Monument to Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “Somebody told me they were looking for cops there. I heard it was a pretty nice city so I figured I’d give it a try. Twenty years on the Metro force. Took the retirement check and opened my agency.”

  “How’s business?” Mac asked.

  “Up and down. I catch enough cases to pay the rent. Right now I’m up to my neck in the case that brings me to D.C.”

  He started to explain but Annabel said, “How about waiting until we’re through with dinner? I’m sure you’re hungry, Robert. I know I am.”

  They fell into easy conversation during dinner—sports, politics-lite, television and movies—and Brixton felt very much at home, as though with old friends. It wasn’t until they’d returned to the balcony that he was asked to tell them about the case. He almost wished they could skip it. It had been a lovely evening and he didn’t want to ruin it by introducing what they might view as a wild-goose chase by an inept, naïve investigator.

  He started from the beginning, recounting the visit from Eunice Watkins and her claim that her daughter, Louise, had been paid to plead guilty to a stabbing that she hadn’t committed. Mac and Annabel listened intently, hanging on his every word, nodding or asking for occasional clarification. He avoided mentioning Mitzi Cardell or Jeanine Jamison, referring to them only as two young white women who might possibly have been involved.

  “Fascinating,” Smith said when Brixton had taken a pause for a coffee refill and to consider what to say next.

  “You’re convinced that one of these girls was the one who stabbed the victim, and whose family paid off Louise to take the rap?”

  “Yeah, I am,” Brixton said. “I was naturally skeptical at first, but things have happened that lead me to believe it.”

  “What about these two other girls?” Smith asked. “Do you know their whereabouts?”

  Brixton hesitated and sipped his coffee. Mac and Annabel waited for his response. Finally, Brixton said, “Yeah, I know where they are. They’re right here in Washington.”

  “Oh?” Smith said. “Have you contacted them?”

  “No. I was hoping you could help me do that.”

  “Who are they?”

  “One is Mitzi Cardell. The other is Jeanine Jamison.”

  CHAPTER 30

  What was intended to be an early-evening dinner turned into a lengthy discussion that lasted well into the night.

  Up until the time Brixton mentioned Mitzi Cardell and Jeanine Jamison, Mac and Annabel had exhibited normal interest in Brixton’s tale and had asked few questions. But now, over snifters of Rémy Martin, the atmosphere had changed. The couple’s legal backgrounds kicked into gear and the questions were more frequent, and probing.

  They pressed Brixton for evidence to back up his belief that either Mitzi or Jeanine had stabbed the victim in the parking lot. He had few hard facts to offer and admitted that his allegation was based solely upon connecting a series of fuzzy dots. He summed up everything he knew—the photo in which Mitzi and Louise appeared; the detective’s pencil note on the back of his report indicating that he’d questioned Jeanine Montgomery; Detective Cleland’s doubts as to Louise’s truthfulness when she confessed; the folder in Jack Felker’s file drawer labeled “Watkins”; Ward Cardell’s reputation as a wheeler-dealer; and Willis Sayers’s comment that Cardell “owned” Jeanine Jamison’s father, Warren Montgomery. There were also the phone calls to the mother in which she was warned not to be stupid; the break-in to Brixton’s office shortly after having taken the case; the belief that he was being followed; and, of course, the question of why she had been shot to death on a Savannah street shortly after coming out of prison.

  But most important, he told his hosts for the evening, he fervently believed Eunice Watkins.

  “Everything you say makes sense,” Mac Smith said, “but it’s mostly supposition. I’d hate to go into court to try a case based on what you’ve got.”

  “I know, I know,” Brixton agreed. “But I promised Louise Watkins’ mother that I’d do my damnedest to get the answers she’s looking for. Look, I’m not out to hurt Ms. Cardell or Mrs. Jamison. Hell, I know who they are. All I want is to be able to report back to Mrs. Watkins with conviction that her daughter didn’t stab the guy. That’s her main concern, not her daughter’s murder. The same goes for Louise’s brother, the reverend. It’s possible, isn’t it, that she was killed to keep her from telling someone that she hadn’t been the one with the knife that night?”

  “Everything is possible,” said Smith. “But again, it’s flimsy.”

  “I shouldn’t have wasted your time like this,” Brixton said, standing and leaning on the balcony railing. “I just thought that if I could spend a few minutes with Mtizi Cardell, ask her some questions, I’d have at least closed the circle, done everything I could.”

  Smith joined him at the railing while Annabel removed their cups and dishes to the kitchen. “You want me to try and arrange a meeting with Mitzi,” he said.

  “That’s what I was hoping,” Brixton responded. “I figured that since you knew her, were a close friend, she might listen to you.”

  “I’d hardly call our friendship close, Robert. Mitzi Cardell knows hundreds, maybe thousands of people in this city. She’s made a career out of knowing people and entertaining them at her home. Annabel and I were her guests not long ago, just part of the pack. I have given her some off-the-record legal advice on a few matters but I’m not a practicing attorney. Let me ask you a question. Do you intend to accuse her of the crime?”

  “No. I don’t know whether she did it or not. The same with Mrs. Jamison. All I want to ask is whether they were at Augie’s that night, see if she was with Louise Watkins and might remember the incident. Louise was convicted of manslaughter, got four years for it. I have to figure that the statute of limitations has run out in Georgia so it wouldn’t matter if Cardell or anyone else did admit to it.”

  “Maybe not as a matter of law, Robert, but it sure would matter with her social standing. And there’s the question of the first lady’s possible involvement. You’re probably right about the statute of limitations. I can easily check on that in the morning.”

  Annabel rejoined them. “Another cognac?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” Brixton said. “I’m already over my limit.” He turned to Mac. “Will you ask if she’ll see me?”

  “I want to think about it some more, Robert. I’ll let you know tomorrow. If I do, I’ll have to tell her why you want to talk to her. I don’t want her blindsided.”

  “Fair enough,” Brixton said.

  “And I’d be surprised if she agreed to it. A final question, Robert. If what you say is validated, and you report back to the girl’s mother, what do you think she’ll do with the information?”

  “I don’t know,” Brixton said, accompanied by a shrug. “Maybe it will be sufficient just knowing the truth. I suppose she could go to the press and publicly vindicate her daughter’s memory. That’s really not up to me.” He laughed. “Will Sayers would love the story if it pans out.”

  “Yes, I suppose he would.”

  “I really appreciate this, Mac.”

  “As I said, I’ll let you know tomorrow. You’ll be in Washington for a while?”

  “Until I get to see her, or know she’s refused. I’m going to visit one of my daughters tomorrow in Maryland. Here’s my cell phone number. Thanks for a great evening.”

  “It was our pleasure,” Annabel said.

  After Brixton left, Mac and Annabel sat in Mac’s office.

  “Do you really think you should ask Mitzi to see him?” she asked.

  “Mixed emotions about it, Annie. On the one hand I’m not anxious to be the one to raise this with her—assuming what he says is true. On the other hand, if he is right, a serious miscarriage of justice has occurred. All things considered, I think I should follow through. I’m not acting as Mitzi’s attorney, just a friend and conduit of the message. I’m sure she’ll say no and that’ll be the end of it. I told Robert that
I would tell her what it’s about—without suggesting that she might have been involved—and let her make her own decision.”

  “No matter how it comes out,” Annabel counseled, “Mitzi won’t be happy knowing that there’s someone in town who thinks she might have been involved in a twenty-year-old homicide.”

  “And if our first lady might also have been involved—”

  “I’d rather not think about that. I don’t need a nightmare to keep me awake.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Smith called Brixton at the hotel the next morning to say that he would contact Mitzi Cardell and inform Brixton of the result. But as Brixton drove out of the city on his way to visit Jill, he had second thoughts about using Smith as an intermediary. While he appreciated the distinguished attorney’s willingness to make the call, he wondered whether it might be more effective to call Cardell cold and catch her off guard. He reflected back on times during his tenure with the Savannah Metro force when he’d made such calls and how taking the person by surprise had paid dividends. In some cases, the people on the receiving end blurted out things that had proved to be incriminating, or at least had led him to another level of the investigation.

  Too late now, he decided as he navigated D.C.’s traffic snarls until reaching less-crowded roads outside the city. As he got closer to the house, his thoughts shifted from Louise Watkins to the reception he might receive, not by his daughter but by Marylee and her haughty mother. His nerves were on edge and he drew deep breaths to lower his pulse rate. Just stay cool, he told himself. Don’t let them get to you. Focus on Jill and let whatever comments Marylee and her mother make roll off your back like water off a duck.

  The problem was that he wasn’t a duck.

  Marylee’s faux colonial house looked like all the others in the neighborhood, lots of white cedar shakes and contrasting shutters, blacktop driveways and manicured lawns, probably all built at the same time by the same architect and contractor. He wondered as he pulled in front of the three-car garage why Marylee had never married again. Had her experience with him so soured her on the thought of tying the knot for a second time? She was a good-looking woman who kept herself in shape on the tennis court and in the large pool behind the house. Had her overbearing mother scared away potential suitors? That had to be it, he decided, although that was pure supposition albeit a satisfying one.

  Marylee came out of the house and greeted him at the car. She wore a white tennis outfit that showed off her cute bottom and shapely bronzed legs.

  “I’m a little late,” he said. “Traffic.”

  “It’s okay. I want you to know that Mom isn’t well.”

  “Oh? What’s the problem?”

  “She has cancer. Lymphoma. She’s been going through chemo and radiation.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Is it—?”

  “Terminal? We’re all terminal, aren’t we?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “I mention it because she’s resting and might not be up to joining us.”

  Was it too callous to be pleased that she wouldn’t be part of the gathering? Probably. He said nothing.

  “Is Jill here yet?”

  “No. She’s on her way.”

  “I’m sorry Janet couldn’t make it.”

  Marylee’s raised eyebrows said it all. “Come on in,” she said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  He followed her through a door to the kitchen.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Sure. Black, no sugar.”

  “You used to take sugar and milk.”

  “I’ve changed,” he said through a smile. “You haven’t.”

  Their conversation stopped when a man dressed in tennis whites and sporting an impossibly deep tan entered.

  “Robert, this is Miles. Miles Lashka.”

  The men shook hands. “Good meeting you, Robert,” Lashka said. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”

  I bet.

  “Miles and I play tennis a few times a week,” Marylee said. “I’m getting better, thanks to him.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Lashka said. “I hear that you’re a private eye. Must be an exciting life.”

  “Anything but,” Brixton said as Marylee handed him his coffee. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m someone Shakespeare wanted to kill. I’m an attorney, estates.”

  “Oh,” Brixton managed and refrained from saying that he agreed with the Bard.

  Their inane back-and-forth was interrupted by Jill’s arrival. She gave her mother a hug and kiss and did the same with Lashka, which nettled Brixton. She then kissed her father on the cheek and said to all, “Well, this is the perfect occasion to make an announcement.”

  Everyone’s eyes went to her.

  She struck a pose, hand on hip, the other in the air. “Ta da! I—am—pregnant!”

  There was silence until Marylee blurted, “That is wonderful news, Jill. When are you due?”

  “Eight months.” She turned to Brixton. “You’re going to be a grandfather.”

  “Yeah, looks like I am,” he said. He hugged her. “Congratulations.”

  “Mother will be thrilled,” Marylee said. “A great-grandchild.”

  “How is she?” Jill asked.

  “All right. Tired. The treatments.”

  Brixton took in Lashka, who leaned against the counter while the family reacted to the news, and wondered whether there would be a second announcement, that Lashka and Marylee were engaged or planning some other antiquated ritual. He didn’t have long to ponder it because his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said and went outside.

  “It’s Mac Smith.”

  “Hi. Any luck?”

  “Afraid not. I spoke with her. She refuses to talk to you.”

  The news deflated Brixton but he said, “No surprise, huh? I really appreciate what you tried to do.”

  “Nothing ventured, as they say. I’m off to a meeting but I’ll be back at the apartment in a few hours if you want to stop by. I’d like to discuss this further with you.”

  “Okay. I’ll do that. Thanks again.”

  He clicked off the phone and took a moment to digest the news.

  Mitzi Cardell’s reaction certainly wasn’t unexpected. Smith wanting to talk about it again later in the day was. Had Smith learned something from his conversation with her that might be of interest? Brixton couldn’t imagine what that might be and decided it was useless to speculate. He returned inside and joined the group, which now included his former mother-in-law, who wore a pale blue satin bathrobe and slippers. She looked like hell.

  • • •

  Smith ended his call to Brixton and prepared to leave the apartment. Annabel had left hours earlier to tend to business at the gallery. Smith glanced down at notes he’d taken during his call to Mitzi, which included one handwritten line in quotes and underlined.

  • • •

  “Mitzi, it’s Mac Smith.”

  “Good morning, darling. How nice to hear your voice.”

  “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “It’s always a bad time, Mackensie. I don’t know what’s happened to this city over the past two years. I simply cannot find trustworthy help these days. I’ve changed caterers twice and still haven’t found one who meets my standards.”

  Smith laughed, not because he thought it was funny but because it was typical Mitzi Cardell, all aflutter about things that few others cared about. He said, “I’m calling for an unusual reason, Mitzi, and with an equally unusual request.”

  “Sounds intriguing. Does the CIA want to recruit me for some clandestine mission?”

  “As a matter of fact they do, but that’s grist for a later call. Mitzi, I’ve been put in contact with a gentleman through a mutual friend. His name is Robert Brixton. He’s a private detective in Savannah, Georgia, and—”

  Her frothy tone was gone as she said, “A private detective? Why would you be calling me about that?”

/>   “He’s working on a case in Savannah that goes back more than twenty years. It has to do with a stabbing that took place in the parking lot of a nightclub there and—”

  “Mac, I can’t possibly understand why you would be bothering me with something like this.”

  “The reason I am, Mitzi, is that this Mr. Brixton would like a few minutes of your time to ask some questions. I said that since I knew you I would call and run it by you.”

  There was a cold silence on the other end.

  “Of course,” Smith said, “if you’d rather not take the time I—”

  “That is precisely the point, Mac. I do not wish to take the time to speak with this private detective about some sordid stabbing that occurred aeons ago. It sounds as though this man is just looking to stir up trouble and I’m amazed that you would allow yourself to become involved.”

  “I’m not involved, Mitzi, and I certainly understand you not wanting to take time from your busy schedule to meet with him.”

  “I’m glad you understand, Mac. I’m sorry if I sounded critical of you, but to think that some ages-old common street crime involving black drug dealers—Savannah’s crime rate continues to rise, especially in the black community—would find its way here to Washington through this—what did you say his name was?”

  “Brixton. Robert Brixton. His interest is in a young woman who might have been unfairly convicted of the crime.”

  “I’ve never heard of him or this stabbing or of any young black woman. I really must run, dear. Please tell him that I am not available.”

  “Of course,” said Smith. “Forget I ever mentioned it. But if you want to speak with him, he’s here in Washington, staying at the Hotel Rouge on Sixteenth.”

  “I certainly intend to forget it, Mac. You and your lovely wife must join us again for dinner before much time passes. I’m putting together a party a few weeks from now that you and Annabel would fit into splendidly.”

  “And we’d be pleased to attend. Thanks for your time, Mitzi.”