Dead Insider by Victoria Houston Page A

where Christina and Ray were sitting. He leaned over Christina and held the phone out so she could see, but Ray had to twist to get a look. “Here’s a photo from our pitch meeting yesterday. That’s me at the head of the conference table, Jane Ericsson beside me, and next to her is this incompetent woman that she’s hired as a campaign manager. Totally incompetent. I cannot wait till we can replace her.”
    Christina took a dutiful look, then leaned closer. “That the campaign manager? The one next to Jane?”
    “Yes,” said Kenton, “why? Do you know her?”
    “I think I’ve seen her before. What’s her name?
    “Lauren Crowell.”
    “Crowell … Crowell.” Christina shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Funny though, I swear I’ve seen that woman somewhere … recently, too.”
    “Kenton,” said Lew, “what makes you so negative about this Crowell woman? I’ve heard good things about her from my colleagues in law enforcement, and from several people on our Loon Lake city council. They say she’s smart and tough. Well-organized. The sheriff and I had to assign deputies to help with a motorcade she organized last week. We had no complaints.”
    “Chief Ferris,” said Kenton with an exasperated sigh. “I spent six years as a reporter covering politics in Massachusetts for the
Boston Globe
. Trust me, I know a grandstander when I see one. The fact is, Jane Ericsson is a shoo-in. Not only does she have an impeccable record as a corporate attorney in one of the state’s most prestigious firms, but add to that the wonderful family heritage: her father was one of Wisconsin’s great leaders.
She can’t lose
. Unless Lauren Crowell bungles it. The woman is pushy, noisy—downright obnoxious and likely to turn off key donors, not to mention voters.”
    “Ah,” said Lew, “I imagine you know someone who can do her job better?”
    “Me—or someone on my staff. Don’t mean to be blunt, but you asked.”
    “In which case, assuming Jane Ericsson is elected, you and your firm would have an inside track in Washington. Is that a reasonable assumption?” asked Lew.
    “Something like that.” Kenton looked a little uncomfortable.
    “I have a non sequitur question for Christina,” said Osborne, eager to defuse the tension in the room. “Then I’ll get dinner on. Christina, you mentioned hair extensions earlier. What on earth is a hair extension? Sounds like something you’d find in a beauty salon, not an art gallery.”
    “True,” said Christina, “except the hair extensions we carry are works of art. They’re about this long,” she said, holding her hands twelve inches apart as she spoke. “These extensions are long, colorful feathers that women clip or bind into their hair. It’s a fad that’s been around for about a year now. We buy the feathers from the same farmers who produce them for the people who tie trout flies, and I have two women, artists really, who weave them into extensions. You know how one feather is called a hackle and a bunch are called a saddle?”
    “I do,” said Lew, interrupting. “I tie trout flies so I know all about that. And I have to tell you that the cost of buying good hackles has skyrocketed.”
    “Sorry. My customers are the guilty parties,” said Christina. “Right now I cannot keep enough hair extensions in stock—we sell out almost daily. It is amazing how popular they are.”
    “A sacrilege is what it is,” said Lew, keeping her voice soft to defuse the harshness of her words. “Let me explain why I say that. It isn’t easy to breed roosters with feathers that are supple, long, and pliable enough to be used for trout flies. Takes more than a year for a rooster to grow those. I used to be able to buy feathers for a couple of bucks—the cheapest I saw the other day was over twenty dollars. For a rooster feather!”
    “I know,” said Christina with a sympathetic nod. “Our hair extensions start at a hundred and fifty dollars for browns and