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Dorinda and the Demon
A Nether-Netherland Story
When Dorinda Lockhart sprinted up the walkway to the rental home she'd converted into her mayoral campaign headquarters, several things tilted off-kilter all at once.
The first, and most obvious, was her hair.
No matter how tight a ponytail she started with each morning, halfway through her two-mile jog, more recalcitrant curls slipped out of the elastic band than stayed in place. She could never seem to keep a hairstyle on-kilter for more than a few hours.
On-kilter? Was that even a word? Dorinda yanked the band out of her hair with one hand and twisted the doorknob with the other. Unlike bad hair, opening the rental door was a strange occurrence.
Not that she was one of those annoying helpless women who couldn't do things for herself. In fact, Dorinda's whole platform hinged on equality-equality for the sexes, equality for the races, equality for everyone-which meant she was willing to open her own doors.
Her campaign manager, however, was one of those always-sweating people who insisted on open doors, open windows, and a brisk breeze through the office. Even in a Midwestern October.
Ramón also was the sort of guy to arrive early, start a pot of coffee, and then wander off, leaving the carafe to boil on the burner.
Not today.
Dorinda shouldered open the worn, squeaky door, and was not greeted with the smoky scent of long forgotten coffee. The living room-turned-lobby was stuffy and dark. In fact, the only light present spilled out into the hallway from one of the bedrooms she'd converted into an office for her staff.
"Ramón?" Dorinda called down the hall, flipping on light switches as she headed toward the kitchen.
She thrust the coffeepot into the sink and turned on the faucet as footsteps and murmuring voices grew closer. She had the pot on the burner and the paper in the filter before her Fundraising Department head Tina Ricci strode around the corner with a jangle of chunky bracelets and clicking ankle boots.
"Oh," Tina said, flipping a strand of dark hair from her eyes. "It is you."
"Yes," Dorinda agreed, toggling the power button before putting away the coffee. "It's me. Where's Ramón?"
"Well, that's the thing." Tina stepped to one side as Kennedy Rothschild, the Communications Department head, swept through the doorway.
"Ramón's not here," Kennedy said with a disgruntled moue. "He's in jail."
Dorinda froze, her fingers clutched around an empty coffee mug. "What?"
"Drunk driving. Drove a bus into a library." Tina turned to Kennedy. "Or was it an RV?"
His dark eyes squinted. "I think bus."
Tina nodded. "Definitely bus."
"What?" Dorinda said again, wishing for some of that fresh air. "When? How?"
"Last night." Kennedy checked his Blackberry. "Around midnight."
Dorinda shook her head, staggering against the counter. The one time she left her Blackberry charger in the office... "This is Elkhart. We don't even have buses that run at midnight."
Tina shook her head. "Not here. Tijuana."
"Tijuana." Kennedy shuddered, his lower lip pouting slightly. He gestured toward Dorinda. "Sorry to start your day with such horrible news. Is the coffee ready? You look like you could use some caffeine."
Dorinda set her empty cup on the cracked Formica. "I could use a new campaign manager. Preferably one without a drinking problem. Where's Ramón's folder? What are we doing for damage control?"
"He was arrested in Tijuana," Tina pointed out. "No highlights on the morning news-yet. We could call the station and ask… but you'd better do your interview first."
"Interview?" Dorinda glanced around the kitchen. Maybe she did need that coffee. "What interview?"
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