Meg O'Brien - Sacred Trust

“Town,” otherwise known as “the Village,” is only a few blocks away, but I’m already in my comfortable sweats and don’t feel like dressing again.

“You know I don’t like coming there,” he says.

“Jeffrey’s hobnobbing with the president. He won’t be home till the weekend.”

“Even so.”

Ben is hoping for a promotion to chief of police when the current chief retires. But for all its artists and writers, Carmel is basically a conservative town, and Ben worries about gossip. An adulterous affair in his personnel folder wouldn’t impress the town council or those on the board who might appoint him.

“I don’t know why you don’t divorce him and get it over with,” he says, not for the first time. “Throw the prick out.”

“I already did throw the prick out. It’s the rest of him I can’t get rid of.”

He laughs. “No, seriously—just do it.”

“You know I promised I’d stay till after the election in November. My freedom will be my Christmas present.”

“I still don’t get it. My gut feeling tells me Jeffrey is up to something, and it doesn’t have anything to do with his position as primary mover and shaker in the reigning party. Any idea what it might be?”

“In politics? Who knows? He says he’s worried that any scandal in his life could rub off on the president, and he doesn’t want to take any chances, given the moral climate of the country these days—the backlash that’s carried over from previous presidential capers.”

“Abby, just how close is he to President Chase?”

“They’re thick as thieves from what I can see. Jeffrey’s one of the few men in the country who’s on the phone with him several times a week. And he’s virtually running his campaign for reelection. From behind the scenes, of course.”

“What about Jeffrey himself? Does he have aspirations to run for office?”

“Not at all. He looks upon politicians as drones, or rather chess pieces he can move from here to there at his whim.”

“Abby, divorce isn’t all that scandalous these days. And he only works for the president. What makes you think Jeffrey isn’t making you stay with him till after the election just so he can live in the house?”

“Yeah, like he has such a good time here now.”

“Then it’s something else. Maybe he wants you back.”

“People in hell—”

“Want ice water,” he finishes for me. “I know. So meet me for dinner, okay? At the Red Lion?”

“You mean the Britannia, or whatever they’re calling it now?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to have dinner with me in public? Good Lord, man, are you on drugs?”

“Nobody there will care. It’s not like the Mission Ranch, for God’s sake.”

I sigh. “Okay, but—”

“But you’re already in your sweats and you don’t feel like dressing. One more reason for the Red Lion—the Britannia, whatever. I’ll meet you in the pub.”

“Why not the Bully III?”

“I’m already at the Red Lion.”

“But the Bully III has the best French dip in town.”

“You won’t eat much, anyway.”

I sigh. “You know me too damned well.”

“How’s the Murph?” Ben says once we’re settled at a table in the Red Lion, now the Britannia, by the fireplace and have ordered drinks. The Britannia pub is a place where locals hang out, sort of a Cheers bar, and just about everyone in here knows us. It amazes me that Ben’s willing to be seen with me here.

“Murphy?” I say, answering his question. “He’s not too bad. Snappy, though.”

He frowns. “Have you heard anything more about how that might have happened?”

“No. The kid who brought him home said there wasn’t anyone else around, so I haven’t gone out asking.”

“Still, I think I should talk to him. Maybe there’s something he saw, but didn’t realize its importance. Did you get a phone number?”

“No. I wish I had. He put his own leash on Murphy to bring him home and forgot to take it back. It looks expensive. Possibly even custom-made.”

“Why don’t I take a look at it? If it was made by a local artisan, I might be able to track the guy down.”

“Okay. I’ll get it to you.”

“We’ve found Marti’s brother, Ned, by the way.” Ben smiles a thank-you at the waitress, who sets down our drinks. “He’s coming out here to arrange the funeral.”

“That’s what I called you about earlier. You got my message?”

He nods, taking a deep draft of his Sierra Nevada pale ale. “I thought we could talk here instead of on the phone.”

I toy with my Chardonnay. “When is Marti…how soon can it be?”

“At the end of the week, Ted says. He thinks the toxicology reports will be pretty much routine, and he’s put a rush on them to get them out of the way as soon as possible. He’s doing it for you, he says. He likes you.”

“Ted’s a sweetheart. So’s his wife, so don’t get any ideas. But back to Marti’s brother. He wants the funeral here? I’m surprised.”

“I take it he feels that’s the most expedient way to do it. Financially, that is. I also got the impression he and Marti didn’t get along.”

“That’s true. She didn’t talk about him much, and I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I saw them together.”

“You don’t know why they might have been estranged? If they were?”

“No. But he’s a lot older. Ten years, I think. Maybe he resented having a new baby around when he was the only child for so long.”

I sip my wine, and Ben looks at me with a teasing light in his eyes.

“Great hairdo,” he comments, remarking on my quickly pulled-back ponytail. “And I love the beaten-up running shoes. Pure Carmel.”

“Well, I need to be fleet-of-foot when I’m around you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Perhaps because you asked me here to interrogate me,” I say.

“I could have done that at the station.”

“Oh, so you brought me here to woo me? Gee, I thought we did that at your house, not in public.”

When he hasn’t an answer to that, I sigh. “Okay, so just get on with it. What do you want to know?”

He sets the heavy glass of ale down on the table. The fire crackles beside us, and I’m starting to get too warm, which is what I get for not layering. At the bar the patrons, mostly locals, carry on easy conversations with one eye on the television on the back wall.

“I want to know about Marti’s baby,” Ben says. “That’s one thing you forgot to mention, Ab—the reason for that Cesareian scar.”

“I didn’t forget,” I say, shrugging. “I just promised her I’d never tell anyone.”

“But she’s—”

“Dead now. Yeah, gee, you know what? I know that.” I frown. “It’s just hard. Anyway, why do you need to know about that?”

“I’m not sure yet. I just have a feeling it’s got something to do with the reason she died.”

“You do, huh?”

Ben’s “feelings” are something I’ve learned not to ignore. He’s known for his intuitive skills, not that he’s like one of those fancy profilers on television. He just thinks things through better than most, while seeming not to move ahead much at all.

Besides, wine has always loosened my tongue. It doesn’t take much on an empty stomach.

“It was a long time ago,” I say after we’ve ordered food. “Back in the eighties. Marti had been working in Central America a lot, so I didn’t see her much. One day she showed up at my door, already in labor. It was shortly after I’d married Jeffrey.”

“She came here? To Carmel?”

“Right. I tried to get her to tell the father about the baby so he could help her, but she was adamant. Said it would be better for everyone concerned if he never knew. She wouldn’t even tell me who the father was.”