Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

“Malcolm Gannet. Well, what do you know.” Gannet was a real estate developer. His group had changed the skyline along Shoreline Boulevard, and he had made a mint doing it. Mrs. Fremont had been actively antidevelopment, fighting a largely hopeless battle to preserve some of the examples of the 1920s and 1930s architecture of downtown Las Piernas.

“Something else, Irene.”

“What?”

“I talked to Hernandez about the little door prize you got last night.”

I braced myself. Dr. Carlos Hernandez was the coroner. “And?”

“And it’s definitely a human heart. Human blood, too.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I knew it would be.”

“Sure. But the logical conclusion is, whoever it belongs to ain’t doing so hot right now. So until we figure out who put it on your doorstep, you better watch out. Are you listening to me, Irene?”

“I’ve heard every word.”

“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 Gannet?”

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 Planning Commission. He was able to get past her on downtown, but when it came to the beach properties, she really organized her neighbors. Lots of people down there think it’s too crowded as it is, and they didn’t want to be looking at Gannet’s high-rise condos where they now have an ocean view. And a lot of beachgoers like things as they are.

“But you know, even if she had lost every vote, she still had old Gannet over a barrel. Her husband, John Fremont, bought up all kinds of beach property ages ago, when it could be taken for a song. Even after John died, she never let go of an inch of it. It’s in a patchwork with the Gannet properties, so between her and some of the others, he can’t get a large enough parcel together to build like he wants to.”

“So why did he keep on trying?”

Murray laughed. “You don’t know Malcolm Gannet. He believes in getting his way. It was a standoff. Two old buzzards waiting to see who’d go first. I guess it was Althea, which is too damn bad. Not that I’d blame whomever she’s passed it on to for selling out to Malcolm. You could retire on what five percent of that property is worth now.”

“Strange thing is, I saw Gannet – well, I saw his limo – at Althea Fremont’s funeral today.”

“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 beginning to fall again. Voter turnout was bound to be low. I wasn’t sure who that would help out – Montgomery, probably.

By the time I drove over to Cliffside Hotel, it was pouring. I realized I had left my umbrella in the Karmann Ghia. By the time I made the dash into the hotel, I was fairly drenched. Frank was standing in the lobby, equally wet. We took one look at each other and started laughing.

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