Hiss And Tell

8

It took most of the half-hour ride to Neal’s Neck for Sunny to calm down after that scene with Shadow, requiring plenty of deep breathing and a lot of taking in of the beautiful, serene scenery.

Concentrate, Sunny urged herself. You can’t arrive looking like a wrung-out dishrag. Priscilla is depending on you. And so is Will.

She had control of herself by the time the town car arrived at the roadblock at the entrance to the compound and parked just inside. As she waited for the security guy to get her bag, Sunny checked out the state troopers. Each wore a badge over the left breast pocket of his uniform, a name tag over the right, which made it slightly easier as Sunny tried to spot the name of Will’s pal, Hank Riker.

“We were assigned together up near the Canadian border and were pretty tight,” Will had told her. “If you need help, he’ll probably come through for friendship’s sake. But if it’s anything serious, Hank’s a trooper first. He’ll go to Wainwright. Hell, he’s the one who called Wainwright here in the first place.” Even so, Riker may be the only halfway friendly face in this place, Sunny thought as she scanned another name tag. She realized the owner was giving her a sort of weird look of his own.

That irreverent alter ego in the back of her head quickly responded. Well, would I like some stranger looking at my chest?

“Sorry, Trooper Smithwick,” she said taking in the printed name. “Just trying to get myself acclimated.”

Before Sunny could embarrass herself any further, Priscilla Kingsbury came walking up, wearing a bathing suit under a terrycloth wrap. “No problems getting up here?”

“Just a few getting out the door,” Sunny said without elaborating. The driver brought over her bag. Sunny gave it a quick check to make sure Shadow hadn’t torn the side open with his claws, then arranged the strap over her shoulder. “As you suggested, I brought a few things.”

From the look Cillie was giving her, apparently she should have brought a lot more.

“I can always go home and get something else if I need it.” Sunny pasted a synthetic smile on her face. “Maybe I should have asked. Do you dress for dinner?”

“The Neals did when they lived in the big house,” Priscilla’s smile was more genuine—and a little wicked. “But that was because Great-Grandfather Neal liked to watch people sweat. It’s a lot more free and easy nowadays. After all, this is supposed to be a summer place, where people can relax.”

Still, Priscilla didn’t look very relaxed as she led the way to the house on the right-hand side of the street, the same one Sunny had seen Eliza Stoughton coming out of two days earlier.

“We girls—and Yardley’s husband Thomas—have been bunking in here.” She pushed the door open, catching Sunny’s glance. “Nothing much gets locked around here, unless you want privacy,” Cillie said. “The perk of having all this security around. Anyway, this is the ground floor.” The house was larger than Sunny’s but built along the same lines. A center hall with a stairway leading upward. Living room on the right, and a smaller parlor on the left. The furnishings were clean and serviceable, but on the plain side of luxurious. The living room held a lot of Early American furniture, but Sunny didn’t think any of it was antique. Just old.

This was one of the houses that the Kingsburys had bought basically as cover, a means to shelter their inner compound. Sunny suspected that they’d purchased it furnished as is, and suddenly found herself wondering where the previous occupant had gone—and if they’d done so willingly. Oh well, she thought, at least the Kingsburys probably paid over market value for it.

Priscilla led the way through the living room to a dining room with a good-sized table surrounded by bentwood chairs, each with its own little tufted seat cushion. Then she turned, headed for a pair of swinging double doors, and revealed the kitchen, with an enormous old-fashioned gas range, a refrigerator probably as old as Sunny, and a huge, ancient sink.

Priscilla watched Sunny take it all in. “Yankee thrift,” she said, confirming Sunny’s impressions. “A lot of this stuff came with the house when the Senator bought it.”

Sunny nodded. “Good enough for a summer vacation home.” She knew the drill. That was part of the Kittery Harbor Way, too.

“If you’re looking for marble step-down bathtubs with whirlpool attachments, try my Cousin Tommy’s place in Palm Beach.” Priscilla laughed. “Or one of Augustus’s palaces. When you’re invited out here, you’re expected to ‘rough it.’” She went through the kitchen out into the center hallway and back to the stairs. “Mainly that room is being used as wedding central. Another is being used by Tommy and Yardley.” Priscilla paused for a moment. “I had the spare room set up for you. Didn’t think you’d want to sleep where Eliza had.”

“Um, no. Thanks,” Sunny said.

Her hostess led the way up the stairs, then shot another quizzical look at Sunny. “Do I need to tell you ‘off the record’ all the time?”

“Certainly for stuff you want to keep private,” Sunny replied. “I don’t think the sleeping arrangements need to be publicized.”

Cillie nodded. “So let’s get you settled, and then I’ll introduce you to people.”

Sunny stashed her bag beside a pile of white towels on a comfortable enough looking bed with a chenille spread. Nothing ostentatious, and nothing very personal.

“You may want to change into a bathing suit.” Priscilla opened her terrycloth wrap to reveal a bikini. “We’ve been hanging around at the pool.” She made a helpless sort of shrugging motion, just as she’d done when she’d mentioned being outvoted. “I can’t say I’m wild about it.”

It might not make a good impression after someone died under suspicious circumstances, Sunny thought. And, of course, that’s where Eliza got into all the fights the other day.

“Problem is, there aren’t that many places to go in the compound. My grandparents are in the big house, and nobody disturbs the Senator. My brothers and their wives took over the tennis court. We’d either be sitting in here getting on one another’s nerves, or out on the lawn somewhere, doing the same.”

Sunny nodded. The seaside view with the rocks below would bring up unpleasant associations, too. Aloud, she said, “Okay. Just give me a minute.”

She quickly changed into the navy blue one-piece she’d brought, snagging a towel and wrapping it around her hips. Then she rejoined Cillie, and they went downstairs and out the door. It was a weird sort of déjà vu for Sunny, walking along the path to the pool, especially when they passed a security guard and she glanced back over her shoulder and saw him looking after them. But he was wearing sunglasses, so Sunny couldn’t figure which of them he was checking out.

Before they even reached the tennis court, Sunny heard a series of rapid-fire noises: Thwock! Thwock! Thwock!

Then, as she got closer, she saw two guys who looked to be in their mid-thirties, complete physical opposites. One was short, compact, and agile, racing all over the court to make shots. His opponent was tall and rangy, all arms and legs in his tennis whites, galumphing around—but still arriving in time to drill shots back. From the looks on their faces, the men were conducting a war rather than playing a game. Cillie smothered a laugh as they came closer. “Now you’ve really learned something about my family. Tennis is our religion, and the court is our altar of sacrifice.”

Almost exactly what Cale told me, Sunny thought. “And what are you offering up?” she asked. “Sweat?”

“Not to mention a little blood,” Priscilla told her. “The tall one is my older brother Lem. The shrimp is Tom. He and I both take after the Neal side of the family.”

“Nothing wrong with being petite,” Sunny said. “At least for women. Short guys like them, tall guys like them, and designers love them—or so says my dad’s friend Mrs. Martinson.” She readjusted the towel around her hips. “Me, I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, come on, you’ve got a great figure,” Priscilla protested.

“And a job that tends to put more on it,” Sunny replied gloomily. “Sometimes I wish I could just fit into a little black dress and be elegant. Or maybe be a tall blond drink of water in an ice blue gown.”

“Lem married one of those.” Priscilla nodded beyond the court to where a small group of people sat on lawn chairs arranged under the shade of colorful umbrellas. A tall, Nordic-looking woman took a sip of iced tea from a long glass, her face expressionless under a large pair of sunglasses. “Deborah’s a perfect political wife—or a born press manager. Whenever she opens her mouth, the perfect phrase emerges.”

Priscilla waved to the onlookers, and one of them, an energetic-looking brunette, waved back. “Tom’s wife, Genevieve, is livelier, but she shoots from the hip.”

“So she’ll give me better quotes,” Sunny quipped, then stopped at the look of chagrin on Cillie’s face. “Look, I’m supposed to be doing a color piece on your family getting ready for a wedding, not a political hatchet job. For the rest, well, we’ll have to talk about that.”

A white-haired woman wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat suddenly burst into laughter at something that had happened on the court. The man beside her leaned forward in his chair, scowling.

“That’s Grandmother Kingsbury,” Priscilla said. “And the Senator, of course. He’s always the referee for these bloodbaths. What do they say on that TV show? All of his judgments are final.”

“They look pretty busy with the game.” Sunny turned again to watch Priscilla’s brothers sweating on the court. “Maybe you can introduce me later. Right now I’d like to meet your friends.” AKA the people who argued with Eliza Stoughton, she added silently.

The atmosphere around the pool was much more subdued today compared to what Sunny had seen on her tour with Caleb. The music wasn’t as loud as it had been, and the people seemed a bit quieter, too. Carson de Kruk was the first to notice them and came over immediately, greeting Cillie with a kiss, and then shaking hands with Sunny.

With his blond hair and slim figure, he was the picture of a conventionally handsome young man. When the nuptials had been announced, Mrs. Martinson had said Carson de Kruk was perfectly cast—he already looked like the figure of the groom on a wedding cake.

Close up, however, Sunny noticed the thinning of the hair at his temples and the dark patches under his eyes. “Thank you for agreeing to do this,” Carson said in a low voice as he shook hands. “The situation has been so awful, with those people outside swarming to get at us.”

Sunny responded with a sympathetic smile, wondering what exactly Priscilla had told her prospective husband—or the others—about what she was really doing there. Was he only in on the embedded reporter idea? Or did he know that Priscilla also hoped that Sunny could shed some light on what had happened to Eliza?

Something to ask Cillie—when I get her alone again, Sunny thought. Not as though that seemed likely to happen anytime soon. As soon as they realized Priscilla was there, the rest of the wedding party clustered around her. When Cillie introduced Sunny as a local reporter who was going to spend some time with them, Sunny watched for the reactions. No one seemed overjoyed. They all seemed, unconsciously or not, to move a little closer to one another.

No matter what’s going on between them, they want to present a united front to the outsider. When she considered it, Sunny couldn’t really blame them.

Carson’s best man, Beau Bellingham, looked as if he’d just been roused from a deep sleep, and his reaction was about as polite as might be expected from a hibernating bear. In fact, with his thickening middle and tousled, shaggy hair, he had a bit of a bearlike quality that was only strengthened when he blinked, nodded, and headed back to the shade of a beach umbrella.

“Beau’s always on call at the hospital,” Carson said, trying to smooth over his friend’s brusque response. “This is his first chance for some solid rest in years, really. Not to mention his first visit in these parts.”

The Neals, Tommy and Yardley, were more polite but still vaguely dismissive, in the same way that Sunny had seen rich people treat servants. They followed the proper forms, but seemed to look right through her.

Only Carson’s other groomsman, Peter Van Twissel, met Sunny’s eyes as they shook hands, and he greeted her with a skeptical smile. “I hope they didn’t tempt you into this job with a promise of fun-filled days.” He gestured around the pool. “This is about as close as it gets to a resort around here.”

“I’m a local girl,” Sunny told him. “A pool beats most of the swimming around here.” With that, she removed the towel she was wearing and slipped into the water, letting out her breath in a big puff at the shock of the cool water.

But despite the water’s low temperature, she had told the truth. Compared to the local lakes and the ocean, even in summertime, the pool’s water was sun warmed and a lot more comfortable. She swam a few laps just to give her muscles a stretch, keeping a covert eye on the wedding party. Beau had apparently gone back to sleep, sprawled on a scatter of pillows and towels. He’d pulled a green cotton surgical shirt over his baggy surfer-style swim trunks. Carson and Priscilla moved to the far side of the pool, their heads together in conversation.

Tommy and Yardley Neal were in the same pose as the betrotheds, but they sat by the entry gate of the pool, out of effective earshot from anyone. Peter took his ease in a long beach chair, slathering lotion all over himself in preparation to take some sun. With the dark glasses he had on, Sunny couldn’t tell whether his eyes were following her or not.

She continued swimming until her arms began to feel pleasantly tired, and she figured she should have settled into the background a bit. Then she pulled herself out of the pool, toweled off, and draped the terrycloth around her neck like a stole. The afternoon sun felt pleasantly warm after her dip.

Sunny took a seat in the deck chair next to Peter. “Could I steal some of your sunblock?” she asked. “I didn’t think to bring any with me.”

He reached down and passed over the bottle. “Hope you’re not disappointed it’s not some hand-compounded rich man’s potion,” he said. “I picked it up at Target before all the excitement hit.”

“Target, huh?” Sunny looked him over. Peter seemed an odd friend for Carson. He was tall, skinny, and naturally pale, with wispy hair that couldn’t make up its mind to be brown or blond. Not a frat-boy type like Carson or Beau. Sunny noticed that Peter’s bony fingers had dozens, maybe hundreds, of tiny scars.

He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Unlike some people in this compound, I’ve been known to patronize discount stores,” he said. “I may be hanging out with the de Kruks, but it’s more because of my potential rather than what I’m worth right now. You see, my dad is in computers—special orders—and I’ve been messing in them since I was a kid, working my fingers to the bone coding on the keyboard when I wasn’t burning them with solder or acid or some other nonsense. Now Carson and his dad are bankrolling me, hoping I’ll be the next Steve Jobs or Bill Gates.” He gave a very boyish grin. “Or both rolled together. Augustus made his fortune from construction projects, honest-to-Pete bricks and mortar. Carson is betting on information being the next frontier for his family to conquer.”

“And you’re going to help?” Sunny asked.

“He has faith in me. When we got stuck together in the same room as freshmen in college, I figured ‘here’s the rich kid who’ll expect me to do his homework.’ As it turned out, he tutored me in French. And yeah, I built him a computer. It didn’t hurt that we both had Old Dutch names. There aren’t many New Yorkers like that anymore. But it’s more about the future than the past. I’ll spare you the nerd-speak, but with de Kruk backing, my company is poised to do big things.”

It sounded like the American Dream, twenty-first century style. But Sunny wondered how Peter felt being included in such an intimate party. Was it a sign of Carson’s friendship? Or was it a business decision, a mark of de Kruk favor for someone they hoped would be a moneymaking asset?

The problem is, once you start thinking that way, the whole Kingsbury-de Kruk affair starts looking more like a business merger. Sunny frowned at the thought, glancing over toward Carson and Priscilla. They seemed happy enough together, but not the stuff of a heart-flopper romance. Had they naturally gravitated to one another in the rarefied social orbits they occupied, or were they making the best of a deal between their families?

Maybe I’ll get a better idea when I meet the rest of the family at dinner, she thought, but it was not to be. Dinner was an excruciating meal, like dining at the grown-ups’ table times ten. Instead of lowered guards, Sunny got a lot of not-in-front-of-the-servants civility from Priscilla’s older brothers. Meeting the Senator was another kind of trip. It wasn’t just that the man acted as if she should kiss his ring. He conducted himself as if he were always on camera, as if every word and action were being recorded. Sunny had covered enough political races to know that nowadays candidates labored to come across as just plain folks. Not Thomas Neal Kingsbury. He was of another generation, giving off a feeling of noblesse oblige and rose-garden campaigning.

No wonder he never made president, Sunny thought.

As for the de Kruks, Carson’s parents had yet to arrive. Some sort of business hitch was keeping Augustus in New York.

The meal itself was a lavish buffet arranged on sideboards—no staff visible—in the dining room of the main house. After serving themselves, the diners then sat at a table that could accommodate all the guests plus another half dozen or so.

Caleb Kingsbury arrived late, still drying his hands on a paper towel. He gave Sunny a conspiratorial wink, then got a lot more formal as he approached. “I apologize, sir,” he said to the Senator, who of course had taken a seat at the head of the table. “I was getting my hands dirty aboard the Merlin. By way of apology, I’d like to invite anyone who wishes to join me for an after-dinner sail.” He grinned at the group. “A shakedown cruise, to make sure the new fittings work as they ought.”

“I like the sound of that.” Priscilla took Carson’s hand.

“Anything that’s a little different,” Beau Bellingham agreed, still looking half-asleep. At least he’d combed his hair for dinner.

“You’re sure it will be safe?” The Senator’s wife didn’t sound like a grande dame, more like the anxious mother she was.

“Everyone will wear life vests, and we’ll be back before nightfall, mother,” Cale soothed. At the table, Sunny found herself seated between Deborah Kingsbury, Governor Lem’s wife, and Fiona Ormond, the wedding planner. The cool blonde asked a couple of questions to determine just how big a media deal Sunny was, but after hearing that Sunny would just be blogging for a local paper with zero help for her husband Lem’s political aspirations, Deborah pretty much left her alone. Fiona, on the other hand, had lots of questions about local businesses.

“Currently, my big interest is transportation,” she said, displaying perfect manners and taking small bites. “The people coming to this event will have certain expectations. After arriving in a private plane, they won’t want to be ferried here by the Podunk car service.” Fiona asked about several livery car companies, but Sunny had to admit complete ignorance. Kittery Harbor was a pretty blue-collar town. Except for weddings and funerals, there wasn’t much call for limousines.

Fiona frowned. “I don’t want to go completely out of the area and have to source things in Portsmouth or Kennebunkport.”

“You may want to look in Saxon, that’s a pretty up-market town,” Sunny suggested. “Otherwise, I’ll check my local sources.”

AKA, ask Mrs. Martinson, she silently admitted. Who else could she turn to when it was a question of class? The food was delicious, but dealing with Fiona was a chore. Oh, she was polite, but determinedly on target. Maybe I’m just not used to dealing with that New York vibe anymore, Sunny thought. If this was how I acted, no wonder I had a hard time when I first came back home.

When the meal finally ended, only the young people took up Cale’s offer of a sail. Yachts weren’t on Fiona’s transport list. The governors were just as happy to rest after their grueling day of tennis, and the Senator and his wife were disinclined.

Beau pleaded fatigue, in spite of his daytime hibernation, and headed off to bed. Peter begged off, too. “I’m not a good sailor,” he said, putting a hand over his stomach.

“Are you a sailor, Sunny?” Priscilla asked.

“Of course she is,” Cale answered before Sunny could. “She mentioned she’d seen me sailing in while she was out on the water the other day.”

Sunny nodded. At least he didn’t mention the boat I was on the other night.

They left the house, cut across the lawn, and went down the old set of steps to the wharf jutting out from Neal’s Neck. This must have been where the fabled rumrunners would’ve made their deliveries. The modern-day picture was a lot quieter. A humble rowboat bobbed in the water at the end of the pier. Along the side, though, a glitzy motor launch—the same one that had launched the pre-emptive strike on Ike Elkins’s boat, and what they’d use as transport over to the yacht—was tied up to the pilings. A couple of security men stood by with a supply of life vests.

Sunny was a little surprised to see Lee Trehearne there, and apparently Cale was, too.

“Everything all right?” Cale asked as he stepped past to check the launch.

“Yes, sir,” the security chief replied. Then he turned to Sunny. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay, Ms. Coolidge.” If his voice got any colder, icebergs would be appearing on the horizon. “It’s a very busy and difficult time for the family, we want everything to go as well as possible.”

Translation, Sunny thought, don’t go making things worse.

Aloud she said, “Everyone has been very kind.” She slipped her arms into a vest, clipped and buckled herself in, and stepped into the launch. At least she had enough experience on boats, mostly courtesy of her dad’s fishing buddies, that she didn’t end up sprawling. As soon as everyone was aboard, the security guys undid the lines. Cale started the engine, and they headed out for the Merlin. The double-masted boat seemed to grow ever larger as they got closer.

The transfer from the launch to the low-slung deck of the schooner was a bit trickier, but Sunny managed it. Priscilla stepped aboard easily, but Carson made a misstep that required a quick grab from Tommy.

Sunny drank in the quiet elegance of the Merlin’s fittings, all polished wood and brass hardware, not a scrap of fiberglass that she could spot. She’d been on larger vessels before, but nothing like this. “This is quite the boat,” she told Cale, who gave her an almost boyish grin.

“Shame it can’t keep a straight course,” Tommy Neal whispered to his wife in a voice loud enough for Sunny to hear. “It always falls off to port.”

Cale gave no sign of having overheard. But a few minutes later, he said casually, “You’re a sailor, aren’t you, Tommy? Maybe you can give the old man a hand, getting the sails up.”

Somehow, Sunny noticed, that meant Tommy taking on all the dog labor. A short while later, he was drenched in sweat and staring daggers, as Cale sat behind the wheel in the stern of the schooner. The ride itself was amazing, scudding along with the wind, the red, white, and blue sails billowing against a glorious sunset. Sunny had been on sailboats before, but this was the closest she’d ever come to flying.

Cale obviously caught her enjoyment. He patted the deck beside his chair, and Sunny joined him.

“Did you understand what that jackass said about my boat?” he asked.

“That it has a tendency to head off to the left from the wind,” Sunny replied.

Cale nodded. “A miserable thing to say. Even if it’s true.”

“I think you’ve made him regret it.” Tommy sat on the narrow deck, arm wrapped around a mast, his free hand mopping his face.

“Maybe a little more.” Cale raised his voice. “Hard a-starboard.”

He turned the wheel, and the Merlin went into a right turn, the wind puffing out the sails, the boom on the mainsail swinging so that Tommy Neal had to duck. So did Sunny, but she was farther away from the mast and had more time. “You’re bad,” she told Cale.

“I prefer to consider it fun-loving, and I suspect you’ve got a streak of that yourself, surprising a newspaper person,” Cale responded with that bad-boy grin. “Maybe that’s how the Kennedys managed to make friends with so many press people. Kindred spirits.”

“So you’re giving it a try?” Sunny asked. “Are you considering another crack at politics?”

Caleb Kingsbury made a face and shook his head. “That’s way behind me. You ever heard of John Profumo?”

“Give me a minute.” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Sunny had to search her memory. Sounded Italian. Something gangster related? She shook her head. No. Bad stereotype. Something political? Bribery? No. Something foreign. Well, Italian politics had lots of scandals. Wait, that was it. Scandal. But not in Italy . . .

“A British scandal?” Sunny said out loud. “Maybe fifty years ago?”

“Close enough,” Cale told her. “He was a bigwig in the British Ministry of Defense fooling around with a call girl who was also sleeping with a Soviet agent. By the time it all shook out, it brought down the Conservative government. That’s all anybody remembers.”

Sunny nodded. That was all she remembered, too.

“What impressed me, though, was what Profumo did afterward. He went to work cleaning toilets for a charitable foundation and in the end wound up running it, even receiving royal honors before he died. I’d call that a hell of a second act for his life.”

Cale was silent for a moment concentrating on his steering. “That’s why I set up the Act Two Foundation.”

“The one Priscilla works for,” Sunny said.

Cale nodded. “I may not be a politician anymore, but I’ve got the gift of gab. That, plus the family name, helped open a few wallets. And I think we do some real good, helping people get through changes in their lives.” He grinned. “One of my favorites is a program we run teaching computer skills to folks who lost manufacturing jobs . . . where the instructors are people just out of prison for hacking. Two rehabilitations for the price of one.” He grinned again.

“Sounds as though you’re accomplishing some good with your second act,” Sunny said.

Cale’s face softened a little. “I think even the Senator has gotten behind it now. He deeded this place over to the foundation.” His expansive gesture took in all of Neal’s Neck.

“And the Senator probably also beats out the estate tax on the land.” Sunny’s voice sharpened as she slowly realized the implications. “And since the compound belongs to a nonprofit, does that mean there are no property taxes to pay for all the state and local cops involved in the wedding and the Stoughton case?”

“There are certain considerations when a family has more than two nickels to rub together.” Cale’s hands grew white on the ship’s wheel. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations’?”

“Ancient WASP wisdom,” Sunny replied.

“I’ve collected proverbs like that from all over the world,” Cale told her. “The Japanese say rice paddy to rice paddy. In Italian, it’s ‘Dalle stalle alle stelle alle stalle’—from the stable to the stars to the stable. The Scots put it another way: ‘The father buys, the son builds, the grandchild sells, and his son begs.’”

It’s the nagging worry of all the haves, Sunny thought. That somehow they or their descendants will end up as have-nots. She said nothing, but she suspected that her disapproval leaked out somehow.

Cale’s face looked grim as his eyes scanned the horizon. “My grandfather was the first Kingsbury to make any money, by getting involved with the Neals. Before then, we were mainly country preachers. Sometimes I think the family only went into politics for a bigger congregation. The thing is, my grandfather didn’t make all that much, and my father has spent a lot of it. I’m not going to be the one who blows what little family fortune we’ve got left.”

Says the man with the fifty-foot yacht and a private peninsula, Sunny thought. She sighed, and decided she’d better change the subject. “So tell me more about the work your foundation does?” she asked, and predictably he puffed with pride, launching into a long spiel of success stories.

Sunny nodded and smiled at the right places, massaging Cale’s ego. Just getting onto Neal’s Neck had left her dangling in a strange position. She couldn’t afford to lose a potential ally before she even began investigating.