Death of a Political Plant Read online

  “Long time no see,” cracked Roger. He was tall, balding, slightly potbellied, and wearing thick glasses: not what Louise would call good-looking. Formal attire had transformed him: He could be anything from the night manager of a fine hotel to a foreign diplomat. In contrast, her own blond-haired husband, already handsome, in tux and cummerbund looked like a model from the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. Certainly not like a State Department employee who was in reality an undercover CIA agent.

  “How debonair you look tonight, Roger” she replied, and then turned to Laurie, in a silky white gown that set off her upswept red hair, “and you, Laurie, so pretty.”

  “Sure did clean up good, didn’t we?” drawled Roger. Apparently weary of being treated with deference by people because of his status at the Washington Post, he liked to toss in a country bumpkin phrase once in a while.

  Both Roger and Laurie were giving Louise a discreet once-over, but she had realized the impact of her outfit from the moment she entered the museum: As she trod up the pink Tennessee marble stairs, she saw the raised eyebrows and delighted expressions on the faces of the men standing at the top. She had blushed redly and clutched Bill’s arm tighter. Was the outfit a mistake? It was a Donna Karan pantsuit that she had found, like a hidden treasure from Egypt, in a Fairfax resale shop. Black, silk, and cut so low she could feel the pressure of the satin lapels on her half-naked breasts.

  “Very nice suit you’re wearing, Louise,” said Roger.

  Bill linked his arm in Louise’s. “Wasn’t sure I’d let her out in public like this, but decided since she’s a gardening personality now, people expect her to look ravishing.”

  “How are the girls doing, Louise?” asked Laurie.

  “Great. Both are out there helping to save the world.”

  Laurie raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like they’ve been talking to Mary Mougey.”

  “Mary’s very persuasive. And your boys—is Michael breaking records at tennis camp?” Even though Louise was a strong player, Roger and Laurie’s bright-eyed teenager could wipe her off the court in one set.

  “A real champ,” said Roger. “And our younger guy is showin’ em how at computer camp.”

  “Meanwhile, we’re alone at home,” added Laurie, with a smile and sideways look at Roger. She leaned toward him provocatively. “I hate to admit it, but it’s very nice to have the summer to ourselves. You seem to have company running in and out continually, while we have just been…”

  “A deux?” said Louise, smiling. “I hear what you’re saying, Laurie. We’ll be alone for exactly one week, and then more company is coming and the girls return home.”

  Bill smiled sagely. “Ah, I think you ladies do protest too much. Look how our children progress, ever upward, ever away from us. Pretty soon they’ll all be gone, and we’ll be old folks whining for them to visit.”

  During this banter, they had paid little attention to the ebb and flow of the party, so they were surprised when Tom Paschen, entourage respectfully hanging behind, came up and joined them. The President’s chief of staff was barely as tall as Louise in her spike-heeled Manolo mules, though he looked elegant in evening clothes that reeked of Savile Row. Unfortunately, it was spoiled by his expression of the harried rabbit out of Alice in Wonderland. Louise thought he would buttonhole Roger Kendricks. Roger had stepped down from his executive editor position to join other Post staffers in covering the presidential election. So she was surprised when Paschen came straight to her side.

  Casting a quick look that took in her face, semirevealed bosom, and slim hips in black pants complete with satin stripe down the side, he extended a hand to the foursome and breezily summarized his mission: “Hi, Roger, and, Laurie Kendricks—isn’t it? Bill, I’ve come over here to hit on your wife.”

  They laughed. Even then, Paschen didn’t break a grin, and looked thoroughly distracted, all business. “Just for a minute.” He put a firm hand under her elbow and steered her to the stone railing, beyond which Calder’s artwork sailed soundlessly in the chatter-filled building, like a silent chaperon.

  “Louise,” he said in a confidential tone, “I’ve only got five minutes.”

  That was not surprising; the man probably had the busiest job in the country.

  “Something about my program.”

  Paschen looked surprised. “Yes. Smart girl. You knew. You’re aware of the scoundrels Congressman Goodrich has taken on board to try to damage the President: Rawlings and Upchurch, the terrible twosome, and Upchurch’s reprehensible staff. They’re spewing out the damndest lies.” Still looking beyond her, casing the room as he spoke, he said, “Look at Franklin Rawlings. He’s keeping his head above the cesspool: He just shoves Upchurch out front to be the impetuous bad boy, the new guy in the political game who may reach too far, but whom we’re supposed to forgive because of his youth and zeal.”

  She thought Tom sounded a little sour grapes. Rawlings was a tall, thin man in his fifties who did his magicianlike campaign strategizing for whoever would pay him his exorbitant fees, smiling all the way. And Goodrich had reached him first, or she was sure that the President would have been happy to hire him on.

  “Yeah, I think Rawlings has put himself in a bind: His young compatriots have spun out of control, and in the end he’s responsible.” The chief of staff gave a curt nod at a man bunched over the nearby refreshments table. “And you must recognize their campaign’s enfant terrible, Willie Upchurch. There he is, with his fat little hands in the shrimp. That’s his gang of three: the worst pissant lowlifes I’ve ever seen.” His patrician nose elevated a bit. “They’re no better than thugs.” Louise knew Paschen himself was renowned as a vicious political infighter, so why was he complaining about how the game was played? Then, as if reading her mind, he said, with asperity, “There’s politics and politics, and dirty politics has reached a new low in this election.”

  Upchurch, a rosy-cheeked, baby-faced man, was shoveling in food as if he were one of the clients of the fundraiser rather than a benefactor. “So that’s the infamous Willie,” she said, “and he’s only in his twenties: I guess that makes him a political prodigy.”

  “Depends on how you define prodigy. That California senatorial campaign he ran for Rawlings wasn’t genius—it was pure sleaze. But of course their guy won.” He nodded his head at the group clustered near Upchurch. “And you can easily pick out Ted French, Willie’s number one man; he’s the tall muscular guy over there with the crewcut who looks like a leftover from the Hitler Youth. Only thing missing with him is an armband with a swastika, and a Sam Browne belt and shorts. And of course he’s taken lessons from Miss Manners on smiling. I tell you, Louise, they are vipers, and the babies of the family are the worst. French can’t be more than in his late twenties, and he’s vicious—doesn’t know the definition of ‘going too far.’ Collectively, they have become known as the most cutthroat political players Washington has ever seen: That, as you realize, takes one hell of a lot of doing. Of course, it wouldn’t matter so much if we weren’t in an era of yellow journalism: Not one damned paper, including the Times, the Post, the L.A. Times, is above printing their garbage. Up and down the media food chain, it’s all the same bait. This was stuff that only the tabloids used to print.” He glowered at his enemies. “You might call it the twilight of the media. God knows if we’ll ever recover.”

  At that moment, the blond man looked over at Paschen, then at Louise, and his smile became a leer. In a few long strides, he had joined them. “Well, Tom, I guess the news of the day hasn’t made you happy.” His voice was high and nasal. He was talking to Tom, but his eyes stayed on Louise; his hand reached out tentatively as if he wanted to touch her black jet hanging earrings. She instinctively drew away from him and looked at Tom.

  Paschen practically barked at him. “This Vietnam stuff is your lowest moment yet, French: it’s all fabrications and lies, and don’t think we won’t prove it and throw it back into your face.” Not even deigning to look at the younger man, he took Lou
ise’s elbow and propelled her away to a place farther along the balcony where they could talk.

  French delivered a parting shot in his sneering voice. “Remains, to be seen, Tom. Just keep your eye on those dwindling poll numbers. I just called CNN: You’re down another two points!”

  Pascnen and Louise were now wedged against the rail by the growing crowd, and she could see her companion was feeling claustrophobic and anxious to get his message across and bail out.

  “See what I mean?” he growled. “It beats me how the public is willing to believe the worst kind of lies put out by people like him. We need damage control, and that’s where you come in, Louise. We both know President Fairchild’s environmental bill is the linchpin of his four years as president.”

  At last he turned his eyes toward her, and she could see he was battling a tendency to look at her cleavage. “Louise, you have a good program. It’s earned you a lot of a good press—I mean the program, and those other escapades of yours.”

  “You mean, finding a murderer.”

  “Finding two murderers,” he reminded her. “And the President thinks very highly of your program content: That’s why he named you to that environmental group. So, what I’d like you to do is feature the new law on one of your programs. I know you have a short lead time. Do it, maybe, in early October?”

  Paschen’s stormy gray eyes, not quite level with hers, now had a hard-driving, focused expression. He wanted a quid pro quo for her appointment to the National Environmental Commission, it was as simple as that. She realized then how desperate the man was. He would try everything, even a PBS Saturday morning garden show, to strengthen Jack Fairchild’s chances for reelection.

  And she had no doubt Paschen expected to get everything he asked for.

  She stepped back and slid her hands against the stone railing to keep from stumbling awkwardly in her satin stiletto heels.

  Quietly, she said, “I hope you realize I do not call the shots on program topics, Tom. That’s up to Marty Corbin. I think the new environmental law is great, and I will do everything I can to persuade Marty.”

  Paschen smiled. It added a more attractive, vulnerable element to his thin face.

  “But please,” she said, “just because I like the idea, that doesn’t mean it’s a fait accompli, Tom. Public television is very chary about promoting things. It is not what we do. In fact, why don’t I simply have Marty call you and you can settle it between the two of you?”

  He gave her an unfathomable look. Louise had heard from Bill that this man was in the midst of a divorce from his powerful businesswoman wife, who had gone to New York to join a top firm at top salary. As her husband put it, “Tom has had to do some heavy couch time to get over the trauma of it, and even then it’s left him with a jaundiced view of women.”

  Now he looked down at her speculatively, as if considering whether or not she was trustworthy. “I think I’d rather deal with you, Louise. Getting all clicked in with another source takes time. I already spend one hundred fifty percent of my time on this job.”

  She studied the chief of staff—the tired eyes, the cowlicked hair that wouldn’t stay in place. Standing so close, she could detect a tic that was bothering his right eye. Compassion welled up from somewhere inside her and she thought of an idea to help this beleaguered public servant. “Torn, I bet you don’t have much fun these days.”

  “You got that right,” he said, hands in pockets now, and rocking back and forth on his expensive Italian patent leather dress shoes. “Boring embassy receptions and White House dinners are about all I have time for.” He looked like a petulant overaged youth on whose life a curfew had been clamped.

  Impulsively, she put out her hand and took his. “Just come with me for about four minutes. I want to show you something really great—that is, unless you’ve already been to the tower.”

  “A tower, in this building?”

  “Come on,” she said, tugging on his hand, and skirted past the glittering crowd across to the art galleries themselves. As they passed a display of Claes Oldenberg’s pop art, Tom Paschen stared at the grossly distorted objects—a half-deflated toilet, an inflated pile of raisin toast, a giant lipstick—as if they had come from an alien planet. “We’re not going to see more like this, are we?”

  “Not to worry,” she said. The marble-lined stairwell to the tower echoed hollowly as they hurried up the steps into the quiet tower room. Now they were in the world of Matisse cutouts. The pictures danced out from tall, stark walls: artworks in vibrant colors with delightful forms as simple as a child’s paper cutouts, but with all the depth of the artist’s imagination and humor.

  Paschen stood with hands on hips, surveying it all. “Well, I have to admit, I’ve never been here, but it’s interesting.”

  “I just thought a little change of pace would be nice for you. So, do you like them?” She strode around to give each a closer look, then circled back to Tom.

  “Yeah, I guess I do. It’s a nice interlude here, Louise, and it would probably do me good to just take some time in this place”—he jerked a thumb toward the west—“or better still, in the main gallery where they have the old masters.”

  She noticed his attention had refocused from the Matisse cutouts to her, and suddenly she realized how alone they were up in this tower. “Um, I suppose Bill will be wondering where I am….”

  Tom guided her toward the door, and they went back down the stairway. At the sound of their feet clattering on the pink marble steps, they looked at each other and laughed, like two children caught up in a new adventure.

  On their way back to the party, Tom seemed measurably more relaxed. She reassured him. “I understand what you want, and I’ll do my best for you with Marty.”

  “Good girl,” he said, giving her a fond look and squeezing her upper arm in a gesture of approval. “I’ll call you.” Then he delivered her to Bill, gave her husband a mock half-salute, and strode quickly away.

  What a strange throwback of a man, Louise thought. Good girl, indeed: She hadn’t heard that since she had requested her father to stop saying it to her back in 1975. She tossed her long brown hair and slipped her arm through her husband’s; Bill was standing in his own little crowd of people. “Darling,” she said sotto voce in his ear, “now that I have my marching orders from your friend Paschen, it’s time to chow down before the scavengers eat it all.”

  But it was not to be: Someone came up from the crowd behind her and rested his hand under her elbow. She turned and looked into the sallow, bony face of Franklin Rawlings. Black evening attire accentuated his cadaverous look. His thin hair was combed optimistically over his balding pate. His eyes were unusual, Louise thought, shining with an almost messianic intensity. His amiable smile that seemed to signal all was right with the world was firmly in place.

  “Now, is it my turn to get to the gardening lady who loves the environment? You are Louise Eldridge, I believe?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Rawlings.” She twisted away to give herself some space and extended her hand. As with royalty, Franklin Rawlings assumed she knew who he was. “This is my husband, Bill.” The two men shook hands.

  “I just saw Tom Paschen holding your attention,” Rawlings said, “for an inordinate amount of time, considering it’s Tom. Most likely he was promoting that pie-in-the-sky environmental bill that was passed in the waning moments of Congress.”

  “Are you telling me that it won’t hold?”

  He stepped closer to her to give his words an air of confidentiality. “Mrs. Eldridge, it’s easy to draw the conclusion that Mr. Paschen wants you to do one of your excellent programs on the President’s bill.” He raised a finger, as if he were a teacher giving gentle instruction to a pupil. “But before you decide to do it, you should look at the poll figures: The sentiment in this country is rapidly shifting. People want jobs from the land, and they don’t want huge tracts set aside for the use of a few effete hikers and bikers.” She was taken aback by the contrast between his pleasant expr
ession and his harsh words. “Congressman Goodrich has now pulled even with the incumbent, and the election is three months away. The odds for a Goodrich landslide are big, and that means a new congress and repeal of that giveaway bill.”

  “You seem very confident,”

  Rawlings looked down at her like a fond uncle. “Very. But I don’t want to press you too much on the issue. I’m certain that WTBA-TV has the wisdom to do the right thing. And then sometime soon we’ll have to talk about Congressman Goodrich’s plans for the environment.”

  Still smiling, he moved away to join another group. Bill said to her, “Still hungry?”

  From another corner of the room she could see Tom Paschen scowling over at her. “Not very,” Louise replied.

  Three

  IT WAS AT THE END OF A LONG day. They had been on location in Manassas, Virginia, doing a show on the restoration of an Early American garden near the Occoquan River. Their attire was an echo of colonial life: Louise in a flowing mauve skirt and lace-edged blouse; and John Batchelder, her cohost, in a loose-fitting poetic shirt that emphasized John’s dashing looks. When they were finished there, Marty Corbin had insisted they return to the station to discuss program ideas for Gardening with Nature.

  The producer was large, with dark, curly hair, shaggy eyebrows, and big brown eyes that most of the time were filled with life, fire, and kindliness. Sitting in Martyrs office for one of his typical “upowwows,” he outlined to them an ambitious travel schedule that threw Louise into a profound silence.

  Marty described his ideas with dramatic gestures of his big hands: “We’re not gonna be one of these garden programs that think the East Coast, with its rich, acidic soil, is all there is. We’re gonna travel, Louise, and we’re not going to leave out one growing zone. We’re even going to Hawaii and Alaska, how’ dja like that? We want all fifty states to watch your program, not just the thirteen original.”