Murder on the Potomac

by Margaret Truman

  She left him sitting at the table and walked out of the restaurant, through the lobby, and onto M Street. The rain continued to fall. She hadn’t brought an umbrella that morning and cursed her lack of preparation. She reached her car, which she’d parked on the street a block away, and called in to Homicide. “A Mackensie Smith was here to see you,” she was told.

  She smiled. “What did he say he wanted?”

  “He said it was important that he talk to you about the Juris case. Said he’d be home until one. After that, he can be reached at his office at GW from three till five.” The secretary gave Eikenberg both numbers.

  She reached him at home. He was brief and to the point. “I have some information I thought you’d be interested in.”

  “Concerning the Juris case?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can come to your house right now,” she said.

  “No,” he said too quickly. “I’d rather meet with you some other place.”

  She smiled again. No one that morning seemed to want her to come to their homes. Maybe his wife was there. Or maybe he was afraid to be alone with her. Darcy liked that scenario.

  “Tell you what,” Smith said. “I teach this afternoon from one till three and have a meeting after that. Would you consider a drink after work?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I’m ending up in Arlington late this afternoon. I’ll be free by six. The Rooftop Restaurant at the Key Bridge Marriott?”

  This was getting more interesting all the time, she thought. A drink with Mackensie Smith. In a hotel. “I’ll be there at six sharp,” she said.

  29

  Annabel’s first stop that Friday morning was the National Building Museum where the Great Hall was being transformed into an opulent setting for Saturday night’s Scarlet Sin Society black-tie dinner-dance. She bounded up the stairs and joined other members of the finance committee in the pension commissioner’s suite. She was the last to arrive. Once everyone was seated, Don Farley closed the door and resumed his place at the table, saying in his usual pleasant way, “I called this meeting for several reasons. One was to have Mr. Factor update us on the schedule for catered parties through the end of the year.” Morris Factor headed the museum’s catering operation, an important source of revenue. “But circumstances have changed that plan. Morris came down with a nasty cold and wasn’t able to come in today. He did tell me on the phone, however, that bookings by private organizations have increased dramatically. Why that is, I don’t know, but it certainly is good news.”

  Annabel looked around the table and noted that Sam Tankloff wasn’t present. She returned her attention to Farley, who had other agenda items to cover. Two were disposed of in minutes.

  “I thought we might use the remaining time—and I understand how pressed each of you is for time—for Hazel to give us a further report on the missing funds. Hazel.”

  Hazel Best-Mason appeared ready, even anxious, to speak. Multiple file folders were open on the table in front of her. She said in her usual brisk and efficient manner, “I haven’t concluded my audit as yet of the special fund, or where the missing money might have ended up. But I have come to a preliminary conclusion. It’s evident that Pauline siphoned off proceeds of the special fund for her personal use.” She quickly looked at Annabel. “I realize it’s difficult to make such an accusation without being able to confront the accused,” Best-Mason said. “But reality dictates that isn’t possible. The question was raised at a previous meeting about Pauline’s lack of money in her personal bank accounts. That was misleading. Shortly before her death, she’d purchased a sizable tract of land in West Virginia for one-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The money she used undoubtedly came from stolen museum funds. Hal has verified the land purchase.” Hazel’s husband, Hal Mason, was D.C.’s planning commissioner, a sensitive and powerful position that brought him into frequent contact—and often conflict—with the area’s major builders, including the Tierney Development Corporation.

  As far as Annabel was concerned, the conclusion Hazel had reached was still based upon an assumption. But she wasn’t about to argue the point. Cases had been made in courts with less tangible evidence.

  Comments now flew around the table, most of them expressions of dismay at what they’d heard. Annabel said to Best-Mason, “May I see those vouchers again, the ones Pauline used to withdraw the money?”

  “Of course,” Best-Mason said, sliding that folder in Annabel’s direction. Most of the vouchers had abbreviations scribbled on them in Pauline’s dreadful, almost illegible handwriting. Annabel got to the bottom of the stack, then started from the top again.

  “Is something bothering you, Annabel?” Best-Mason asked.

  Annabel responded without looking up or abandoning her task. “No. Just trying to make sense out of this.” She finished, closed the folder, and returned it to the controller.

  Don Farley said, “I think Hazel has done a splendid job. And we obviously owe Hal Mason our gratitude for aiding her in getting to the bottom of things. The much larger question now is how we proceed from here.”

  “That’s something for the board to decide,” a committee member offered.

  “Yes, of course,” Farley replied, “but I do think we should be ready to offer our recommendations. Obviously, anything should be done with an eye toward minimizing the public-relations damage to the museum.”

  “Why do we have to do anything?” Hazel Best-Mason asked. “It happened, unfortunately. But I don’t see any reason for it to become public knowledge.”

  Farley raised his eyes and hands. “If only that could be the case,” he said. “But we all know how these things have a habit of finding their way into the press. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already.”

  Annabel offered, “It’s been my experience that stonewalling this kind of thing only compounds the problem when it eventually does get out. Remember Mr. Nixon and his tapes.”

  “Are you suggesting we recommend to the board that they make full disclosure?” Farley asked.

  “No. I’m not a PR person. We have a public-relations and advertising subcommittee that should make that decision along with the full board. It just seems to me that those people who’ve donated money to this institution have a right to know that some of it—and obviously we’re talking about a small portion—has been misappropriated by a museum employee.” She paused, then added, “If that is what happened.”

  She hadn’t expected Hazel Best-Mason to respond so angrily. “Are you doubting the conclusion I’ve reached?”

  Annabel smiled and said, “Of course not, Hazel. I think you’ve done a good job of drawing a plausible conclusion from circumstantial evidence.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “Unless there’s something else important on the agenda, I really must go.”

  She looked to Farley, who shook his head. “I made notes of my conversation with Morris Factor this morning,” he said, “and thought I would run down the events that have been booked into the museum between now and the end of the year. But you don’t have to stay for that, Annabel. I’ll be happy to have them typed up and send them to you.”

  “Thank you, Don. I appreciate that.” Annabel stood, smoothed her skirt, took in the others at the table, and said, “Sorry to run out, but I made the mistake of overbooking my day.” One of the committee members laughed and said something about his doing that on a regular basis.

  “Best to Mac,” Farley said as Annabel headed for the door. She turned and said, “See you all Saturday night.”

  She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. Standing there was museum director Joe Chester; Annabel had the feeling he’d been waiting just outside the door. “Good morning,” she said.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Smith. Could I have a word with you?”

  “Yes, of course. I am in a rush, though.”

  “It won’t take but a minute.”

  She followed him into his office. Neither sat; she stood patien
tly while he paced nervously before stopping at the window and peering through it.

  “Mr. Chester,” Annabel said.

  He turned. “I may be out of place talking to you about this,” he said, “but I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Go on. I’m listening.”

  He spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out as though he’d rehearsed them many times. “I know that your husband is Mr. Tierney’s attorney. That’s why—”

  “My husband is not Mr. Tierney’s attorney.”

  “—that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You’re wrong about my husband.”

  “I don’t want to take the rap for anybody, Tierney included. Those letters he wrote to Pauline say it all. But the police keep looking at me, asking me questions because they were told Pauline and I didn’t get along. Maybe we weren’t the best of friends, but I had no personal animosity toward her. I know I sure would never think of killing her, or anybody else.”

  Annabel waited for him to finish. When he had—and she wasn’t sure it was because of a need to draw a breath or because the speech was ended—she said, “First of all, my husband is not Wendell Tierney’s. attorney. You have your information wrong. But even if he were, why talk to me?”

  “Who else can I talk to? I’ve told the police a thousand times that I didn’t kill her, but they just look at me with their skeptical expressions and smirks on their faces. A lot of people didn’t like Pauline. Some people hated her. Ask Tierney. He was scared to death she’d go to his wife and break up his precious family. Ask his daughter. I heard her attack Pauline twice about the affair she was having with her father. Hell, check out Sy Fletcher. She went to see him the night she was murdered to lay down the law about his spending on Tri-S productions. They all hated her enough to kill her, but not me.”

  Annabel didn’t know what to say, so she said, “I’m sorry you’re having these problems, Mr. Chester. But I can’t do anything about them. My husband and I and Mr. Tierney are friends. Neither my husband nor I are involved in an official capacity.” She thought of the conversation she and Mac had had about the letters to Pauline, and Mac’s theory. Why was Chester so certain the letters had come from Tierney? “You don’t seem to have any doubt that Mr. Tierney wrote those letters to Pauline. What makes you so certain?”

  He snickered. “Everybody knew about their affair. It was the worst-kept secret in the museum.”

  “You say you didn’t hate Pauline. Do you hate Wendell Tierney?”

  Her question took him by surprise; a nervous fluttering of hands substituted for a verbal answer. Then, meekly, “Why do you ask that?”

  Annabel sighed and said, “It’s possible that Wendell Tierney did not write those letters to Pauline. If that’s the case, then someone else did, perhaps to make him the prime suspect in her murder.”

  He turned again to the window, his words coming off the panes. “You aren’t suggesting that I wrote them, are you?”

  “Mr. Chester, I’m not suggesting anything. I wish I could be more helpful, but I can’t. I’m already late for another appointment.” She expected him to turn and say something, at least good-bye, but he didn’t. He remained standing at the window with his back to her, his shoulders slouched, head lowered.

  She went downstairs to where crews continued to ready the hall for Saturday night and used a public phone to check for messages. There were none. She wondered how Mac’s meeting with Tierney had gone, how he’d reacted to the news that Mac had the letters and Mac’s theory about who wrote them.

  She left the museum and stepped into the rain on F Street. Yellow umbrella raised, she crossed the street and wandered through the recently created and moving monument to all the nation’s law-enforcement officials killed in the line of duty. She was glad it was raining. The mist against her face, which caused the cement and granite around her to glisten, was cleansing. She would have stayed longer but was scheduled to meet a young college student at the gallery who’d started working part time the previous week. The student, Sally Frasier, was bright and willing but lacked the sense of urgency that Annabel found to be the case in many of her generation. Annabel had promised to spend an hour familiarizing Sally with a recently installed computer system that not only handled inventory and gallery finances but a data base as well that had been created to track important pieces of pre-Columbian art in different parts of the country and world. She was tempted to call and cancel the training session but decided to go through with it. Putting it off would only mean having to do it another week.

  As she walked through the front door of the Georgetown gallery, she was met with rock ’n’ roll blasting from small, high-tech speakers suspended in the four corners of the main display room. Annabel always kept her stereo tuned to WGMS, which programmed classical music, or played tapes from a large classical library she maintained at the gallery. The change in musical format was not pleasing to her ears.

  Sally, a tall, lanky girl with limp, straight blond hair and a pale face colored pure passive, came from the rear office at the sound of the front door’s chime. “Sounds like a party in here,” Annabel said, having to speak above the music.

  The girl stopped in the middle of the room, looked up at one of the speakers, and said, “Oh, sorry about that. I just thought with you not here, it would be all right to change the station.”

  “Of course it is,” Annabel said, “as long as we don’t have customers.” She headed for the office and the tuner, her new assistant close on her heels.

  “I guess I’m just not used to that MOR stuff,” Sally said.

  “MOR?” Annabel said over her shoulder.

  “You know, middle-of-the-road music. That’s what they call it. Elevator music.”

  Annabel laughed and pushed the button for WGMS, catching one of Hayden’s six “London” symphonies in midscore. The contrast with the incessant backbeat of the drum machine that had filled the space was heavenly.

  “Ready for your lesson?” Annabel asked.

  “Yes, I am,” Sally said. “But be patient with me. I’m not computer literate.”

  “Neither am I,” Annabel said, removing a dust cover from the CPU and turning it on. “But I’m learning. We’ll learn together.”

  It didn’t turn out to be an especially fruitful session because customers came into the gallery, which necessitated either Annabel or Sally leaving the office to serve them. They all turned out to be browsers—no sales; the prices of the art in the gallery precluded impulse buying. At noon Annabel turned off the computer, covered it, and said to Sally, “You’re coming in tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes, but I won’t be able to work again until next Wednesday. Exams.”

  “No problem. I hate to run, but I have an appointment. I’m taking a tour of Chinatown.”

  “Where?”

  “Where? Here. In Washington.”

  “I didn’t even know we had a Chinatown,” Sally said.

  “Lots of people don’t, but we certainly do. I’m involved with the American Building Museum, which is right on the border of Chinatown. A friend of mine, Sue Yoy, has been conducting tours for a year and has been after me to take one. Today’s the day.”

  “Sounds like fun, Mrs. Smith.”

  “I’m sure it will be. I’ll be back later this afternoon to close up.” Before leaving, she called her answering machine again. There was a message from Mac:

  My meeting with Wendell went okay. I told him about the letters but didn’t show them to him. I’m delivering them this afternoon to MPD after my class and faculty meeting. Sun Ben was there. Wendell says he’s laying low for a while, which is a good thing to do, I suppose. Hope your day is going well. I’ll check your machine for messages. Love you.

  The electronic voice gave Annabel the time and date of the call before a series of beeps indicated it was the final message on the tape. She called her machine and left a message in case Mac called:

  Am just leaving the gallery. On my way to meet Sue Yoy for a tour
of Chinatown. Should have mentioned it to you earlier. Would love to have you with me. I’ll learn everything there is to learn and take you on my own private tour one of these days. By the way, Hazel Best-Mason and the finance committee have come to the conclusion that Pauline stole the funds from the museum and used them to buy that tract of land in West Virginia. And I had a fascinating conversation with Joe Chester, who’s uptight that the police keep questioning him. He says Wendell wrote the letters to Pauline. I didn’t say anything to disillusion him. Love you, mister. Have a good day, make sure your students know that a tort isn’t pastry, and keep in touch. I’ll be back at the gallery by five.

  30

  That Same Day

  Tony Buffolino hadn’t appreciated being awakened by Wendell Tierney at six that morning. Having agreed to live on the grounds represented sacrifice enough beyond the line of duty. But when Tierney told him the reason for the early wake-up call, his groggy annoyance was replaced by curiosity and excitement.

  Tierney hadn’t bothered knocking on Tony’s door that morning. He had simply walked in, mumbled an apology, and sat in the room’s only chair, a cheap wooden one with flaking pea-green paint. Buffolino could see through crusted eyes that Tierney looked like hell, as though he’d been up all night.

  “Problem?” Tony asked, getting out of the narrow, lumpy bed and wrapping himself in a flannel robe.

  “A big one,” Tierney replied. His voice matched his sagging posture. He told Tony about Sun Ben’s arrest and the charges brought against him.

  “Yeah, I’d say that is a big problem,” Buffolino replied. “Do you think …?”