Instead of the motor launch, she gazed upon a new white Mercedes-Benz sedan.
“Merry Christmas, Jo.”
“For me?”
“Who else?”
“Sandy, I can’t-”
“You can and you will. I’m tired of seeing you drive around town in that old Toyota.”
“And how do I explain this to people?”
“You don’t have to explain it.” He took off his gloves, then removed hers so that she could feel the warmth of his hands. “Jo, I’m in. I’ve been elected. You’re divorcing Cork. I expect that within the year we can marry.”
“Marry? This is Minnesota, Sandy, not California or New York. Divorce is an issue here.”
“If Cork decides to go public with those photos of you and me, the best defense is love and marriage. Six years from now when I’m up for reelection, people will have forgotten that you were ever married to someone else.” He squeezed her hands gently but earnestly. “Jo, I need someone beside me when I make a bid for the White House.”
In anyone else, she might have thought a statement like that was presumptuous, an idle boast. But she knew that if Sandy Parrant had his heart set on a run at the presidency, he would do it.
“You’d look wonderful beside me in the Rose Garden,” he went on. “We’re compatible, you and me. We make a good team. We think alike.”
She made herself withdraw her hands. “I can’t even think about this right now. I’m sorry, Sandy.”
“Don’t think, then,” he urged her. “Just feel.” He took her right hand and placed it on the cold, sleek side of the white Mercedes. “Feel the elegance. This is a lifestyle to which I can accustom you. No more worry about how to pay the orthodontist. And a shot at being First Lady to boot. Tell me you don’t want that.” He guided her like a partner in a formal dance toward the car door, which he opened with a graceful motion. “Here. Sit.” He patted the seat.
“Sandy-” she made a weak attempt at protesting, but he took her by the shoulders and gently made her sit. He put her hands on the wheel.
“Now, doesn’t that feel just like heaven?”
“Maybe not ‘just like,’ ”-she laughed-“but pretty damn close.”
He opened the hood. “Come and have a look at the engine. That’s really the heart of a machine.”
She didn’t have the slightest idea what she was looking at, but it was nothing like the engine under the hood of her Toyota. The Toyota engine was caked with oil and dirt, the hoses brittle-looking, the belts cracked. The engine of the Mercedes was as clean as a medical instrument and looked powerful enough to launch rockets.
“This is an E-four-twenty. Eight cylinder, thirty-two valve, two hundred fifty-six cubic inches,” Sandy said, touching the top of the engine with admiration. “Two hundred seventy-five horsepower, it’ll go zero to sixty in six point six seconds.”
“That’s good?” she asked.
“Very good,” he replied.
She put out her hand to touch the heart of the magnificent machine. In an instant, all her euphoria vanished.
“Does it drive as good as it looks?” she asked, drawing back her hand.
“Every bit. It handles like a dream.”
“You’ve driven it quite a bit, then?”
“Only a road test.”
“You didn’t drive it today?”
“No. Why would I?” He closed the hood. “I meant to put a bow on it before you saw it.”
“You didn’t drive it at all?”
“Today?” He gave her a puzzled look. “No, I just told you.”
“Someone did,” she said. “There’s a faint trace of warmth in the engine. The radiator hose, too.”
“Oh, that. I ran it for a few minutes, just to keep the fluids flowing. It’s not good to let a car sit idle for a long time in the cold, especially one as delicate as this.”
Jo walked slowly around the car until she arrived at the trunk. “Could you open it?”
“The trunk?” Sandy came and stood beside her. “It’s just a trunk. Not nearly as exciting as the engine, believe me.” He smiled.
“I’d like to see everything.”
“I don’t have the key with me.” He shrugged.
“I believe I saw a lock release on the driver’s side.”
The excitement melted from his face. “The trunk,” he said. “Whatever.”
He opened the car door, bent down, and the trunk sprung open a crack. Jo hesitated, suddenly reluctant to go any further, afraid to see if the trunk held a bag full of negatives.
“Go on,” Sandy told her. “I thought you wanted to see.”
Still she held back. What could the truth do now but ruin everything?
“Let me, then,” Sandy said.
He reached out. Jo braced herself. Sandy raised the lid. The trunk was empty.
Jo felt weak with relief. She turned to Sandy and threw her arms around him.
“It’s the most beautiful trunk I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He laughed. “The rest of the car is usually what sells people. Would you like to go for a spin?”
“I should be getting home.”
“Just a quick one. I’ll go up to the house and get the keys. What do you say?”
She debated a millisecond. “Okay.”
Sandy gave her a brief kiss; she held him back for a longer one, then let him go. After he’d gone, she sat in the driver’s seat with her hands on the wheel. How could she ever have doubted him? It was true, what she’d said, that he was ruthless at times, but it was an understandable thing in a man who reached for greatness. And Sandy had great things ahead of him, she had no doubt.
“First Lady,” she said giddily.
She ran her hand over the dash. The feel of the car was something extraordinary. She touched the seat beside her, felt the luxurious softness of the leather. The tip of her index finger caught on a sharp, unexpected edge. Something was lodged in the shadowy crevice between cushion and seat back. Something with a square, paper-thin, black corner.
When Sandy stepped back into the boathouse, Jo was leaning against the car, holding the strip of negative gingerly away from her with two fingers, as if it were a piece of rotting filth she’d rather not have had to touch.
“What’s that?” Sandy asked innocently.
“You know what it is.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said. “I swear to you, Jo, I didn’t kill her.”
“A few minutes ago you hadn’t even been to see her.”
“Look,” he explained, approaching slowly, “I got a call this afternoon. A woman. She said she had something I’d want to buy. She mentioned the things Cork talked about. Evidence about my father. She said she had the negatives. She gave me directions. I followed them.”
“It was Molly Nurmi?”
“I can’t say for sure it was.”
“Your housekeeper said you didn’t leave.”
“She works with headphones on. She doesn’t hear a thing. I slipped out and took the Mercedes. She never knew.”
“You saw Molly Nurmi?”
“Not at first. I knocked on the door. No one answered. I saw smoke coming from the sauna and went down there. The bag was in the changing room, negatives all over the place. It looked as if someone had gone through them wildly.”
“And Molly Nurmi?”
“I checked the sauna. She wasn’t there. Then I looked outside. She was dead, Jo. There wasn’t anything I could do to help her.”
“And you ran.”
“Yes.” He looked down, ashamed.
“How do you know she was dead?”
“She was frozen to the ice, for God sake. Jo, I panicked. I saw everything I’ve worked for slipping through my hands. I’m not proud that I ran. But better a coward than a murderer.”
“You took the negatives?”
“Not exactly. I hid them out there. At the Nurmi place. I didn’t want them found; you can understand that. And for obvious reasons I didn’t want them in my possesion.” He looked at her, deep concern eroding the handsome features of his face. “You don’t believe me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“What kind of monster do you think I am?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”