Murder on the Potomac

by Margaret Truman

  “God, she’s awful,” a cast member whispered.

  “Yeah, but look at the way Fletcher coddles her, then gets on Brent’s case. Sy sure as hell knows where his bread is buttered.”

  The final scene was one in which Sickles met briefly with President James “Old Buck” Buchanan. Their close friendship was an open secret in Washington. Buchanan promised Sickles to do what he could to squash the case, offered him traveling money to get out of town, and gave him a razor as a gift.

  “Great. Terrific,” Fletcher proclaimed when it was over. He took aside the actor playing Buchanan, who was also the church’s pastor, and said, “Maybe you could tone down your voice a little, Reverend. You and your friend Sickles are alone in a room. There’s no congregation.”

  “I just want to be heard,” said the reverend.

  “Oh, you will. Believe me, you will.” He announced to the rest of the cast, “That’s a wrap.”

  “Ride home?” Chip Tierney asked his sister.

  “No, thanks. I’m having a drink with Seymour. He has a friend in New York who might have a part for me off-Broadway.”

  Sy’s casting couch? Chip wondered. Oh, well, there wasn’t anything he could do about it, any more than his father had been able to dissuade Suzanne from pursuing a theatrical career. But it saddened him. Suzanne’s open defiance of her father had caused unbearable tension in the household.

  “See you then,” Chip said. “Sun and I are out of here.”

  “Ginny and Mitch are at Bullfeathers,” Terri said. “I promised to meet them there.”

  “Not tonight, sweetie,” Chip said, pulling her close and kissing her ear. “Another time.”

  Pout.

  Chip and Sun Ben each maintained an apartment in the three-acre Tierney complex high on the Potomac Palisades. Chip’s quarters were in a wing at the rear of the house. Cheong lived in rooms over a six-car garage that had been renovated especially for him.

  Suzanne lived by choice in a shabby apartment on Fourth Street, in the shadow of I-395’s overpass. She worked during the day as an assistant to a Washington theatrical booking agent who specialized in providing magic acts, singing telegrams, and strippers for private parties.

  “Ready?” Suzanne asked Fletcher after the others had left.

  His back was to her. “Have to cancel,” he said. “The Dragon Lady is coming to discuss the budget.”

  “When did you find that out?” she asked.

  “This morning.”

  “But you said we were going out after the rehearsal.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He turned. “Go on home.”

  “What about the part in New York you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Tomorrow. We’ll discuss it tomorrow. I can’t brush off Juris. You know that.”

  “Oh, of course not. The Dragon Lady happens to be Daddy’s bag lady. You couldn’t possibly offend Pauline Juris, could you, Seymour?”

  “Knock it off, Suzanne. You know I hate her as much as you do.”

  “But I don’t try to hide it. Ms. Juris knows exactly what I feel about her. Does she know how you feel?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Look, sorry about breaking our date. We’ll do it tomorrow after rehearsal. Okay?” He kissed her on the cheek.

  She spun on a heel and marched from the theater, leaving the director, a failed thespian, standing alone in the harsh, naked light of a single bulb that scrawled his shadow across the scarred floor.

  5

  Later That Same Night

  “Well, how did it go?” Mac asked Annabel when she returned. “They make you chairperson by proclamation?”

  Smith had devoted the evening to reading briefs written by his students while Annabel attended her first meeting of the National Building Museum’s board. Their Great Blue Dane, Rufus, had wedged himself beneath Smith’s desk for most of the time, forcing his master to prop stockinged feet on the beast’s torso. At the sound of Annabel inserting her key, the dog got up quickly, nearly tipping Smith out of his chair.

  “Interesting,” Annabel responded, kicking off her shoes and vigorously rubbing Rufus’s sizable ears. “Fill you in soon as I change.”

  She emerged from the bedroom wearing Smith’s favorite frayed blue terry-cloth robe over a shortie nightgown. “Make me a drink?” she said, settling on the couch and tucking her bare feet beneath her.

  Smith poured a cognac, picked up his almost empty snifter from the desk, and joined her. They touched crystal rims. “To the new member of the board,” he said, kissing her.

  “Thank you.” She sipped and smacked her lips.

  “Was that in appreciation of the kiss or the cognac?” Mac said.

  “Both were vintage—very smooth and very warm. Wendell Tierney runs a smooth ship.”

  “I wouldn’t expect less. What was the chief topic of conversation?”

  She put her head back and thought. “Money. Raising money, which I suspect always heads the agenda. They’re going after additional federal funding and—”

  “They? You’d better start thinking we.”

  “Yes, I suppose I should. We spent most of the evening talking about raising money. Sam Tankloff had some good ideas. At least I thought so. Joe Chester presented a proposal for a new exhibition on New Orleans architecture. I brought my copy home. You might want to read it.” Chester was the museum’s paid director.

  “I will.”

  Annabel laughed. “He’s a tightly wound little fellow,” she said. “There must have been a shortage of personality genes when he was born. The animosity between Wendell and Chester is thick enough to cut with an ax.”

  “Doesn’t sound like an especially productive atmosphere,” Smith said. “Why does Tierney put up with someone he dislikes?”

  “From what I gather, Chester does a terrific job. And Wendell is a shrewd enough businessman to go with a proven executive no matter what his personal feelings.” Smith finished his drink. “You aren’t going to leave me with the impression that the entire evening passed without Tierney mentioning the Scarlet Sin Society.” Annabel regarded him quizzically. “Mac, this was a museum board meeting. Why would Wendell bring up Tri-S?”

  “Because it’s his obsession. Same with Monty Jamison. Monty and I had breakfast this morning. He went into his usual pitch, why you and I should join Tri-S. I told him I dealt with enough real crime in my life as an attorney to last me for the rest of it, but you can’t dissuade him. He’s all excited about their next theatrical re-creation, Barton Key’s murder. Monty claims it’s going to be their biggest production yet. Something like six hundred tickets already sold for the dinner. I hope they have good weather. Doing the production outdoors seems dumb to me.”

  Annabel shifted position so that she directly faced him. “Why are you so critical of Wendell and Monty and the Scarlet Sin Society?” she asked.

  “Because it’s sophomoric, that’s why.”

  “Based upon your definition of sophomoric.”

  “My definition isn’t a bad one, Annabel. For grown men and women to—”

  She finished his thought. “For grown men and women to raise considerable money for worthwhile charitable causes. What’s wrong with that?”

  “There are other ways to raise money.” He realized his voice had taken on an edge.

  “I think you’re jealous,” Annabel said.

  He got up and splashed more cognac into his glass. “Jealous?” he said. “What could I possibly be jealous of?”

  “Maybe I used the wrong word. Frankly, I think it would be fun to get involved with Wendell’s group. After all, it’s only history. You love history.”

  “Yes, I do. The discovery of continents and the resulting oppression of the natives. Big wars. What Churchill said to Stalin, what Stalin said to his wife. That kind of history. Run-of-the-mill murders from the past have little appeal for me.”

  “I think they’re fun, if they’re far enough back. Apart from the human tragedies. Do you know there was a murder committed in the N
ational Building Museum not many years ago?”

  “Uh-huh. A jealous lover pushed a young woman over a railing. Am I right?”

  “Of course. But doesn’t it pique your interest?”

  “Because it happened in the National Building Museum? Afraid not. Besides, that’s hardly history. Only a few years ago. Almost yesterday.”

  “Pity,” she said lightly, getting up and walking from the room. Smith started to follow but held back. Should he continue the debate with her over Tri-S? A silly argument at best. They almost never argued, and certainly never fought. Negotiated, perhaps, but then they were attorneys by training and experience. Their day-to-day relationship was, as far as he was concerned, perfection. Calm. Reasoned. Seeing both sides and bending.

  He followed her into the bedroom. “Why is it a pity?

  Why this sudden infatuation with the Scarlet Sin Society?”

  She sat at the dressing table and brushed her long hair. “Interest, that’s all,” she said. “Interest in something other than the mundane business of Washington and politics and street crime and the like.” She stopped her motion with the brush, turned slightly, and added, “If you want to talk about something sophomoric, try politics the way it’s played in this city.”

  No, he thought. No political debates at this hour. Like drinking caffeine before bed.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Tri-S does support good causes.”

  She resumed the vigorous stroking. “Wendell reminded me of the cruise next Saturday.”

  “I forgot about that,” Smith said. “Didn’t write it on my calendar.”

  “Better do it,” she said. “Should be a nice day.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will be.”

  The cruise would be on Tierney’s luxury cruiser, Marilyn, named after his wife. It was a beautifully appointed boat, fully crewed, and it would be replete with entertainment, inexhaustible food and drinks, and a guest roster of Washington’s movers and shakers. Mac and Annabel had been on previous Potomac cruises with Tierney. Smith had found some of Tierney’s shipmates to be too precious for his blood, but in the main these had been relaxing events.

  “Ready for bed?” he asked.

  “Not at all sleepy,” she replied. “I’m going to read Chester’s proposal on New Orleans architecture. I also never got to the Post today. You packing it in?”

  “I think I will. An evening of student briefs can be fatiguing, to say nothing of frustrating. Where do they get that polyester that passes for brains? I’ll walk Rufus. Back in a minute.”

  He’d intended for the walk to last only long enough for Rufus to take care of business in preparation for the night. But the minute he stepped out of their narrow two-story taupe brick house on Twenty-fifth Street, with its Federal-blue trim, shutters, and front door, he decided he was in need of a brisk walk for himself—to relieve a set of unsettling, undefined feelings.

  Man and dog crossed Eye Street and slowed in front of the River Inn, home of one of Smith’s favorite restaurants, the Foggy Bottom Cafe. It was closed for the evening, but he saw through the windows the staff unwinding at the small bar after a busy night. Had he knocked, they would have invited him in for a nightcap, even with the dog. He wasn’t in the mood.

  He continued north until reaching K, turned left, and went to Twenty-seventh, then left again to the Watergate complex. He’d lived there in a two-bedroom apartment following the Beltway slaughter of his wife and son by a drunk driver. That tragic event had been the turning point in his decision to abandon his lucrative law practice and to accept the teaching position at GWU. As part of his “clean sweep,” he’d bought the small house on Twenty-fifth and settled into the quiet bachelor life of a professor of law.

  But then he met Annabel, and the light that had been extinguished on the Beltway was lit again, different but still a lovely light.

  They’d met at a party at the British embassy. Annabel was a lawyer, specializing in matrimonial cases. But like Smith, she’d harbored a desire to pursue something else, in her case a love of pre-Columbian art and a dream of owning a gallery. When she broached this to Smith after they’d been seeing each other for more than a year, he was enthusiastic and encouraged her to follow her dream. She cleaned up pending cases, closed her office, and leased space on Wisconsin Avenue in the heart of Georgetown. She’d never been happier. She was doing what she loved, was in love, and knew that her love was returned by the handsome and urbane Mackensie Smith.

  Smith and Rufus continued walking south until reaching the gleaming white Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. It, too, spurred memories. A staff assistant to his friend, former senator Paul Ewald, then running for president on the Democratic ticket, had been slain outside this living memorial to the slain JFK. Smith and Rufus had discovered the body during just such a walk, and Smith found himself sucked into the vortex of the case, much to Annabel’s chagrin.

  And that was before they were married.

  Their marriage took place in a simple service in the Bethlehem Chapel of the National Cathedral. It was performed by another friend, Reverend Paul Singletary. Only days after the wedding, Singletary was found murdered in that same chapel, his skull crushed. Once again, Mackensie Smith, former criminal attorney, now docile and contented law professor, was brought into it by yet another friend, the cathedral’s bishop, George St. James. Again, Annabel was displeased with Mac’s decision to allow murder to intrude upon their quiet, loving life. But she seemed less adamant in her objections; perhaps she was getting used to that cell in him that sounded a bell on occasion and compelled him to become involved. He enjoyed teaching law, but he simultaneously missed, now and then, the practice of it.

  But knowing how much Annabel preferred that he stick to teaching, Smith promised himself, and her, following the resolution of the cathedral murder, that he would assiduously avoid further involvement.

  That resolve lasted a year. A former law student, Margit Falk, air-force major, helicopter pilot, and on the secretary of defense’s general-counsel staff at the Pentagon, was assigned to defend the accused murderer of a leading military scientist. She sought out her former mentor for help, and he responded, but only after considerable soul-searching. And with Annabel’s reluctant, but nonetheless supportive, blessing.

  Since his Pentagon involvement, no one close to Mac and Annabel Smith had been mugged, much less murdered. Things were quiet and calm, for which both were grateful. He believed his wife was content with things as they stood. But he also sometimes sensed a vague restlessness in her that was uncharacteristic. Not that she wasn’t a proven go-getter. She’d built her art gallery into one of substance and had recently expanded it into an adjoining storefront. Simultaneously, she’d taken courses in a variety of subjects to, as she put it, “keep this brain oiled.”

  Now she was on the board of directors of the Building Museum and expressing interest in the Scarlet Sin group, that childish obsession of Wendell Tierney’s that had captured the imagination of half of Washington, including his friend and distinguished professor of history Monty Jamison. What was she looking for? What are women ever looking for?

  Each time he’d ventured out of his safe and secure academic cocoon, it had been Annabel who’d urged him back. Well, he was back, but it was as though she were attempting to escape the silky threads of her own cocoon. It was getting complicated. That had been the point of the dramatic shifts in their lives in the first instance, hadn’t it? To cut down on complications, to become more self-contained and enjoy their considerable love in a peaceful atmosphere.

  He continued his stroll, taking a route that took him through the George Washington University campus. He started to feel better, less apprehensive. These were familiar surroundings; rubbing shoulders with the spirited young people who sat on the front steps of their housing units—laughing, joking, enjoying the lack of complication in their lives—was a welcome tonic. By the time he reached Twenty-fifth Street and came through the front door, anxiety had drained fro
m him. He was ready to join his wife for a good night’s sleep.

  “I was worried about you,” she said sleepily from the couch in the study.

  “Sorry. I felt like a longer walk. Rufus can use the exercise.”

  She smiled. “Rufus? Come on, Smith, let’s hit the sack.”

  As he clicked off the light next to the bed, she turned and touched his arm. “Want to hear something silly? I mean, really silly?”

  “Silly? You? Sure.”

  “I have this fantasy—and that’s all it is, a fantasy—a silly one, too, because I know it could never be a reality, not with you—I have this silly fantasy that when you take Rufus for a long walk, you’re meeting some mystery woman with whom you’re having a torrid affair.”

  He sat up and turned on the light. “An affair? On a street corner with Rufus standing guard? Tough to be torrid with ol’ Rufe looking on. More likely he’d be having an affair.”

  She giggled. “I told you it was silly.”

  “It isn’t silly. It’s—it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “It isn’t dumb. It’s silly. You used to be silly sometimes. At least you enjoyed it when I was silly.”

  “I still do.”

  “Then laugh at my fantasy.”

  Instead, his face turned even more serious. “Sure it’s just a fantasy? I mean, it doesn’t represent a deep, dark suspicion about my fidelity, does it?”

  “No, it does not. Sorry I brought it up. Good night.”

  “Good.”

  “Huh?”

  “Good. I’m glad it’s just a fantasy. Come to think of it, a pretty funny one, too.” He chuckled as the room went to black.