“Working for her? What does that mean?”
“From what Ah gather—and Ah really don’t know that much yet—the mother hired this detective to find out who shot her daughter when she got out of prison.”
Mitzi had been wound as tight as a spring since getting out of bed and during the conversation with her father. Now, she drew a deep breath and leaned back in the chair.
“Mitzi, honey, you there?”
“Yes, Daddy, I’m here. That was so long ago. How could anyone think they can find out who shot her after all these years? It was some drug addict, a drug gang sort of thing. Happens all the time to them. We have plenty of that here in D.C.”
“You’re absolutely right about that,” he said. “Even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t solve that shooting.”
Tension gripped her again and she leaned forward. “Do you think he’s also prying into her stabbing that fellow outside the club?”
“That’s what I understand, but I need to check on it further. Like I said, I’ve already had some of my people look into it.”
She leaned back again and fell silent.
“Mitzi?”
“Yes, Daddy, I’m here. Please find out what this is all about.”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do. I’ve already taken steps to cut this private eye fellow off at the knees, so to speak. My suggestion is for you to put it out of your mind. Believe me, honeybunch, nothing will come to it. It’ll all blow over if it hasn’t already.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, not at all convinced that he was. “What’s this detective’s name?”
“Brixton. Robert Brixton. He’s got himself an office in town, been a private investigator for a couple of years. The way I figure it, he’s just tryin’ to generate some business for himself. You know how these private eyes are, low-life, real low-life.”
“Of course. Is there anything else?”
“Not at the moment, sweetheart. Now you do what I suggested and put the whole silly thing out of your pretty little head, heah?”
“Yes, Daddy, I hear. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, and I’ll get back to you if I find out anything else.”
“Good, Daddy. Thanks again.”
She hung up and turned to face the window. At least the sun was shining, she thought. Wearily, she went upstairs, took a long, hot shower, dressed in the outfit she would wear to lunch with Jeanine Jamison, then went back downstairs to the dining room. One of the housekeepers made her an omelet; she picked at it and left most of it uneaten.
Had she been free to do what she wanted that morning, she would have climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up over her head. But people would be arriving in a half hour to discuss a fund-raising project and it was too late to call it off. And, she had her lunch date with Jeanine Jamison at the White House.
The meeting lasted until eleven. Mitzi thanked them for coming and called for her driver. After going through White House security, which had been tightened even more because of recent breaches of it, she was allowed to enter and was led by a member of the first lady’s staff to Jeanine’s office in the East Wing.
“Hi, Lance,” Mitzi said to Lance Millius, Jeanine’s chief of staff.
“Hello, Ms. Cardell,” he replied, looking up only momentarily from something he was reading.
Mitzi forced a smile and took a seat along the wall. It was ten minutes before the first lady bounced in, looking fresh and alive. “Mitzi,” she said, “sorry to be late. I’ll just be a minute more.” To Millius: “Are things straightened out with the rabbi about tonight?”
“Everything’s worked out,” he said. “No problem.”
Mitzi and Jeanine were about to leave when the first lady’s assistant in charge of flower arrangements came into the office in a state of near hysteria. “I need to talk with you, Mrs. Jamison.”
Jeanine shrugged and made a gesture to Mitzi that said it was beyond her control. They disappeared into Jeanine’s private office. Fifteen minutes later Jeanine returned, grabbed Mitzi by the arm, and waltzed her out the door to a small, private dining room one floor above, where two members of the waitstaff stood at the ready. “Hope what I ordered for us is all right with you,” Jeanine said as they sat at the nicely set and adorned table.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Mitzi said.
“It’s great to find some time together,” Jeanine said. “My schedule is insane these days.”
“So I read,” Mitzi said. “You’re going back to CVA next week?”
“Yes. I didn’t know how I’d ever squeeze it in but it’s hard to say no to Waldine when it comes to raising money.”
“She’s lucky to have someone in your position willing to do it.”
“All for the old alma mater, huh?” Jeanine said with a laugh. “So, how are things at the Cardell residence? John okay?”
“John is fine. He’s off to London, some business meeting. Jeanine, there’s something we have to talk about.”
They’d just been served cups of vichyssoise. Jeanine sat back and adopted a concerned expression. “Oh?” she said. “Sounds as though it’s serious. Are you and John—?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Mitzi surveyed the room. “Is this room secure?”
“‘Secure?’ Of course it’s secure.”
“I mean there’s no tape recorder running, anything like that?”
“Mitzi, don’t be silly.”
“I know there’s always a tape running in the Oval Office. Nixon and the tapes. Lyndon Johnson.”
“Mitzi—”
“I know I’m being foolish. It’s just that—”
A waiter delivered their salads and conversation ceased. When he was gone and the door was closed behind him, Mitzi said in a low voice, “My father called last night. I didn’t take the call because I was in the middle of a dinner party. I called him this morning. He told me that a private detective named—” She consulted a scrap of paper she’d brought with her. “His name is Robert Brixton.”
“A private detective?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“Daddy says he visited Waldine Farnsworth and asked her about a photo he had with him.”
“So?”
Mitzi drew a breath before continuing. “The picture was taken during one of those weekend retreats we used to have at the school. Remember?”
“Sure. But what does a photo have to do with anything?”
“I’m in the picture, Jeanine. So is Louise Watkins.”
The first lady’s dismissive tone changed now. Mitzi watched as her childhood friend processed what she’d just heard, lips pressed tightly together, eyes narrowed. Finally, she said, “Oh.”
“Daddy says this detective is working for Louise’s mother and trying to find out who shot her when she got out of prison.”
Jeanine guffawed. “Fat chance of that ever happening.”
Mitzi’s pained expression told Jeanine that her friend had more on her mind, so Jeanine asked.
“Daddy says he thinks this detective is also looking into why Louise went to prison. The stabbing of that guy.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing to it,” Mitzi said. “Daddy says not to worry. But—but I am worried, Jeanine.”
“Your father is right,” Jeanine said. “Go on, eat your soup before—” She laughed. “I was going to say before it gets cold, but it already is.”
For the rest of the meal the first lady kept the conversation away from the topic of Brixton and his visit to the headmistress of the Christian Vision Academy. Mitzi had visibly relaxed and they laughed at gossip each had to spread about Washington bigwigs, which included tales of sexual indiscretions. By the time Mitzi left the White House she was in considerably better spirits than when she’d arrived.
Jeanine attended a last-minute meeting in preparation for the dinner that night with the Israeli prime minister. Before heading to the family’s private quarters to change
for the evening, she took Lance Millius aside. “Do me a favor, Lance, and have someone check out a private detective in Savannah named Robert Brixton. Just a favor for an old friend.”
She walked away, leaving him looking after her quizzically.
CHAPTER 19
Mitzi’s emotional wires were crossed when she returned from lunch.
The conversation with Jeanine had been soothing but only to an extent, and Mitzi’s contribution to their light banter toward the end of lunch had been forced. Her father, too, had been comforting. She knew him to be a man of action. He’d do whatever he could to blow away this unwelcome intrusion into her structured, satisfying life.
But alone in her study—and without their dismissals of her fears to hang on to—the feeling of dread that had consumed her earlier in the day returned, and memories of twenty years ago dominated.
• • •
She was seventeen years old on that hot, humid summer night in Savannah. She’d told her parents that she was going to spend Saturday night at Jeanine Montgomery’s house but failed to mention that Jeanine’s parents would be away overnight and wouldn’t be back until Sunday.
She and Jeanine had been close friends since grade school. Mitzi’s mother often joked that the girls were joined at the hip, like Siamese twins. Their parents were also friends. Ward Cardell had made a fortune in Savannah real estate. Warren Montgomery was a successful banker, although most of his wealth had come through an investment firm he headed. The Cardell and Montgomery families were scions of Savannah society, movers and shakers, powerful forces behind elected officials. Numerous civic organizations listed Montgomery and/or Cardell on their letterheads, and their yearly financial contributions to area charities were unfailingly generous.
Their parents approved of the relationship between the girls, each of whom was an only child. Mitzi tended to be somewhat flighty, a nervous young girl with a sweet disposition who tended to talk fast. Jeanine was a cooler head, more sophisticated than her bosom buddy yet appropriately immature at eighteen. Their parents considered them exemplary examples of young southern womanhood, well mannered and bright, their outlook on society properly shaped by their parents’ staunchly conservative politics. Most of all, the girls were considered levelheaded, at least when compared to other female teenagers who the Montgomery and Cardell families considered prime examples of wasted youth, those who hung out with the wrong people at places like Augie’s, an infamous teen hangout. Ward Cardell had tried to have the club shut down and almost succeeded. But some slick legal maneuvering by the club’s attorney staved off the closure and it continued to draw large crowds each night.
Mitzi had dinner with the Montgomerys at their home on that Saturday. After dinner she and Jeanine went to Jeanine’s bedroom to listen to a Black Sabbath album that Jeanine had bought that day at a local record store. They played the music at a low volume, knowing how much Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery disliked that sort of “decadent” music. But once Jeanine’s parents had left the house, the volume was raised and the girls played air guitars and sang along with the musicians before getting down to more serious matters, like whether Miss Farnsworth, who’d never married, had ever had sex. The cutest boys were dissected, the most nerdy girls verbally devastated. It was all great fun, but the night was young and they were brimming with restless energy.
While Jeanine had supplied the music, Mitzi had provided the evening’s other stimulant—four marijuana cigarettes she’d bought that afternoon on a Savannah street corner. Mitzi wanted to light up in Jeanine’s room but Jeanine didn’t want to leave behind the telltale odor. They went to a gazebo in the expansive rear yard and puffed awkwardly on two of the joints, claiming to be higher than they were. Savannah’s infamous sand gnats, “no-see-ums,” were out in force that night; the smoke from the joints provided something of a barrier against them.
“Want the other?” Mitzi asked.
Jeanine shook her head as she crushed the butts in a piece of foil she’d brought from the kitchen. “Want to go to Augie’s?” she asked.
Mitzi giggled. “Yeah,” she said, “I know. You want to see if that cool guy is there again.”
On a previous trip to Augie’s, Jeanine had struck up a conversation with a good-looking man in his mid-to-late twenties. He told her that his name was Allan and that he was a talent scout for a major theatrical agency in Atlanta, who was spending time in Savannah in search of new talent. Jeanine didn’t necessarily buy his story but it didn’t matter. She was smitten with his curly black hair that hung down over sleepy bedroom eyes, a three-day growth of beard, his nonchalant persona, and most important, his overt interest in her.
“Think my dad would like him?” she asked playfully.
“Your daddy would shoot him,” was Mitzi’s reply.
“You know, I believe he would,” Jeanine said.
Augie’s was officially off-limits to the girls. But the club represented an adventure, a forbidden place where those “other” kids hung out, many of them African-Americans who symbolized danger, another world to explore in “officially” integrated Savannah.
Jeanine drove her father’s Cadillac convertible; he was a car buff and owned six automobiles of various makes. When they pulled into Augie’s parking lot they were surprised at how many cars were already there. Rock music, mixed with raucous laughter, spilled through the club’s open door and into the lot, where a dozen teens smoked cigarettes or pot and sucked on cans of beer.
The girls found a space, got out, and approached the club. They expected to have trouble getting in because of their age but a hefty young man charged with checking IDs was busy chatting with friends, and the girls slipped by.
Inside, the recorded music was loud, the conversation even louder. They found space at the bar and ordered beers. The bartender eyed them suspiciously but didn’t question their ages, just plopped the bottles in front of them and told them how much they owed.
“I feel like I’m dressed funny,” Mitzi said.
Jeanine agreed. Their designer casual clothes were out of place in the club where ragged jeans and T-shirts were the norm.
Their attention went to a small area in front of where a DJ played music. Two black couples danced. As they watched, a young black girl wearing a green miniskirt, a low-cut yellow sleeveless blouse, and sandals came up to them.
“Hi’ya doin’?” she slurred.
“We’re doing fine,” Mitzi said. She squinted against the room’s smoke and garish lighting and looked more closely into the girl’s reddened eyes. “I know you,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“You were at a retreat at CVA once. I remember.”
“Yeah?”
“Your name is—”
The girl laughed. “Can’t sometimes even remember my name,” she said dreamily. “Louise. You got any money, buy me a drink?”
Jeanine and Mitzi looked at each other.
“Sure,” Mitzi said. “Order what you want.”
She ordered a brandy and soda from the bartender, whose expression said he knew this girl named Louise only too well and didn’t think much of her.
Jeanine turned away from them and focused on the bottle of beer in front of her. The tap on her shoulder startled her. She looked up into Allan’s face. “Hey, glad you came back,” he said.
“Oh, hi.”
“You’re with your friend again.”
“Mitzi. Her name’s Mitzi.” She realized that her voice was shaky. He was leaning against her; she could smell aftershave or cologne, and beer on his breath.
“Buy you a beer?” he asked.
“I already have one. Thank you.”
Jeanine split her attention between him and the conversation Mitzi was having with Louise. “I get by,” she heard Louise say, “doin’ a little of this, a little of that. I don’t see you in here much.”
“We don’t come much,” Mitzi said. “Our parents—” She didn’t want to appear to be an overprotected white girl.
“Feel
like a walk?” Allan asked Jeanine.
“Oh, I don’t know. I—”
“You lookin’ for some good weed?” she heard Louise ask Mitzi.
“I don’t think so. We have some.”
“Good weed, the best, better than what you get on the street. I got some snow, too.”
“Snow?”
“Coke. The Big C. Snort it up. Take you up to heaven.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. But thanks.”
“Come on,” Allan said to Jeanine. “Let’s get some air.”
Jeanine indicated Mitzi. “I’m with my friend and—”
“What, she can’t be alone for a few minutes?”
She liked his deep voice.
“So?” he said. The feel of his hand on her bare arm was blissful.
She said to Mitzi, “I’m going out for some air. It’s stuffy in here.”
Mitzi gave her a knowing smile, which prompted Jeanine to punch her arm before getting up and following Allan outside. They walked through rows of cars until reaching a secluded corner of the lot where a metallic-blue Mustang convertible was parked. “It’s mine,” Allan said.
“It’s beautiful. My father is into cars. He has six of them.”
“He must have some loot, huh?”
“He’s—he’s a businessman.”
“Yeah? So am I.”
“It must be exciting discovering new talent. Is there anyone I know who you—?”
His answer was to pull her to him and kiss her hard on the mouth. She struggled against him as he ground his pelvis against hers.
“Hey, cut it out,” he said as she pulled back. “Come on, you want it. You know you do. Get in the car.”
“No, I won’t. I’m going back inside.”
One hand went to her throat. He pushed her back against the car, her head pressing into the soft convertible top. With his other hand he reached into his pocket. He withdrew a switchblade knife and clicked it open, held it up in front of her eyes. “Don’t make me use this, baby. Just get in the car and—”
Monument to Murder Page 13
