Guilty Minds

Never insult the guests won out, as I knew it would. How did they know the Grants’ names hadn’t been accidentally left off?

“Sure,” the first blonde said uncertainly, pulling out blank name badges from a box and handing them to Mandy.

The entry hall, tiled in terra-cotta, gave way to a great hall with twenty-foot ceilings, very grand and formal. The floor was black-and-white harlequin tiles, the walls were painted oxblood, there were dramatic swags of drapery and gilt-framed equestrian paintings. The room was crowded. It looked like there were sixty or seventy people. We each took hors d’oeuvres from a waitress and flutes of champagne from a waiter and entered the fray.

It didn’t take long at all to identify Ellen Wiley. She was a tall, attractive woman in her seventies who looked easily twenty years younger. She had the figure of a woman who did a lot of Pilates. She was wearing a long-sleeved gold evening dress with a diamond choker. Her hair, light brown with blond highlights, was styled in a short, flattering shag. She was talking to a silver-haired man who looked ex-military, and she was laughing, a deep swooping laugh.

“Now what?” Mandy said.

“We drink, we talk, we suffer through the inevitable pitch for money, and then we wait until we can get her alone.”

Mandy and I talked for a long while, keeping to ourselves, like you weren’t supposed to do at a party like this. Someone clinked a glass, then others clinked in response, and the room quieted. Ellen Wiley-we’d identified her correctly-made a speech about how for every US soldier killed in war, seven are wounded. She talked about the invisible wounds of war, like post-traumatic stress disorder, traumatic brain injury, and major depression. She introduced one grievously wounded soldier, recently back from Iraq, and he spoke a few words and reduced a few people to tears.

She finished speaking, and a few minutes later I saw her approach us. Her hand was extended. “You’re the Grants, I’m told,” she said, a smile lighting up her face. Her eyes were a bright blue.

“James Grant,” I said and shook her hand. She’d been briefed. James Grant was a major donor to conservative causes.

“Lisa Grant,” Mandy said and did the same.

Up close you could see the skillful plastic surgery she’d had, particularly in the tight lines around her eyes when she smiled. She turned toward me. “I understand you wanted to talk to me, Mister, uh Grant.” She raised her eyebrows as she said Grant. “Happy to do so, when the guests have gone.”

She smiled again and turned away.

– 

A young guy in a blue blazer came up to us a few minutes later, introduced himself as Rico, and escorted us out of the great room and down a hallway to the library, which was only slightly smaller than the great room. It had large windows and whitewashed stone walls and built-in bookcases. The floors were painted wood. He gestured toward a round tea table with chairs around it in front of a large painting, a big red square that looked like a Rothko. “Mrs. Wiley will be with you soon,” Rico said. When we took our seats, he turned without a word and left.

As we sat, uncomfortable on the hard wooden chairs, we said nothing to each other, because of the possibility of recording devices.

We waited uneasily.

Somehow she knew we wanted to see her. We hadn’t said anything to anyone else at the party, or to the blond girls with the name tags.

I thought back to the folder that Merlin had left in the locked file room at the law firm and wondered whether someone at Norcross and McKenna had made the connection and warned Ellen Wiley. That seemed the likeliest explanation.

But if she knew we were there under false pretenses, why was she still willing to meet with us?

Mrs. Wiley appeared about an hour later. She began speaking as she entered the library, a good fifty feet from us.

“Finally!” she said. “Now the party gets interesting.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Oh, I know every single name on my guest list. I didn’t invite anyone I don’t know. When I’m hitting people up for money, I prefer to know them personally.” She tipped her head to one side, placed a hand on her hip, and smiled coquettishly. “The least you could have done was use your real names.”

59

I stood up, and then Mandy did. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I’m Nick Heller and this is Mandy Seeger.”

“So you’re the one who torched my website,” she said to me, wagging a finger, mock-stern. “I know who you are. You’re a real troublemaker. And of course I know who your father is.” She turned toward Mandy. “And you-aren’t you the reporter?”

“Until yesterday,” Mandy said, “I used to be an employee of yours. I wrote the piece on Jeremiah Claflin.”

“I thought so. Ash Norcross warned me someone might be coming. But he didn’t say they’d be crashing my party. Ballsy of you two to show up like this. I love it.” She flashed a bright smile. “All right, somehow you two figured out who owns Slander Sheet. Now you know my deep dark secret. So what the hell do you want?”