Sweet Dreams, Irene

“Yeah, but I know you. Hearing is not enough. Listen, for once. I know you want to get nosy about this, Irene, but it just isn’t smart. We can handle it.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Look, you don’t see me walking down there and trying to be a reporter. So don’t you go trying to be a cop, okay?”

“They’re just trying to scare me, Pete.”

“So be scared, would you?”

“It makes me angry.”

“Crimeny. You got anger? Go see a shrink. And while you’re there, ask him why you don’t have the sense God gave a rabbit!”

“Via, non t’arrabbiare. Did I say that right?”

“Pronunciation needs some work,” he said grumpily. “So you want it in Italian? Ti sto avvertendo! – I’m warning you!”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Shit. I’m wasting my breath.”

“Probably.”

“Shit.”

“Bye, Pete. I’ll be careful.”

I went back to my stories. Stacee and I also put a piece together on GOTV or “get out the vote” workers. Those folks who call you two dozen times on election night to make sure you voted. We were covering the system, from the professional campaign consultants to the leagues of volunteers who do everything from going door to door over a precinct or two to driving people to their polling places. We filed that story in the late afternoon.

I had some time to kill before going down to Cliffside, so I tracked down our real estate editor, Murray Plummer. Murray is the Clark Kent of real estate writers. With his baby face and oversized glasses, he looks like he just got out of a high school physics class. But he always manages to keep up with – if not one step ahead of – the wild and woolly world of commercial real estate in our town. He has published stories about deals before the principals have finished reading each other’s faxes. I’ve often wondered how well his abilities could be used in other kinds of reporting, but he will have none of it. He loves his work.

His section comes out three times a week, so when I found him, he was finishing up material that would run in Thursday’s paper.

“Hello, Irene. Where’ve you been lately?”

“Election time, Murray. You know where I’ve been.”

“I guess I do, and I don’t envy you. Take a look at this copy – what do you think? We’re featuring the Sheffield Project on Thursday.”

“That’s the one someone wants to put up over by the cliffs? Where the old Sheffield Estate used to be?”

“Yes, they plan a luxury hotel.”

“Is it a done deal?”

“Not by a long shot. There will be a hue and cry that will keep City Hall busy for a couple of years and make certain lawyers and consultants very rich.”

“I’ll want to read it. Listen – what can you tell me about Malcolm Ga

His eyebrows went up behind the rim of his glasses. “Malcolm putting some money behind someone? He may be a gambler, but he’s usually pretty sure of his prospects when it comes to city council influence.”

“Maybe,” I said, realizing he assumed I was investigating a political story.

“Well, let’s see. You know what he’s done downtown, and he certainly doesn’t need to worry about what he can get approved there, so you’re probably more interested in the Lower Shore Project. I hope they come up with a better name for it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, bluffing along.

“Okay, so from the boardwalk to the pier, he’s been buying up properties. Life will be easier for him now that poor Althea Fremont is gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, she fought him like a tiger on the Pla

“But you know, even if she had lost every vote, she still had old Ga

“So why did he keep on trying?”

Murray laughed. “You don’t know Malcolm Ga

“Strange thing is, I saw Ga

“Really?”

“Yes. It was odd. He didn’t seem to want anyone to know he was there. I mean, he wasn’t exactly hiding, but he didn’t come out of the car for the graveside service.”

“Ah, that’s Malcolm all over. Mr. Mysterious. I know very little about him personally. Just the odd rumor, probably spread about by some of his vanquished rivals.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Oh, nothing of importance. Petty, really. I was told he gets around in the limo because he doesn’t know how to drive. Spends a tremendous amount of time on a yacht, when he doesn’t know how to swim or sail. He has an able crew around him, though, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. Same is true in business. He knows how to use the talents of others to get where he’s going.” He frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “As for the funeral, who knows? Maybe he was there to gloat.”

“Over a murder victim?”

“Hmm. No, you’re right. Well, sorry, I can’t help you out there.”

“Well, I’ve learned a lot anyway. Thanks, Murray.”

As I turned to leave, I heard him chuckle softly.

“I knew they’d never keep your nose out of crime stories.”

I turned back to face him. “Murray, please-”

He crossed his heart and put a finger to his lips. But this was a newspaper after all, full of people who couldn’t resist telling the news about one another as much as anything else. I walked off feeling certain that John Walters would be chewing me out by the next morning.

I made my way down to the lobby. Outside in the darkness, rain was begi

By the time I drove over to Cliffside Hotel, it was pouring. I realized I had left my umbrella in the Karma

“Well, at least we know you’re no witch. You didn’t melt.”

“We witches fool everybody with that old trick, Frank.”

“Are you hungry?”

“And curious.”

“So what’s new. I’ll tell you about the will over di

The Cliffside has a classy restaurant. We ate in a candlelit room overlooking the ocean. The room was paneled in beautiful dark wood, and the chairs were comfy and high-backed. It was too dark and rainy to make much of the view that night, but it was still a romantic place to share a meal. There was a big fireplace at one end of the room, and espying our wet hair, the maître’d seated us near it. We ordered a scotch for Frank and a Myers’s and o. j. for me, which arrived posthaste, and we settled back to admire one another for a while.

“So tell me what happened after I left,” I said.

He shifted around in his chair a little. “Mrs. Fremont changed her will about a month ago. The lawyer was not subtle about his unhappiness with the new one. She gave a lot of money to the foundation that supports the shelter and other charities. She left Paul enough to finish college. She gave Jack all of her beach properties, and she gave me some mountain property – a cabin and some land with a couple of weekend rentals on it.”