Archer Mayor - Three Can Keep a Secret

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Gail Zigman stepped into the small back office on the top floor of the Pavilion building in Montpelier, located beside the statehouse, and closed the door behind her. Vermont governors were paid a little over $150,000 per year; were issued a security detail, complete with vehicle; and had a staff. They were also the chief executive, with all the attending perks. On the other hand, they still headed up one of the least populated states in the Union, which translated into Gail’s living in her own condo just outside Montpelier, although having access to an admittedly spacious combination office/apartment in this building, and another ceremonial office in the statehouse, equipped with a chandelier. There was no governor’s mansion, no stretch limo, no executive helicopter, and no palace guard to snap her a salute when she showed up for work every morning. Vermonters had other expectations of their leaders than their appearing like foreign potentates or overindulged chiefs of industry.

Not surprisingly, Gail had also quickly discovered, governors had virtually no privacy and little time to themselves. Which explained why she was standing here with her back to the door. After six months of agreeing to everyone’s requests of her to do what they wanted and to be where they directed, she’d finally demanded ninety minutes of complete solitude, every afternoon. It was impractical, and honored only about 30 percent of the time, but it beat what had preceded it. And she cherished every minute.

She wasn’t getting that now, however-not with the post-Irene mess demanding that she be in all places at all times. But when she’d announced five minutes ago that she was going to grab a little time for herself, her staff’s reaction hadn’t been stunned disbelief.

The downtime wasn’t so she could watch TV, do crosswords, or read a book. In general, it was to help her address the private daily duties that she set herself, for herself, outside the demands of her job, her constituents, and her omnipresent staffers.

This time, for example, it was to call Susan Raffner.

Politicians-even small state ones-are surrounded by a hierarchy of friends. Some are heartfelt associations, others practical, still others obligatory and occasionally onerous, as with party chairmen, committee heads, key lobbyists, and the like, with whom one is pretty much stuck whether one likes them or not.

For Gail, Susan Raffner was something else entirely-a fellow resident of Brattleboro, a friend and advisor for decades, a sounding board, an ally, a defender, and a fellow feminist of the old school, Raffner had early seen in her friend the potential that Gail had achieved in the last election. When Gail had first toyed with becoming a selectman, Raffner had been by her side, giving advice, fielding problems, and handling many of the logistical headaches, especially as the stakes had grown along with Gail’s successes. Beyond that, when Gail had been raped-and Joe almost killed-Susan had been beyond supportive, offering counsel and challenge during Gail’s struggle for balance.

Unusually-if typically for this woman-Raffner’s only request in exchange for all of this had not been a cabinet appointment or the leadership of some agency. It had been to request an endorsement from Gail in Susan’s run for one of the two Windham County state senate seats.

And it had worked, if controversially. Winning as a Democrat hadn’t been much of a reach in Vermont’s southeast corner; but Gail’s stirring of the pot by backing Susan against the Democratic incumbent had caused a real hornet’s swarm. The man in question had been popular, if only mildly competent, and had been serving for sixteen years before Candidate Zigman had vouched for Susan on the stump. The two women broke the rules and outraged their own party bosses, and created an effective if inaccurate image of Raffner’s stunned opponent as a chauvinist, do-nothing male who was probably harboring malicious intentions toward women, children, farmers, gun owners, and the American Way. The poor bastard never knew what hit him, and on election night, Gail and Susan had briefly retreated amid the hoopla to raise a private glass to their dual success.

It wasn’t just the victory they were toasting. On various levels, they were angry women, fed up with the status quo, tired of waiting for change, and happy with the turmoil they’d stirred up. The fallout afterwards would be predictable, of course, and was already starting. Both women winning by popular landslides while thumbing their noses at the Old Guard-including Vermont’s Washington delegation, nicknamed the DC-Three-had prompted a chorus of angry muttering from the back rooms that guaranteed an untold number of future headaches for each of them. But in the short term, as for so many idealists preceding them, that hadn’t mattered. They were flush with success, and presumed that the spirit that had carried them here would sustain them while in office.

It was a miscalculation common to many a dreamer.

In the meantime, Gail now had her best friend in the senate. However, she’d also lost her closest advisor as a result, and Susan had already twice taken opposing views to a couple of the new governor’s pet projects, but such was the rigor of their mutual honesty that details like that mattered little. In an ironic homage to much of the politics predating modern extremism, they embodied the older tradition suggesting that close friends could be politically opposed while still finding enlightenment in each other’s insight.

As with right now. Gail pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number she knew better than her parents’.

“Nice interview on VPR,” Susan answered without preamble. “I might not have gone on so much about that funding issue. Uncle Sam always sounds more generous on the heels of a disaster than he does a year later when the checks need to be written.”

Gail knew better than to be sidetracked by someone else’s issue. It was a lesson that Susan herself had taught her early on. Instead, she ignored the comment and got straight to the reason for her call. “Stretching back into Vermont political history,” she asked her friend, “what can you tell me about Carolyn Barber? Governor-for-a-Day a long time ago?”

Raffner didn’t mind and didn’t hesitate. “Wow-that’s a name from the past. Like bringing up the Black Dahlia in Los Angeles.”

Gail raised her eyebrows at the obscure reference, but stayed silent, knowing Susan’s process.

“One of the most famous unsolved murder cases in U.S. history,” came the follow-up.

“And relevant how?”

“Okay-a stretch, I’ll grant you. But just like you had no clue about the Black Dahlia, most Vermonters have never heard of Carolyn Barber. At the time, it was seen as a publicity strategy run amok, since most of the coverage made fun of it. But there were rumors that some kind of deal was responsible.”

Gail frowned at the phone. “A deal? What was the point? Did money change hands?”

But here, Susan proved less helpful. “Not that I know of. Barber was a nobody, and as far as I know, nothing happened as a result except for the bad press. Of course, I wasn’t there, and it wasn’t like it was news even a month later. I only know about it because I love this stuff, and I went to school with a girl named Carole Barber-no relation, I think-and it stuck in my head.”

Gail considered what she might be missing. Susan interrupted her thoughts. “Why do you want to know about her?”

She opened her mouth to pass on Joe’s news from the state hospital, but then shut it again, reconsidering. She had lived for years in Joe’s company, often serving as his sounding board on complicated cases. Discretion had become ingrained over time, and she felt its tug upon her now, if for no discernible reason. “Her name came up in conversation,” she answered truthfully enough. “It didn’t mean anything to me, but it sounded odd. I just wondered if you knew anything.”