Murder on the Potomac

by Margaret Truman

  Annabel reaffirmed what she had said moments earlier. “I noticed nothing unusual,” she said. “But that in itself was not unusual. Pauline was not what you would call a terribly open person. At least that was my evaluation of her, bearing in mind that I didn’t know her well. But no, she seemed to do what I suppose she always did at those meetings, took notes and occasionally reminded Mr. Tierney of business to be raised.”

  “The relationship between them?” Eikenberg asked. “Between Mr. Tierney and Ms. Juris.”

  “Professional, as far as I know. I’ve always understood that she was a trusted assistant. Her behavior with him—and his with her—suggested nothing else.”

  Annabel glanced at Mac, who sat opposite her, hands folded, gaze fixed firmly on the tabletop. He looked up, knew what she was thinking, and asked Eikenberg, “Do you have any reason to suggest a more personal relationship between Wendell Tierney and Pauline Juris?”

  Eikenberg smiled. “Yes, I am looking for that. Guess you’ve seen through me, Professor.” Another exchange of looks between Mac and Annabel. How nice to have a fan club. Her silent message was eloquent.

  The detective leaned back in her chair, smiled, and shook her head. She said to Annabel, “I must admit, Mrs. Smith, that I’m slightly overwhelmed sitting here with the two of you.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Annabel replied.

  “Well, here you are, both former successful attorneys, your husband a professor of law and highly respected in every quarter of the city, and you the owner of an important art gallery and on the board of the National Building Museum. Those are pretty heavy credentials to be contained in one household.”

  “That’s kind of you to say,” said Annabel, “but the only thing we attempt to overwhelm, or control, at any rate, is our dog, Rufus. Usually, he won’t stand for it and prevails.”

  Eikenberg laughed. “I do appreciate Rufus not joining us this morning,” she said. “From the way you described him, he’d overwhelm me, too.” She turned to Mac with her next round of questions. Annabel sat back, folded her arms, lowered her chin, and listened.

  “You know Wendell Tierney pretty well, don’t you, Professor?”

  Smith shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. We’re certainly friendly and have been for a number of years. But not close friends. I think the distinction is important.”

  “I understand,” Eikenberg said. “Mr. Tierney is one of your many friends in high places.”

  “If you wish, although ‘high places’ doesn’t quite define it. Successful and rich? Absolutely.”

  “But you were the one he called to be at his side.”

  “His reasons for doing that had little to do with the depth of our friendship.”

  “What were his reasons?”

  “He considers me to be knowledgeable in criminal law. And I suppose he wanted advice from an unbiased observer.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “As opposed to those who have a stake in saying the right thing to him. His own lawyers, for example. I don’t.”

  “But you know him well enough to be aware of—well—to be aware of any affairs he might have had outside his marriage.”

  Smith, too, leaned back in his chair. Then he leaned forward. “Detective Eikenberg, I have no interest in anyone’s personal life aside from my own, nor do I have any knowledge of how Wendell Tierney conducts his … personal life.”

  Eikenberg lightly touched his arm. “You understand where I’m going with this, Professor Smith. I have to. That’s my job.”

  Smith knew, of course, where she was leading. She had asked the questions knowing it was unlikely he would have the details, or, if he did, was unlikely to volunteer them. She would ask the same question of as many people as possible, hoping that someone would inadvertently let something slip. There were seldom touchdown bombs thrown in the business of criminal interrogation. The answers were dug out one muddy yard at a time.

  Smith said, “I don’t know of any relationship other than professional between Wendell Tierney and Pauline Juris.”

  “Others?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Others in Mr. Tierney’s sphere who might have been romantically involved with Ms. Juris?”

  “Sorry.”

  Annabel stood. “If you won’t be needing me anymore, I’ll tend to some other things.”

  Eikenberg looked up. “Of course, Mrs. Smith. You’ve been very gracious to give me this time. Thank you.”

  “A pleasure meeting you,” Annabel said without excessive warmth, extending her hand, which Eikenberg took without standing.

  With Annabel gone, Eikenberg continued her questioning. “What do you know about the Scarlet Sin Society?”

  “Probably the same thing you know about it. A fund-raising organization that recreates historical Washington murders.”

  “It was started by Mr. Tierney, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. A special interest of his.”

  “The term I hear used is ‘obsession.’ An obsession of his.”

  Smith shrugged. “Call it what you will. I wouldn’t know how to define obsession with Wendell Tierney. He has many interests.”

  “So I understand. But Tri-S is particularly important to him. At least that’s what I’m told.”

  “Then it probably is.”

  “Are you involved with Tri-S? That is what they call it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, it is commonly called Tri-S. But no, I am not involved with it.”

  “Do you know any of the people in it?”

  Smith thought of his professor friend, Monty Jamison. “A few,” he said.

  “Seymour Fletcher?”

  Smith frowned, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “He’s their director, I believe.”

  “Correct. Ever meet him?”

  “No, I don’t believe I have.”

  “He was the last person to see Pauline Juris alive.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Smith said.

  “That’s our information. They fought, arguing loudly at the church where a rehearsal was taking place for their next production. Familiar with the drama?”

  “Only from what I read. The murder of Philip Barton Key by Congressman Sickles.”

  “I’ve been reading about that case, too. A lot of fascinating overtones.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Mr. Tierney sent Pauline to confront Fletcher the night she was murdered.”

  Smith said nothing.

  “Another member of the board I interviewed overhead a conversation between Tierney and Juris at the conclusion of the board meeting.”

  “And?”

  “That board member was certain your wife overheard the same conversation.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t tell me that.”

  For the first time that morning Smith felt uncomfortable. He was sitting with a shrewd interviewer who’d done her homework. But her questions up to this point had been innocuous. Now she seemed to be questioning Annabel’s veracity. Enough, he decided. “I have no idea whether Annabel overheard any such conversation. If she did and failed to mention it to you, it was because she’d forgotten about it. Would you like her to come back in so you can ask directly?”

  Eikenberg pursed her lips and stretched her arms above her head, straining the fabric at the front of her blouse. She’d been sitting with both feet flat on the floor beneath the table. Turning in her chair, she faced Smith and crossed her legs. She wore a short beige linen skirt, a black blouse with the top buttons unsecured, and a white jacket cut safari-style. Smith had recently purchased such a jacket from Banana Republic in Georgetown, but Eikenberg’s was cut for a woman and had obviously cost a great deal more than his version.

  “May I ask you a personal question, Professor Smith?”

  She’d caught him looking at her legs. As he snapped his eyes up to meet hers, a smile crossed her lips. �
��Sure,” he said.

  “Who do you think killed Pauline Juris?”

  “That’s personal?”

  “I think so. I mean, I’m asking you for your personal gut opinion as opposed to what you might know. Understand?” She wet her lips.

  “Sorry, Detective, but I haven’t the slightest idea who might have killed her.”

  “Pardon me for being skeptical, Professor—would you be offended if I called you Mackensie?”

  “Mac.”

  “Oh, yes.” She laughed. “Mac. Pardon me for being skeptical, Mac, but I can’t believe you don’t have some instinctive feel for who might have killed her.”

  Smith’s eyes went to the door, then back to Eikenberg’s face. “Sorry to disappoint you, Detective, but—”

  “Please. Let’s not have our relationship informal one-way. Darcy.”

  “Have you interviewed her former husband?” Did she know that Pauline had been briefly married years ago?

  She did. “Not yet,” she said. “He’s in New York, and we’ve contacted him. We expect him here in a day or two. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. I never knew she was married until Wendell told me yesterday.”

  “Kept it a secret, huh?”

  “Yes. Well, she evidently didn’t talk about it to many people.”

  “Tierney’s sons? Daughter?”

  “What about them?”

  “You know them?”

  “Yes. They’re evidently good citizens.”

  “Citizens, maybe. But the daughter, Suzanne, has been at war with her father for years.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Anything else you might know about?” she asked.

  “Not at the moment. But if I think of something, I’ll certainly call. More coffee?”

  “Thank you, no, but it was delicious. Where do you buy it?”

  “Various places. I mix it myself, a little of this, a little of that, some decaf, some regular. What you’re drinking this morning has a hint of amaretto.”

  She laughed. Even her teeth were perfect, he thought. “More than a hint, I’d say,” she said. “What a wonderful flavor. And what a wonderful side to you.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “To care that much about coffee.”

  “I’m a coffee snob.”

  “I like that in a man. Little pockets of snobbery, but not the whole person.”

  Smith got to his feet in the hope that it would signal an end to what had become awkward. Eikenberg didn’t move. “Anything else you wish to ask me?” he said.

  “Lots of things, but not at the moment. I would like to get together with you again. I promise not to unduly intrude. Is that all right with you?”

  “Why, yes—I suppose so.”

  She stood, straightened her skirt, which had developed wrinkles across her thighs, and bent to pick up her briefcase from the floor. “I wish all my interviews were this pleasant.”

  “Nothing pleasant about an interview when it involves murder,” he said.

  “Well, as you know from all your years of criminal law, Mac, you find pleasantness where you can. You and your wife have been extremely cooperative this morning. I hesitate …”

  His expression invited her to continue.

  “I’d like to spend more time with you, pick your brain a little—a lot.”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t be so quick to agree. I’m known in the department for my ability to reach pest status once I get started.”

  “I’ll let you know when you get there. Become a pest.”

  “Fair enough. There are elements of this case that I really can’t go into at the moment, but that I’d like to discuss with you in a less formal setting.”

  Smith looked left and right. “You call this formal? My kitchen?”

  She laughed. “You know what I mean. I need—and I won’t be coy about it, I need—I’d appreciate being able to run things by you. Not necessarily specifics of the case but … more your general thinking about it. Maybe about murder in general.”

  “You should consider joining Scarlet Sin,” he said pleasantly.

  “That’s always a possibility.…”

  “Or taking another of my classes. That’s what I’m paid for at GW.”

  “Maybe we could consider lunch a seminar of sorts. An extension course. Could we?”

  “Well, maybe.”

  “I’ll call. Where’s your wife? I’d like to say good-bye.”

  “I’ll find her,” he said.

  “Not necessary. Just thank her for me. She’s a very nice woman.”

  “I’ll pass along the compliment.”

  As he opened the front door for her, she said, “Please ask Mrs. Smith whether she overheard that conversation at the board meeting between Mr. Tierney and Ms. Juris about Seymour Fletcher. It had to do with budgets, I believe.”

  “I will.”

  He watched her descend the few brick steps in front of the house, turn left, and stride confidently up the street until out of sight. When he turned, he faced Annabel. “You snuck up on me,” he said with a smile.

  “You know I wouldn’t do that. How did it go?”

  “I think Wendell might be in for a long, tough run. He’s made a lot of enemies over the years, people who wouldn’t mind taking him down. By the way, why didn’t you tell her about a conversation between Wendell and Pauline at the end of the board meeting?”

  “Conversation?”

  “Something to do with budgets.”

  “Oh, right. I did hear them talking. He wanted her to confront someone about money. I never gave it a thought—until now. Sort of like Leona Helmsley.”

  “Who’s like Leona Helmsley?”

  “Wendell. She crossed a lot of people, made a lot of enemies. Just as he has. That’s why she ended up in jail.”

  “She’s a convicted felon.”

  “People didn’t like her. Nice doctors get sued less than nasty ones. Did she get what she wanted from you?”

  “Leona?” He laughed. “Oh, Detective Eikenberg. Probably not. I don’t have anything to give her.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “Are you upset about something?”

  “You asked me that yesterday. I told you I was upset about Pauline’s murder.”

  “And I also asked if you were upset with me. I’ll ask that again, too.”

  “No.” She smiled and said, “She’s an impressive woman. Hardly the stereotypical cop.”

  “I suppose so. I’m sure you’re glad this morning is over with.”

  “I certainly hope it is, Professor Smith.”

  12

  The Next Day

  When Mac Smith walked into the faculty cafeteria the following morning, he found Monty Jamison hidden behind the morning newspaper. The history professor suddenly realized Smith stood over him, glanced up, grunted a greeting, and went back to reading. Smith took a seat across the small table.

  “Damn shame what happened to that young student last night,” Jamison said.

  “But fortunate it turned out the way it did.”

  A freshman at the university had been attacked on a side street on the fringe of the campus. Using a can of mace she always carried, she’d subdued her attacker and attracted the attention of a passerby, who called the police.

  “No young woman is safe these days unless armed,” Jamison said. He put down the paper and stared at Smith through Coke-bottle glasses. “Another example of society gone to rot. Have you read the story this morning about poor Pauline Juris?”

  “Most of it. I was interrupted. Excuse me.”

  Smith returned from the serving line with a lightly buttered bagel and cup of tea. His feeling for coffee was sufficiently strong to preclude, unless the circumstances were dire, drinking coffee brewed anywhere but in his own kitchen.

  “Here. Finish it,” Jamison said, turning the paper and sliding it on top of Smith’s plate. Mac retrieved his bagel from beneath the paper, bit in, rearranged things,
and quickly finished the article. It was primarily a profile of Pauline Juris culled from various sources, including interviews with several people who’d requested anonymity. A significant portion was devoted to her former husband, Lucas Wharton, a thoracic surgeon in New York City. According to the reporter, Lucas and Pauline had met while undergraduates at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Wharton’s hometown. The marriage had lasted eleven months. No children. Dr. Wharton, the article said, had been contacted by the police and would be questioned in Washington. Pauline’s relationship with Wendell Tierney was also explored. In the best tradition of innuendo journalism, it hinted—but only hinted—that the bond between Tierney and Pauline Juris might have exceeded the boundaries of business.

  Smith folded the paper, sighed, and took another bite of bagel.

  “I find the name of her former husband interesting,” said Jamison.

  Smith looked up. “How so?”

  “Wharton. I think I’ll do a little research into his family background.”

  Smith couldn’t help but laugh. “Why?”

  “To see whether he might be related, no matter how tangentially, to the infamous and stylish Elizabeth Wharton.”

  Bagel poised halfway between plate and mouth, Smith said, “Someone I should know?”

  Jamison’s chuckle was mildly scolding. “There you have it, Mackensie Smith, a prime example of what you miss by not joining Tri-S.”

  Here we go again. Smith sat silently; the bagel proved a useful shield.

  “Surely, Mac, you must remember Elizabeth Wharton.”

  “Not personally. Yes, in fact I do know a little about her. Sort of Washington’s early 1870s Lucrezia Borgia.”

  “Exactly. That’s why you should join us. A remarkable story. Mrs. Wharton was a society lady from Philadelphia who settled in Baltimore—interesting coincidence that Dr. Lucas Wharton hails from that same city—and glided easily through the upper strata of Baltimore and Washington. Problem was, she had a habit of borrowing money and not paying it back.”

  “That doesn’t make her unique,” said Mac.

  “It does when coupled with a tendency to murder those who asked for it back. Their money, that is. Those unfortunate souls would visit Mrs. Wharton at her home in search of repayment, be served tea, and die mysteriously.”