I wake up to a driving rain outside the window of my room at the Golden Pillar. Even worse, though, is the pounding in my head.
Two glasses of wine at the Riverside became three followed by a nightcap downstairs last night, initially in celebration for Wanda, then in honor of my imminent departure from Middle Valley. That concierge – Miller, I believe – and Bitsy can throw ‘em back. Especially Miller. Even Bitsy gave in by 11, but Miller insisted on mixing me an Old Fashioned. I don’t even like bourbon.
Sigh. I cannot wait to get back to the asphalt, the noise, the odors, and, oh yes, the noise.
Around here, if three cars creep up and down River Road in a day, it’s an event.
That said, my editor, Peter, gave me a sort of side assignment in addition to the mayoral election – sniffing around the Carson Sigmund story. I have, and I’ve found nothing but scuttlebutt and speculation. Things are so slow here that even Sheriff Paul hasn’t been charged.
When that day comes, I regret to say, I’m sure I’ll be back.
But for now, we are looking at a rainy, hungover swearing-in ceremony for one Wanda Moreno, and then my merciful escape.
–
I meet my cameraman, Morty, and we walk upriver toward the Courthouse from the Golden Pillar. I can see a crowd gathering there as patriotic music blares from two small speakers situated out front. The podium is covered with streamers – red, white, and blue, as you might expect.
There are 50 folding chairs set up facing the podium, and, in spite of the weather, half of them are already occupied. I see Bentley adding chairs.
“Hey!” I holler toward him. “Why are we here? I thought it was in the park, by the river.”
Bentley nods. “Ground’s too mushy. We’d do a number on the grass and the gazebo isn’t big enough.” He extends his arms as if presenting the scene. “What do you think?”
“I love it!” I tell him, then motion toward Morty holding the camera next to me. “Where can we set up?”
Bentley points to the back of the chairs, then holds up his hands as if filming a movie. “You’ll want the Courthouse in the background, yes? How about here?”
Morty looks around. “Fine,” he says, without emotion and goes about opening his tripod.
One of the best photogs in the business, he is, and a man of very few words.
The chairs in front begin to fill with Middle Valley’s own “dignitaries” – Cassie, Bitsy, even Wanda’s opponent, Shirley, is on hand. Across the aisle is Mercury, Silas, Bernie. Oh my, and Albert Nutwell. I don’t remember the last time I saw him in the light of day. He’s sitting next to Thornton, another of those around here who tends to lay low. Wonder what’s up there.
The music stops and Bitsy jumps up, speech in hand, looking as fresh as though she’d gone to bed before sunset.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome!” she says. “What a fabulous day! What a fabulous crowd! Thank you all so much for being here. My name, as you all know, is Bitsy McMurtry.”
A dramatic pause. No applause. This is so Bitsy.
“This is an historic day in our little ‘burg and, I am excited to report, I for one am brimming with hope, dear friends … hope for the future, hope for the country, hope for us right here in Middle Valley.”
Crowd members begin to fidget. One opens an umbrella and hits the guy in front of her in the head.
Read the room, Bitsy. Read the room.
“Uh … well, as you know, I had the distinct pleasure of taking part in this election, serving as campaign manager for the woman you’re about to hear speak. She’s spent her professional life investing in this town, promoting it as chair of our tourism board, interacting with the public … getting to the heart of who we are and how we can meet the needs of the greater world as well as our own. She is uniquely suited for this role, and, it seems, you all agree with me because you elected her! Without further ado, I give you … Mayor Wanda Moreno!”
Chants of “We Need Wanda” begin bubbling up from the crowd and the two women trade places on the podium. I see, with trepidation, that not only does Wanda not have a speech. She doesn’t even have notes.
A bailiff holds a Bible and Wanda places her hand on it, repeating the words so many others have uttered as they were sworn into office. “I solemnly swear …” As it ends, the crowd cheers, and Wanda takes the podium.
“Thank you, Bitsy. Thank you, Shirley, for being here. Thank you, all, my fellow Middle Valley-ers. And thank you, most, to my God, to my darling, Stu, sitting at His side and gazing down upon me.”
She wipes tears from her eyes with a flourish.
“This may be a rainy day here on Earth, but there is sunshine and hope in my heart. I am thrilled to get to work for you, so I will keep this short by saying please direct all questions to Bitsy or me. You know what we stand for, what we ran on, and what are about to do … but we’ll never do any of it without you.”
She pauses as the crowd claps. A child runs through the middle aisle and a mother chases, then picks her up.
Wanda smiles. “Some housekeeping before I wrap up: My job at the tourism board is open, so if you know anyone … let me know. Now, go forth. Be bold. Run the banks of the Chicktee, just not today as it’s a bit muddy. Thank you, Middle Valley!”
Wanda waves excitedly as the crowd applauds and cheers.
I scan the crowd. Bernie and Mercury appear to be sharing a laugh. The back rows chitter-chatter … one expressing confusion, the other wondering if the rain will hold long enough for her to get her two kids home. Still another suggests that attending was a big waste of time.
I elbow Morty. “Grab the cam, let’s go.”
I make my way to the front of the crowd where Bitsy is whispering with Wanda. She spots me approaching and jumps up.
“Susan! You got in okay last night? Miller didn’t keep you too long, did he?”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am. I just wanted to ask you and Wanda a few questions this morning, if that’s okay.”
Wanda nods. “Shoot.”
“Well, for one thing, that wasn’t your typical acceptance speech … “
Bitsy leans in. “Well, Susan, we just thought …”
Wanda raises her hand in Bitsy’s direction. “What Bitsy is trying to say is that we want to get to work. We don’t want to make a big deal out of anything. We just need to get on with things, and represent the people of Middle Valley.”
“What’s the first item of business today as you take office? I ask her.
Wanda chuckles in my direction. “Breakfast. Now I must go. Thank you for being here.”
She grabs Bitsy by the arm and walks away. Shirley, the opponent, is in my line of sight.
“Ms. Scott … Ms. Scott … a word? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Susan Cotton. I’m with WBCD in New York. I’ve spent a good bit of time in Middle Valley covering Mick’s murder and a few other stories, and I’m in town today for the swearing-in. Your thoughts as you come off your hard-fought campaign?”
Shirley looks perplexed. “Hard-fought may be a bit of an overstatement. Frankly, my thought is that you must be a little disappointed, coming all the way here for a speech like that.”
I opt against pressing on that answer and instead turn the conversation forward. “Well, be that as it may, Ms. Scott, how do you feel about Ms. Moreno taking the reigns of Middle Valley? Anything on your agenda that you’d like to see her handle in the short-term?”
Shirley pauses, then looks me in the eye and grins. “Whatever she does, I’m on her team – 100 percent.”
Interesting.
“Now, Ms. Cotton was it? I must run. Thank you for being here.” She turns and looks directly into the camera “And, if anyone out there needs to buy a home, go to Scott Real Estate – www-dot-scottrealestate-dot-com – and click on ‘I’m buying.’ Thank you!”
With a flourish, Shirley crosses the street and strides up River Road toward her office. I had never had the pleasure of meeting her in my previous visits, and, if I’m being honest, I still haven’t.
“Susan?”
I turn to my right and there’s Bernie Rossie.
“Bernie!” I throw my arms around him. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Nice to see you, as well.”
A series of pleasantries lead to me learning he’s no longer with The Dispatch and is, instead, an investigative reporter for The Atlantic. I congratulate him profusely.
“Wow, that’s bigtime … what do they have you covering?”
He smiles. “Confidential, largely because I don’t need you breathing down my neck.”
I nod. “Touche, my friend.”
I debate in my head whether to ask after Sheriff Paul, since I was among those who heard him confessing to Mick’s murder, but decide I should.
“How is the Sheriff doing?”
Bernie shrugs. “As well as can be expected,” he said. “That’s about all I can say.”
I can see the pain in his face and wish instantly I’d not asked.
“I’ll pray for him,” I tell Bernie.
“Thanks,” he says. “Take care.”
He leans toward a woman I now recognize as Elyse, whom I interviewed alongside Carson last year. She’d been sitting in the back in spite of her prominent role as Shirley’s campaign manager these past few months. Elyse turns in my direction. She holds up her hand.
“Susan, nice to see you. I’d stay and chat, but I can’t. Be well.”
She doesn’t even give me a chance to speak.
I turn to Morty. “I think we’re set here.”
“Agreed,” he says as he begins pulling up and unplugging cables.
“When do you want to get on the road?” I ask him. “Do you want to grab a bite first?”
He looks up as if I’d just proposed we go SCUBA diving in the Chickotee.
He shakes his head. “We’re leaving now.”
Gunnar Olafsson