Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (cool books to read txt) 📗

My eye caught on a name. Maybe Winken, who’d had a meltdown at the memorial service and knew me from the Women’s League, would talk. Something in that file indicated she had a secret—the penciled notations, the financial oddities. All I had to do was find her.

I hurried back to the campaign office. The second security guard, the one who came on at three o’clock, sat at the desk. A lanky black man with cropped hair, he’d told me he commuted in from the next town—the one where they had housing projects—and supported his aging mother and young son. This gig was his second job. His first was as a breakfast cook in one of Stamford’s fancy hotels.

“Hey, Horatio. I’ve left some papers in the office. Is anyone still up there?”

He shook his head. “They’ve all gone.”

“Oh shoot. I really need them tonight. Could you let me in?” I wasn’t supposed to be there during off-hours, unless the candidate authorized it. Campaign strategy was all very hush-hush.

“Sure, Ms. Montague.” He reached into his desk for a ring of keys, then led the way up the stairs. “You want me to wait?”

“That would be fine,” I said. “I’ll only be a moment.” Enough light came from the streetlights that I could grab the file without turning on the overheads. I would return it in the morning, with no one the wiser. I stuffed it in my purse and walked back to the door, which Horatio locked up behind me.

“You’re a real member of the team now,” he said. “They should get you your own key.”

“It’s early days,” I said. “You never know how people are going to work out, and even though I’m trying my best”—I was laying it on thick here—“it just might not be the right fit with Mr. Winters.”

“I’m sure Mr. Winters will see your good work. He’s a good man.”

“Do you think so?” I asked, interested in how he perceived the candidate.

“He always thanks me at the end of the day for the good work I’m doing, and tells me if anything unusual happens, like, for example, you coming back to the office tonight, I should let him know and he’ll take care of me. I did that last month when I noticed that lamb farmer girl.”

“Hetty Gardner?”

“Yes, ma’am, her, she came by at ten o’clock to drop off an envelope, and he gave me a hundred dollar bonus.”

I panicked. Winters would prosecute me if he found out I was “borrowing” campaign files. Getting locked up wouldn’t help Mother. “That is really nice of him, Horatio, but you won’t mention my little visit, will you? I was supposed to be further along on this project than I am, and I’ll get into trouble if he realizes I’m not finished yet.”

“It’s okay, miss. We new people have to stick together. I won’t mention it.” He winked. I wondered if Horatio saw me, a white woman working for a white politician, as someone with potential power, someone to cultivate. He’d seen how the old-boys-network functioned, and I’d always felt the disenfranchised knew more about the powerful than the powerful knew about themselves. Maybe he figured he was better off with me in his debt. My town, despite its liberal bias, put relatively few of those liberal ideals into action.

When I reached the car, I turned on the heater and took a few minutes to peruse Gary Hankin’s file. Winken’s doctor husband had started his women’s health practice when my mother was about twelve or thirteen. Four years later, he’d moved into New York City, where he’d formed a larger practice affiliated with Columbia University.

It looked as though he was the principal in this practice, which had grown to ten doctors. Past traditional retirement age, he appeared to be mostly teaching and seeing a few select patients. He had made a lot of money over the years, not only through his practice and teaching, but through specialized obstetrical surgery, and some invention related to it.

Strangely, he lived in a modest part of town. I scanned the list of his favorite hangouts. They were all in the city with one exception: the local country club.

Of course. He needed the golf course.

I sighed, wondering if Mother had kept up her membership.

A half-hour and a shower later, in a pair of tight black pants I should have thrown out one size ago and a bright pink cashmere sweater with a deep V-neck, I arrived at the club. At the front entrance, a butler asked my name. I gave it to him, explained that the membership was my mother’s. He made a mark in his book and took my coat with an only slightly disapproving look at the pants. Mother would never have shown up dressed like this.

I headed for the bar. It was done up in brothel-red velvet and dark wood paneling, the original gentleman’s club décor. It was six-thirty; the commuters had just arrived from their daily grind, ready to let off steam. The wives, who’d left the children with the nanny, dribbled in wearing appropriately fitting black pants and high heeled boots.

Everyone seemed to have a martini. I ordered chardonnay, needing a clear head. A better idea would be to stop drinking, because I kept waking up with a hangover. But the wine kept the nightmares in check, and that was a very large advantage.

The country club, a fishbowl, was filled with gossips. That gossip was sure to quickly reach the ears of whoever didn’t want me poking around. I had to make what I found out count, and then act on it fast. I surveyed the room. As the only single woman, I was getting more dagger looks during my first two sips of wine than I had in the past ten years. I needed to make friends, so I started with the bartender. Bartenders were good for information, and they made you feel wanted.

“Everything okay with your wine?” he