Nancy Warren - Aftershocks

Patrick did his best. He argued passionately for council to release the money. She saw Fred Glazeman, one of the kindest men she knew, nodding a few times as Patrick spoke. However, Briana sensed that Councilwoman Gwendolyn Clark, the niece of one of Courage Bay ’s most respected judges, was swayed by Uncle Cecil’s arguments.

“I understand you’re upset, Mayor O’Shea,” her uncle resumed. “We’re all upset that more lives were lost in our city, but let’s not be too quick to run out and spend money that we can’t replace once it’s gone. Let’s let things set for a month. If, as I fully expect, the city returns to its normal peaceful state, then we won’t have spent emergency money needlessly.” He paused and looked slowly around the room at each of the councilmen in turn. “However, if at that time, we feel we need to broach that bond, we can vote on it then.”

Patrick spoke again and his voice was less calm this time. “I urge you all to ask yourselves how you would feel if it were your sister or mother or wife who’d perished yesterday because the fire crews were so stretched they couldn’t reach both women in time to save them.”

“Son, even the one they did save died,” Uncle Cecil reminded him. “It’s a tragedy, but not every tragedy can be averted with money.”

“It’s worth our while to try and prevent every tragedy,” Patrick countered. He looked round the table, making eye contact with each councilman or woman in turn, then said, “Do you want more deaths on your conscience?”

The vote was called, and as Briana had feared, it wasn’t unanimous.

“Motion not carried,” said Patrick in a clipped tone. There was little more to say, and in minutes the meeting was adjourned.

Briana felt as if somebody had kicked her in the stomach. She’d worked all day preparing the irrefutable evidence that there was an acute funding shortage in the city, and Patrick had argued passionately and eloquently on behalf of the very people who risked their lives day after day to keep Courage Bay safe.

How could they have failed?

Maybe Uncle Cecil would have voted against the proposal no matter who was mayor, but she couldn’t get out of her mind the possibility that her uncle had let personal feelings interfere with his better judgment.

She left as soon as she could. As she glanced back, she saw that Patrick was talking with the two councilors who’d supported him. Her uncle and his two supporters left chambers together. Her uncle glanced her way and, when no one was looking, winked at her. She smiled slightly, but couldn’t rid herself of the weight of disappointment that pressed on her chest.

She knew Uncle Cecil was a fiscal conservative, and she respected his views. She only wished he could be a little more open to the fact that this current funding crisis wasn’t a little blip. Courage Bay was practically fighting for its life. In the past months the city had faced drought, severe storms, forest fires, earthquakes, mud slides and a rare viral outbreak. Now it seemed their latest crisis would be a monetary one.

She would have liked to exchange a word with Patrick, just to let him know how sorry she was his motion hadn’t passed, but he was busy chatting with Fred Glazeman when she left.

In no mood to go straight home, in spite of a sleepless night followed by a marathon day at work, she headed for Uncle Cecil and Aunt Irene’s place. Maybe she could do more good for this city if she could reconcile her uncle to Patrick’s proposal. If she could get Cecil Thomson onside, she knew he’d sway those who’d voted with him. She smiled wryly. She’d gone from undercover spy to lobbyist in one day.

Not that she was much of a spy. Her only piece of evidence was missing. At lunchtime she’d checked her car thoroughly, and even casually asked Bert if he’d found anything in the elevator. He’d handed her a paper clip and made some joke about recycling office supplies. Hah, hah.

She’d even phoned Shannon O’Shea to see if the firefighters had picked up anything, though common sense told her they’d have handed the tape recorder over right away if they had found it.

“What have you lost?” Shannon asked.

“Just an earring. It wasn’t valuable, but it has sentimental value.”

“Did you ask Patrick?” Shannon queried, an edge to her voice, and Briana wished she hadn’t bothered phoning. The tape and recorder must be at home somewhere.

Her aunt was delighted to see her. Irene Thomson was a very attractive woman who always looked elegant. Even her white slacks and sky-blue blouse were dressed up with an expensive leather belt and loafers. She’d let her hair go gray and it was a gorgeous pewter color, stunning against her porcelain complexion and deep blue eyes.

After wrapping her niece in a scented embrace, she insisted on warming up some leftover dinner. “If I know you, you’ve been too busy to eat properly. I know Cecil will be hungry when he gets home.”

So Briana found herself sipping sparkling water and putting a bowl of salad on the already set table when her uncle walked in. He broke into a big smile when he saw her and, after he’d kissed his wife hello, wrapped his niece in a bear hug. “So, you came for dinner after all,” he said lightly.

“I didn’t plan to eat, but Aunt Irene loves to feed me.”

He chuckled. “That she does.”

Over dinner they chatted about the family and reminisced about a holiday the three of them had taken in France and Italy as a present to Briana when she’d graduated from college. By the time they’d finished dinner, they were laughing heartily.

“It was all right for you two, but I had an awful time fighting off the men who went wild over Briana,” her uncle complained.

“I think it was my blond hair,” Briana said, wrinkling her nose.

“Nonsense. You’re too beautiful for your own good. You take after your mother that way.”

“Oh, that was such a good trip. Why don’t I get out the photo albums?” Aunt Irene suggested.

“I was really hoping to talk to Uncle Cecil for a few minutes about a work thing,” Briana said.

“Oh, of course, dear. I’m sure you’ve got lots to discuss.” Her aunt didn’t take an active role in Briana’s deception, but Briana knew Irene felt no compunction about hurting the man who’d hurt her husband. Briana understood that kind of loyalty. She had it herself. The trouble was, as loyal as she was to her uncle, she was fast developing an equally strong loyalty to her boss.

Uncle Cecil took her into his study. The room’s decor was inspired by a traditional men’s club. Burgundy walls, a British India rug, an oversize mahogany desk, leather chairs and even hunting prints on the walls.

She almost expected to be offered a cigar and brandy when she sat down.

“Uncle Cecil,” she said, “I’ve been working for Patrick O’Shea for two months now and he’s never done anything remotely illegal or unethical.”

Her uncle’s eyes hardened and his mouth firmed. “What about inappropriate overtures to his assistant?”

Forcing herself not to blush, she shook her head. It was the truth, after all. She was the one who’d made the overtures in the elevator.

“I see. Well, he’s been busy.” Cecil blew out a breath. “We’ve all been busy with this wretched trouble.”

“I know. I’m just wondering. Uncle Cecil, could it have been someone else who sent that false evidence to the Sentinel?”

“Of course not. Who else would bother?”

“I know it sounds strange, but maybe someone who supported his campaign?”

Uncle Cecil leaned back in his chair and regarded the ceiling, his habit when he was thinking deeply. “You’re suggesting Zirinsky could have acted on his own?”

Max Zirinsky was a good man. It was difficult to imagine him doing something so underhanded. “I’m only saying that it might not have been Patrick O’Shea. And if it wasn’t him,” she hurried on, “then maybe you two could bury the hatchet and try working together for the good of Courage Bay.”