But everyone’s attention was on the superintendent. He marched toward the podium, face grim.
“Jane Ryland?” A voice behind her.
Someone wanted to talk to her. Who? The news conference was about to start.
The man stepped closer. Not someone she recognized, not a reporter, no notebook in hand. Not a cop. Maybe some young business exec on a day off, wandered by the news conference, got curious. Good-enough looking, mid-twenties, athletic-ish, hair mussed and a hint of stubble. Running shoes. Water bottle.
“Yes?” she said. She glanced deliberately at the podium, to make sure this guy knew she had no time for interruptions.
“Jane Ryland from the Register? Who had that front-page article in yesterday’s paper?”
Jane nodded, needing him to hurry up. But he’d asked about her article. Maybe he knew something about the rally?
“My name is Matt. Uh, let’s leave it at that for now,” he said. “I think I have a story for you.”
“About the rally?”
“Rally?” Matt said. He gave a little shrug. “No, it’s… well, it’s really a long story.”
She smiled back, trying not to be one of those pretend-reporters who weren’t open to possibilities. You never knew where the next big story would come from. Still, it probably wasn’t from here. She gestured to the podium, where Laney Driscoll was adjusting the microphones.
“I’m assigned to cover this,” she said. “Can I give you my card?”
Then she realized she didn’t have a Register business card yet. “I’ll give you my private number at the paper,” she said. She scrawled it on a page of her notebook, ripped it out, and handed it to him. “Call me later today.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Driscoll was saying. “The superintendent will have a brief statement, then take a few questions. There’s a handout which we’ll distribute. No one-on-one interviews, no live shots, nothing more today. We clear?”
“I want to hear this, too,” Matt said. Jane saw him stash her number into the pocket of his jacket. “I’m gonna get closer. I’ll call you later.”
“Great,” Jane said, giving him her best pretend-sincere smile. Adios.
The man squeezed past the camera in front of him, threading through the journalists until Jane could see only the top of his head and a jacketed broad shoulder. He stopped at the edge of the group, toward the front.
I should have at least taken his phone number, Jane scolded herself. Maybe I’ll get it after.
“My name is Francis Rivera.” The voice came from the podium. “I’m Superintendent of the Boston Police Department. We’re here today to…”
Jane tried to focus her attention on Rivera, but where the heck was Tuck? This was her deal, and Alex promised she’d show up. Now it was looking like Jane would have to handle this herself. Which was a drag, since she was hot on the trail of the other women in Owen Lassiter’s life.
She’d track down Katharine, maybe with records from Poplar Grove Cemetery. As for Kenna Wilkes? Jane smiled. Woodward and Bernstein, huh? As if breaking big political news were a bad thing.
“Hey, roomie.” Tuck, ponytail bobbing, trotted up beside her. “Thanks for covering for me. Supe say anything major yet?”
“Hey, Tuck,” Jane said. “Nope, just started.” Up at the podium, the PR flack was dumping papers out of a big manila envelope.
“Great,” Tuck said. “You’re clear from this location, Alex says, just check in later. I’ve got this now. There’s more big news about to break.”
“Yeah, I know. Great.” Jane flapped her empty notebook closed. Tuck could have this story. Jane had her sights set on Katharine, whatever her last name was, and Kenna Wilkes.
Kenna Wilkes. The other woman. No mistake about that.
So what if she was a little late getting to campaign headquarters today. It’s not like there was any big deal. Kenna Wilkes parked her stupid rented hybrid and strolled up the manicured front walk of Owen Lassiter’s ritzy house. Owen, she knew, was off at a conference, some union thing. But it was not Owen she was here to see.
She flipped her hair out from under the collar of her white wool coat. Extravagant, yes, and ridiculous in the Boston grime. But it looked so good with her hair. And, according to the article in House Beautiful, Moira loved white.
The doorbell binged. The door swung open. Moira herself, imagine that.
Kenna switched her stack of brown envelopes and file folders from one arm to the other, held out her hand, polite as could be.
“Mrs. Lassiter? I’m Kenna Wilkes, from the governor’s campaign office? They did call to tell you I was coming, right? Mr. Maitland sent me with some photos for you to sign?”
Not exactly true, but close enough. She could fix it all later, get everyone’s stories straight. She saw the woman’s famously elegant face twitch for a moment, in fear. Or anger? Or defeat? Didn’t really matter. This was merely Kenna’s inaugural get-to-know-you visit.
“They didn’t, no.” Moira didn’t budge from the doorway.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Kenna said. Ma’am. She almost burst out laughing. She’d said it on purpose, as if Moira hadn’t noticed the difference in their ages. It had been a long time since they’d last crossed paths. A long, long time. Not that Moira could possibly realize that. “Could you autograph these? Then I’ll get back to the campaign. You know how busy we are now!”
She smiled, so enthusiastic, handed Moira the envelope. Inside were a stack of eight-by-ten photographs she’d snagged from Sheila King’s press office.
Moira took the envelope in one manicured hand, clearly reluctant.
“What a lovely home you have,” Kenna said, peering around Moira’s shoulder. Kenna patted her hair, reprising the same gesture she’d used the day before in her little driveway drama. She gestured to her own white coat. “I love the all white. As you can see. Would you like me to wait outside while you sign the photos?”
“Oh, no, no, of course not.” Moira seemed to remember where she was. “Come in. Of course. Miss-?”
Kenna stepped into the foyer, taking in the flowers and the affluence and the ease and the privilege. “Kenna Wilkes,” she said. “Please call me Kenna. Everyone does. I’m new.”
“Ah,” Moira said.
“It must be so difficult that your husband is so rarely home these days,” Kenna went on. That’ll get her. “I only mean, you know, the campaign and all. I’m sure Owen-I mean the governor-misses you out on the campaign trail. Of course, he’s always surrounded by fans and voters and staff. He’s so charming.”
“I’ll only be a moment, signing these,” Moira said. “Who sent you here with these, by the way?”
“Wasn’t that terrible about that rally thing in Springfield?” Kenna continued, ignoring her question. “It’s lucky you weren’t there, you know? And then we had to stay overnight in Worcester, gosh, not exactly the garden spot. Although the hotel was lovely.”
“I’ll get a pen,” Moira said. She patted the pockets of her tailored wool slacks and, finding nothing, pulled out a drawer in an ivory-glazed Parsons table.
The gilt-edged mirror above the table, polished and reflecting the sparkling crystal chandelier overhead, also reflected Kenna’s own smile. And, Kenna noted, Moira’s clearly growing discomfort.
Moira opened a sleek silver pen, clicking the cap to the end, and sat in a white velvet side chair. She pulled the glossy photographs from the envelope and arranged them on her lap.
“I could never keep my house this perfect.” Kenna took a few steps into the foyer. She couldn’t resist pushing it. “My little Jimmy is four now. Do you have children? It’s the best. I can’t imagine life without my son.”