Dead Politician Society

Chapter 53: Clare

Clare’s chicken tried to regurgitate itself as she watched the fundraiser guests try to figure out how to respond to the body at the front of the room. She’d never witnessed a murder—or an attempted one, since Alton was still breathing. She supposed it should be all in a day’s work for a police officer, but she was quickly finding out that she had a lot to learn about her own job.

She swallowed hard and tried to figure out what her own response should be. She couldn’t rush to Alton’s aid. That would look ridiculous. And she couldn’t go poke around in the kitchen to see if Diane or Jonathan was gleefully rubbing their hands together with a vial of poison in their pocket. All she could do was watch her suspects as closely as possible. Beside her, Jessica’s eyes were wide with horror.

Rory leapt up and flapped around his grandfather. Clare couldn’t tell if he was helpful or in the way, but she could sympathize with his need to be doing something.

This wasn’t a stupid crowd. Some of the same guests would have been at the Working Child benefit. Everyone in the room would be following the political deaths in the news. Although the Star had been good to their word—they’d mentioned nothing about the fake obituaries and were careful not to mention foul play in their coverage—every other paper and TV station was speculating like mad. There wouldn’t be one casual observer who would not connect John Alton’s collapse to the other deaths that week.

But who was the non-casual observer?

No one had turned the microphone off. As a result, the room’s focus was still on the podium. Maybe this explained the relative order that was still somehow maintained. Or maybe these people were orderly anyway, with their dessert spoons and consommé spoons, their chardonnay and shiraz glasses, so many rules to keep the world making sense to them.

Where were the cops, anyway? It had been, what? Five minutes? Ten? Clare suddenly sympathized with the impatience in the burglary victims when they opened their door for the cops. When your world was overturned, even five minutes was too long to wait. And those burglary victims were kept waiting far longer than that. If she was ever back in uniform, she vowed to be nicer as she took down the lists of stolen items.

A doctor had been found. Paramedics came in and removed Alton on a stretcher. As the stretcher passed by Clare, she heard his moans and gasps for air.

I’m sorry, she said in her head. She was a horrible cop—this was clear to her now. She could have saved this man’s life if she were more clever, more savvy, more—Roberta was right—focused on the job, and not herself.

Near the door, Alton turned and vomited on a middle-aged couple. A wretched sound accompanied his strong projectile. The couple maintained their composure, sympathetic eyes moving almost in unison toward Alton’s wife, who followed the stretcher with tears streaming down her face. Mrs. Alton was remarkably composed herself, despite sobs that racked her body.

Left alone at the podium, Mr. Dunne seemed to be at a loss. He asked the event’s MC if he wanted to say anything to the crowd.

The MC looked like he wanted to do anything but. Clare couldn’t blame the guy. Would he show respect for Alton and cut the event short? Or would he let the show go on? People had paid a thousand bucks a head to hear from the prime minister and top environmental scientists. Either way, he risked public outrage.

The MC rose from his chair and offered the room a calm frown.

“I think I speak for everyone here when I wish John Alton a speedy recovery.” He paused for the crowd to murmur its agreement. “This is particularly alarming in light of recent happenings at other events.”

Clare was tempted to roll her eyes at the rhetorical understatement, but stopped herself. The host was doing the best he could—better than she’d do in his shoes.

The MC wiped sweat from his brow. “We can only hope that if this is a related event, our haste in securing medical attention will ensure Mr. Alton’s revival. Special thanks to Harry Dunne and his grandson Rory for being first responders, and to Dr. Alex Cummins for coming so hastily to John’s aid.”

A couple of audience members applauded. They quickly stopped when they realized no one else was.

“Dessert is being passed around by catering staff. I’d like to propose that we skip all speeches save the prime minister’s. It seems right to end this evening early in honor of our friend and colleague’s grave distress.”

Murmurs of “of course” and “absolutely” passed through the room. Clare felt herself nodding along with the rest. This guy was good.