Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. My name is Fred.”

  We shook hands. “Sure this won’t inconvenience you?” I asked.

  “My orders are to take you and the others wherever you wish to go, day or night.”

  “That sounds excessive,” I said, “but I won’t argue. Where do you suggest we go?”

  He frowned and ran his fingertips over his chin. “We could go by the Mall, the Tidal Basin, over to Rosslyn. The view of the capital is nice from that side of the Potomac.”

  “I’m in your hands,” I said. “Mind if I ride up front?”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Fletcher. Be easier for me to point things out to you.”

  Fred drove slowly, identifying various buildings and monuments as we went. We passed the row of imposing museums along Constitution Avenue—the Museum of American History, the Natural History Museum, and the National Gallery, where we’d enjoyed dinner the night before. He circled the Mall and commented on the famed Air and Space Museum, the Hirshhorn, Museum of African Art, and the Sackler Gallery.

  “There’s so much culture here,” I said.

  “It’s one of the many nice things about Washington, Mrs. Fletcher. The wife and I, and the grandchildren, always have something to do or see on my days off.”

  “That’s the Tidal Basin over there,” he said, pointing, and turning the limo in that direction. “The Jefferson Memorial. My favorite.”

  He stopped in front of the rotunda dedicated to the third president of the United States, and the author of our Declaration of Independence. It was beautifully lighted, exuding a magnetic pull on me.

  “I’d like to see it up close,” I said.

  “All right,” Fred said, getting out and coming around to open the door for me.

  “Join me?” I asked.

  “I can’t leave the car, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Of course. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  I stepped up into the rotunda and paused to admire the huge bronze statue of the great man who meant so much to our country. I wasn’t the only person to admire him at that moment. A half-dozen tourists were also in the rotunda. One took pictures of others in his party standing in front of the statue of Jefferson.

  I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes. It was one of those special moments I would always remember.

  I opened my eyes, smiled, and slowly headed back in the direction of the limousine. I’d almost reached it when a woman’s voice stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t very loud. It was what she said that impacted me. “Oh, my God!”

  I turned in the direction of her voice, which erupted into a scream that cut through the still night, a prolonged, anguished cry. I saw her. She was fifteen feet from me, looking down into the bushes that ring the monument.

  I froze for a moment. But then I slowly approached her. I saw that Fred, my driver, had also responded. He was out of the car and running toward me.

  I reached the woman. “What is it?” I asked.

  She didn’t have to answer because I saw what she’d seen. It was a man’s body. He was on his side, one arm extended above his head. He wore a suit, shirt, and tie. His feet and legs were partially covered by the underbrush, his face shrouded in shadow.

  The woman—she was young—suddenly hugged me. I felt her body shudder. The young man with her, who’d lingered in the rotunda, now joined us. So did Fred. I indicated the body with a downward cast of my eyes. He leaned forward to better see, stood erect again, and said, “I’ll call the police from the car. No sense standing here.”

  “You’re right,” I said. To the young woman and her male friend, “Come. We’ll wait for the police over there.”

  The police arrived within minutes. After examining the body and securing the scene, a plainclothes detective took statements from me and the young couple.

  “You’re the famous mystery writer,” he said when I gave him my name.

  “What I am at this moment,” I said, “is a shaken woman. How horrible to have someone killed in such a revered place.”

  “Why do you say he was ‘killed?’ ” he asked.

  “I just assumed it,” I replied. “It didn’t look to me as though he died of natural causes—heart attack, that sort of thing. He looks as though he’d been dragged into those bushes. Or out of them.”

  The detective noted what I’d said. The scene had now expanded to include four or five police cars, their flashing red lights creating a macabre kaleidoscope of color and movement, their squawking radios violating the silent sanctity of the Jefferson Memorial.

  “How long were you here at the monument?” the detective asked me.

  I looked to Fred.

  “Ten minutes tops,” Fred said. “Less.”

  “What caused you to see the body, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “This young woman’s scream.”

  “You didn’t see anything unusual while you were here? Hear anything? See any suspicious characters who might have done it?”

  “No, although I admit I was totally focused on the statue of Mr. Jefferson. Nothing. I heard or saw nothing out of the ordinary. Have you identified him?”

  “No, ma’am. Anything else you can add?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “By the way, what are you doing in Washington?”

  I explained that I was part of the trade mission.

  “Going to Moscow, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, careful there, Mrs. Fletcher. D.C. is Disneyland compared to that city.”

  Fred drove me away from the Tidal Basin just as the press started to arrive. I sat with him in the car in front of the Madison for a few minutes, neither of us saying anything.

  “You’ll be all right?” he asked in his deep voice tinged with his southern heritage.

  “Yes. Fortunately, or unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve been in the wrong place when a body’s been discovered. I suppose we’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow.”

  “I suppose we will.”

  He escorted me into the hotel, shook my hand, and wished me a good night’s sleep—“If that’s possible,” he added.

  “I think it is,” I said. “I’m exhausted. Thank you so much, Fred. I’m sorry my little after-hours tour ended up like this for you.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Fletcher. Try to enjoy the rest of your trip.”

  I got into bed and attempted to sleep, but the vision of the body at the Jefferson Memorial precluded that. I got up and tried to read, but my concentration just wasn’t there.

  I finally turned to television, something I seldom do. I flipped through the myriad cable offerings until settling on a twenty-four-hour news channel. I watched it without interest, the events on the screen and the anchor’s voice just a blur. Until—

  This just in—the body of a man discovered at the Jefferson Memorial only a few hours ago, and reported here, has now been identified.

  I became instantly alert and focused.

  ... the man, whose cause of death is still to be determined, has been identified as Ward Wenington, of Rockville, Maryland. Preliminary information is that he was an employee of the State Department, We’ll have more on this as details are released.

  I turned off the TV, went to the window, looked down at the empty street, then picked up my watch from where I’d placed it on the night table. It was after midnight.

  I called the hotel operator. “What room is Mr. and Mrs. Buckley in?” I asked.

  I was told.

  “Please ring that room for me.”

  Vaughan picked up immediately.

  “Vaughan, it’s Jessica. Sorry if I woke you.”

  “You didn’t. We just walked in a few minutes ago. Enjoy your evening?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  I told him.

  “That’s terrible,” he said. “It’s the same man you’ve been mentioning to me?”

  “Yes. I had lunch with him today.”

  “You did? Wh
y?”

  “Buy me a cup of tea downstairs?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Five

  Vaughan was waiting for me in the bar when I arrived. He ordered a cognac; I asked for tea with lemon.

  The bar was virtually empty, and so we had our choice of tables. We chose one in a comer farthest from the door and bar.

  “Now, tell me again about this dreadful experience you had tonight,” he said in hushed tones.

  I leaned across the table and, keeping my voice down, too, recounted what had happened at the Jefferson Memorial. When I was finished, he sat back, rolled his eyes up, and slowly shook his head.

  “I know,” I said. “Here I go again, tripping over a body. I think I’ve come across more dead people than characters in my books have. But there’s obviously more to it than simply the murder of an ordinary citizen. The news report said Mr. Wenington worked for the State Department. He asked me at lunch to ... well, in effect to spy for him. Not, for him personally, but for whatever agency he represented.”

  Vaughan came forward again. “The State Department.”

  “According to the newscast. But the State Department doesn’t have people debriefing American citizens who happen to travel to Russia, does it?”

  “I don’t know,” Vaughan said. “If you mean that all such activities are confined to an agency like the CIA, I think you’re wrong. As I understand it, virtually every agency of our government has an intelligence component. It wouldn’t surprise me if this Mr. Wenington worked for the State Department in some aspect of intelligence gathering.”

  “But don’t you think it’s strange that he followed me into Lafayette Park this afternoon, and now is found murdered at a place where I just happened to end up tonight?”

  “Probably coincidence. Look, Olga and I were approached tonight by someone asking us to do the same thing that this Wenington fellow asked you to do. We were told that because the chances were good we would have private conversations with leading Russian officials, we might pick up information that would be useful to this country. They said we’d be debriefed when we came back.”

  “Was it Wenington who told you that?” I asked.

  “No. Someone else, who said he worked for one of the Senate subcommittees having to do with international trade.” A small smile crossed Vaughan’s face. “I must admit he was smooth. He put it in terms of the need to gather as much information about Russia’s industry and commerce in order to help the Russian people develop their democracy. Olga and I accepted what he said. I don’t consider myself naive, Jess, but I did buy it. Maybe you should, too. Of course, there is the added complication of this Wenington chap being murdered.”

  “Just an ‘added complication?’ I’d say it represents more than that.”

  “I didn’t mean to minimize it.”

  “I know you didn’t. My question is this: Should I go to Mr. Roberts, or some other high official involved with the trade mission, and tell him about my lunch with Wenington and what he asked me to do?”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Vaughan replied. “Chances are the press will report that you were there, which will undoubtedly prompt Roberts, or someone else from Commerce, to bring it up.”

  I sat back and chewed on my cheek. “I hadn’t even thought of the press reporting that I was there. Do you think that once they do, my participation in this trade mission will be compromised? Maybe I should offer to drop out, go back home to Cabot Cove.”

  “Absolutely not. All you’ve done is to be the victim of bad timing. Wrong place, wrong time. I wouldn’t give it a second thought as far as the trade mission is concerned. How you handle your personal reaction to such an upsetting event is another question. Would you prefer to go home?”

  I’d thought about that ever since the incident at the Jefferson Memorial, and had come to the conclusion that I would not leave the group unless asked to. I told Vaughan this.

  “Good. We have one more day here in Washington before leaving for Moscow. As trite as it may sound, I suggest you try to put this thing out of your mind and focus on why we’re here, and that we’ll soon be climbing on a plane for Moscow.”

  “How do I handle the press if they try to communicate with me?”

  “A-ha. That is something I think we should discuss with Sam Roberts. I suspect the Commerce Department, and any other involved agency, would prefer that you not speak with the press about this. But we can get a reading from them in the morning.”

  The barman served Vaughan’s drink and my tea, and we sipped in silence.

  “Feeling better?” Vaughan asked.

  “Yes. More relaxed. Hot tea always does that for me.” I smiled. “Talking to you tends to have the same effect.”

  He placed one of his hands over mine on the table and said, “Glad I’m a therapeutic force in your life. Shall we meet for an early breakfast?”

  “The earlier the better. I didn’t check the itinerary. What are we doing on our final day in Washington?”

  “A meeting at ten at the Commerce Department. Some sort of a briefing before we head for Moscow.”

  “The Russians will be there, too?”

  “I don’t think so. Just the American contingent. USA Today is hosting a luncheon for us across the river in their corporate offices. And, let’s see ... the Russians are giving a press conference in the afternoon at the Russian Embassy. I don’t think we’re required to be there, although maybe we should. A cocktail party at five at the Four Seasons Hotel, hosted by some group that fosters American-Russian relations. Dinner, I don’t know about. I’ll have to check.”

  “I’ll do that when I get up to the room. Thanks, Vaughan, for spending this time with me.”

  “Would you expect less from the publisher of the world’s greatest mystery writer?”

  “You’re right. If I were the world’s greatest mystery writer, I would expect it. The fact that I’m not—and you do it anyway—makes me feel good. Give Olga a kiss for me.” We stood. “Seven? In the restaurant?”

  “See you then. And try to get some sleep. A busy day ahead of us.”

  Chapter Six

  When I arrived for breakfast the next morning, I was surprised to see that Olga wasn’t with Vaughan. I asked why.

  “Running a little late, Jess,” he said. “Not unusual for her when there’s an early morning getaway. How did you sleep?”

  I slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Pretty good, considering what might have kept me awake.” I looked across at him. Generally, Vaughan Buckley has a pleasant expression on his face, no matter what the time of day. But this morning I sensed something was wrong. “You seem upset,” I said.

  He reached down to the floor and picked up a copy of that morning’s Washington Post. “I hate to be the one to deliver bad news to you, Jess, but better me than someone else.” He handed the paper to me.

  The lead story on the front page was about the death of Ward Wenington. There was a murky photograph of the crime scene with Mr. Wenington’s partially obscured body in the center of it. I looked up at Vaughan. “Why is this upsetting? It’s not news to you.”

  “Read on,” he said, as a waiter came to our table. “Your usual?” Vaughan asked.

  “Yes, please.” I continued to read.

  “Orange juice, dry English muffin, and coffee, half regular, half decaf, for both of us,” Vaughan said.

  I now saw what Vaughan wanted me to see. The article mentioned that the body had been found by mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, who was in Washington as part of a trade mission sponsored by the Commerce Department, and who was scheduled to leave for Moscow later that night.

  “Any calls from the press?” Vaughan asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m surprised,” he said. “The Washington Post is right across the street.”

  “Let’s just count our blessings,” I said, dropping the paper to the floor.

  Our juice had no sooner been served when a young man en
tered the dining room, crossed it, and stood above us at the table. We looked up. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Bob Woodstein. Washington Post.”

  Vaughan and I looked at each other. If this young reporter’s arrival weren’t so annoying, we might have smiled at the timing of it.

  “I’d like a few words with you,” Woodstein said. He had an open, pleasant face, with hair a little shaggy around the ears and neck. He had on a well-worn green corduroy jacket, brown-and-white checkered shirt, and skinny maroon tie that was too short for his torso.

  “We were just having breakfast,” Vaughan said, indignation in his voice. “Perhaps—”

  “No, it’s quite all right,” I said, smiling at the reporter. Please, join us.” Vaughan’s expression indicated he was not happy with my invitation.

  Woodstein sat.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” I asked.

  “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

  “Well,” I said, “I suppose you want to talk to me about having been the unfortunate one to stumble across a body last night near the Jefferson Memorial.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, pulling a reporter’s notebook from his inside jacket pocket, uncapping a pen, and preparing to write.

  “There really isn’t much to tell you,” I said. “I was being taken on a short tour of Washington at night. We stopped at the Jefferson Memorial. I got out of the car and went up into the rotunda for a better look. I stayed a few minutes. As I was leaving, I heard a woman say something like, ‘Oh, my God,’ and then she screamed. She’d been the first one to see the body. My driver came to where we stood. We went back with him to the car and called the police, using nine-one-one, I presume. The police came. I gave a statement. And then I was driven back here to the hotel where I went to bed.”

  “Were you with the deceased last night?” Woodstein asked.

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Well, it seems that since you had lunch with him yesterday, you might have—”

  “How did you know I had lunch with him yesterday?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.