Day of the Dead - J. A. Jance [28]
No, having a pet door was absolutely out of the question. Diana much preferred being the one who got up early to let Damsel out. She padded out to the kitchen and started the coffee, then went into her office and turned on the computer. Early morning was Diana’s favorite time of day. She tried to slog her way through her e-mail while the coffee was perking.
There were a dozen or so spams waiting to be discarded, a couple of e-mails from fans who had written to her through her Web site, and an invitation to appear at a librarians’ convention in the fall in Tallahassee, Florida. Finally, and most important, there was one from Lani.
Twenty-two-year-old Lani had come home at Christmas all excited about the idea of spending the summer after graduation doing volunteer clerical work for Doctors Without Borders in some godforsaken corner of the world. Brandon had put his foot down.
“Don’t you read the papers?” he’d demanded. “Every week I see something about those people getting blown up or shot or worse. If you’re determined to help out, surely there are less dangerous places for you to volunteer.”
“What about Medicos for Mexico?” Diana had suggested, trying to find a compromise that might head off an argument between her husband and daughter.
“Who’s that?” Lani asked.
“It’s an organization started by some friends of mine from the reservation,” Diana told her. “I’m sure you’ve met them somewhere along the way. Each year Larry and Gayle Stryker take a team of medical volunteers—doctors, nurses, and what have you—down to Mexico, where they provide pro bono medical care for people who wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.”
Brandon’s reaction to this was as instant as it was adamant. “Absolutely not!” he growled. “No way, José. You’ll work for those people over my dead body!”
“I’ll work for them if I want to,” Lani had shot back at him. “I’m not your little girl anymore, Dad. I’m the one who gets to decide.” With that, she had stalked out of the living room and down the hall, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
Her cheeks flushed with anger, Diana Ladd had glared at her husband. “That’s a nice way to start Christmas vacation,” she said. “And what on earth do you have against Gayle and Larry? They’re perfectly nice people.”
Brandon shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.”
“I won’t ‘never mind,’ ” Diana returned. “There must be something.”
He chewed his lip before he answered. “I should never have brought it up. Forget it.”
“I won’t forget it.”
“You didn’t go over the campaign-finance public disclosure forms during the last election,” Brandon admitted finally, “but I did. I wanted to know where Bill Forsythe was getting all his campaign contributions. And there they were, right at the top of the list—Dr. and Mrs. Lawrence Stryker. They send us a Christmas card every damned year. I just saw this year’s in the pile on the entryway table. And all the while they’re making nicey-nice with you, they were stabbing us in the back—stabbing me in the back.”
Diana was floored. “I’m so sorry, Brandon,” she said. “I had no idea.”
“No,” Brandon agreed. “I’m sure you didn’t. I wasn’t going to mention it because I know they’re friends of yours. My griping about them sounds like sour grapes, but the idea of Lani possibly going to work for them…” He shook his head. “It was just too much.”
That discussion had happened the evening of the first day Lani was home. Diana had thought the summer-job issue would be a bone of contention all through Lani’s stay. Then, as soon as Lani found out about Fat Crack’s deteriorating health situation, all talk of summer jobs anywhere disappeared off the radar. It was all they could do to talk Lani into going back to Grand Forks to finish her senior year. She had wanted to stay home to look after Fat Crack.
Opening the e-mail