I went into the kitchen and closed the door, leaving Corey alone with the mystery girl in the living room. I knew the other guest I was expecting would knock on the kitchen door when she came by.
There was no sound audible from the living room as I waited. I made myself a cup of tea, knowing that I probably wouldn't get a chance to drink it.
Then, after a few minutes, just as I poured the water into the cup, there was a soft knock on the door.
I opened it and my friend Celia came in. She looked agitated as usual, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt had once had the name of a band on the front, but it had been washed so many times that the name was no longer legible.
She looked at the door to the living room, which was never closed, and I guess she read something in my face. "What's going on?" she asked.
I told her of the arrival of the mystery girl.
When I was done, Celia looked at me steadily.
"I didn't think you were the type to take in strays, but we have more important things to talk about. Come on."
I knew what that meant. She always insisted that we walk along the beach when we talked about politics, so we couldn't be overheard.
At first I thought this was just an affectation, but as time went on and I learned more about what she was finding out, I started to wonder if maybe she was right, and perhaps she was not being cautious enough.
I poked my head into the living room, not looking, and called to Corey that we'd be back. He grunted assent, and Celia and I went outside. The evening was warm and the air was still. We proceeded single-file down the narrow, sandy path to the beach.
We had walked a distance along the beach before she started to speak, and I confess in the silence my thoughts were mostly on the girl in my living room.
"He had Franklin killed," she said finally, and that got my attention.
"I find that hard to believe," I said. She looked at me steadily. "Well, not that hard, but I'm wondering how you can be so sure."
"I'm pretty sure--" she said.
I shook my head. "You've got to be more than 'pretty'--"
"I'll get the evidence. Ruth is helping me--"
"You know--"
"This is more important than her job, damn it!" she said, just as angry as she usually was when we got to this point in this argument.
I think it had been Ruth who had started calling Celia "Crusader Rabbit," but whoever it was, the name did fit her. Usually she managed to drag the rest of us along with her, but tonight I wasn't convinced. It seemed like we'd better have pretty definite proof if we were going to accuse the incumbent mayor, who had held the post for over twenty years, of murder.
And, even if we did have definite proof, well, that only proved that we were up against somebody who was a lot more vicious than we were. Which was not a comforting thought.
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