. Take the public market, for instance.”
“I’ve read about that.”
“It’s going to be huge. At least it was. Who knows what Melanie White’s plans are now? The market was to have been the crown jewel in Roger’s administration. A destination stop that would bring Madison into the league of the most sophisticated cities of the world. Some members of the Common Council, including our newly sworn-in mayor, wanted the market downtown. But Roger was having none of it. He recognized the power that project could bring to raising up some of the more neglected parts of the city. He worked with Cynthia Conyer to include a literacy location within the market. People from the neighborhood—adults as well as children—could use it as a learning resource as well as a hub for jobs and commerce. Janeworthy kowtowed every step of the way.”
“Maybe there was some other project. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with construction at all.”
“If Brooks Janeworthy was involved, it had to do with development. That’s all that man lives and breathes. Builds high-rises all over town. No doubt to overcome his own shortcomings.”
Sydney smiled at Phoebe’s ability to bring bawdy humor to such a dark time.
“You know I’m hoping Windy didn’t kill your husband.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear. And the prosecutor has assured me no one else could have.”
“It looks bad for Windy. The police aren’t looking anywhere else. That’s why we have to. They won’t stop looking at Windy until we’re able to produce another, more plausible alternative.”
“And you’ve decided it’s Brooks Janeworthy? I don’t mean to stick my finger in your bubble gum, but any twelve-year-old could take that piece of fluff.”
“Not if he had a gun. And you said yourself, Janeworthy was so wrapped up in his own image he had little interest in anything else. What might he do if he felt his public image was vulnerable?”
Phoebe considered that for a moment. “So your plan is to find the tape? If it exists.”
“Yes.”
“And you think Roger hid it here?”
“Either here or at City Hall. And I don’t have an in down there.”
“Even if you did, it wouldn’t do you any good. Melanie White wasted no time clearing out Roger’s things and installing herself in the mayor’s office. She even had one of her people deliver boxes of my husband’s personal belongings to me at the hotel three days ago. Besides, Roger would never make himself vulnerable to public exposure. If he was holding something to use against someone, he’d have it here.”
Sydney thought about the blood-soaked office downstairs. “Are you up for me having a look? With your permission, I could go alone. There’s no need for you to see that again.”
“This is my home, Sydney. I’ll get used to it. Besides, I’ve known my husband more than three decades. If he’s stashing something, I’ll be able to sniff it out.”
“Thank you, Phoebe. I know how difficult this must be.”
Phoebe stood, smoothing her hands over her flowing dark skirt. “One thing’s for sure. Windy did or didn’t kill my husband. Either way, I want to know. Come on. If Roger had a tape, it’s in his safe. Let’s see if the police found it.”
They took the front stairs this time. Each woman kept her hands to her sides. Neither felt the need to warn the other to steer clear of the dusting residue coating the banister. Sydney was impressed with Phoebe’s straight-ahead determination as they passed again through the blood-spattered hallway and entered her husband’s work zone. Phoebe walked directly to the floor-to-ceiling drapes framing a wide window overlooking a rear patio. She pushed the heavy material to one side, exposing a wall paneled in mahogany.
“No dust here,” she commented. “Must have figured if there was no blood on the curtains, why look behind them?” Phoebe flattened her hands against a panel, pressed, then lifted a two-by-four-foot mahogany veneer free from the wall, revealing a black steel-plate door with a mounted keypad. “Roger had this installed about two months after he won his first election to the Common Council. Used to have a rotary combination lock. He liked new gadgets. Got the keypad about two years ago.”
“Do you know the combination?”
“Let’s see. There was a time Roger shared everything with me.” She keyed in a series of numbers. The red light on the keypad remained unchanged. “Well, it’s not our anniversary anymore.” She sounded more sad than disappointed. “Let’s try his birthday.” She keyed in another set of numbers. The light remained red. “Here’s a long shot.” Again she keyed in a series and frowned. “Surprise. It’s not my birthday, either.”
“Did he have a favorite pet? Maybe a lucky number?”
Phoebe shook her head. “He always said we’d get a dog when we had kids.”
“A hobby? Maybe a favorite golf hole? An address of his bowling alley? Anything like that?”
“The only thing Roger loved was this city. And being its mayor.” Her eyes brightened. “Hang on.”
She tapped her fingers over the keypad. When she was finished, the red light turned to green. An electronic lock slid open with a subtle beep. Phoebe opened the safe.
“Wow! What was it?”
“Three-four-one-eight-five-six. March fourth, eighteen fifty-six. The date Madison officially became a city.” Sydney heard the wistfulness in her voice.
“He was a good mayor.” Sydney hoped Phoebe could remember the positive.
Phoebe waved away the attempted kindness. “Shall we?”
Phoebe pulled out a black velvet pouch. She opened it. “His father’s watch.” She set it aside and reached for a manila envelope. “Oh my. There’s got to be a thousand dollars here. Maybe more. What would Roger need with that much cash?”
Sydney recalled Windy telling her the mayor paid for her sexual performances with crisp hundred-dollar bills.
“Who knows?” she evaded. “Lots of people like to keep cash around. Do you see anything that looks like it might hold a recording?”
Phoebe pulled out a red file folder. “This is marked with my name.” She opened it, glanced down, and looked back to Sydney. “You keep looking.” She stepped over to the window seat and settled in to examine her find.
Sydney went to the safe. There was a gift box containing a gilded pen set. It was engraved to Roger. With the eternal gratitude of the U.S. Senate. Another box was small and square. She opened it and discovered a ring. Platinum with a sizable solitaire diamond. She assumed it was Phoebe’s engagement ring and pushed it to the side, as she did the deed to the house, the couple’s passports, and several insurance policies. She pulled out another file, this one marked Melanie, and set it aside. She made one final reach to the back of the safe. Her fingers felt hard plastic. She reached in blindly, bringing a small rectangular container out into view. It was blue. A soap container one might keep in a traveling kit. She opened it. Inside were two thumb drives. Each with a lanyard attached. One was gray, the other white.
“This could be it!” she exclaimed. “Phoebe, did Roger keep a computer here? I need to see what’s on these.”
Phoebe didn’t respond. She stared straight ahead, her hand covering the open file in her lap.
“Phoebe? Did the mayor have a computer? Did the police take it?”
Still the widow didn’t respond.
Sydney walked over and sat beside her. “Are you okay?” She glanced down at the file. “What did you find?”
Phoebe looked up. Tears pooled in her eyes. “It was over. All over.”
“What? What was over?”
Robotically Phoebe lifted the red folder. She spoke aloud, more to the room than to Sydney in particular. Her tone was drenched in disbelief. “He was leaving me. After all these years. All I’ve done. What we’ve been through. The son of a bitch was going to divorce me.”