Death of a Washington Madame

by Warren Adler

  And yet, men, strong, assertive, potent men were the sugar candy of her life. She loved the whole process, from initial engagement to the skirmishes of flirtation and seduction which led to the inevitable and various acts of sexual congress, all of them, especially the accelerating rhapsody of physical pleasure, the getting and the giving ... the coming and the coming.

  Perhaps, she told herself candidly, what she feared most was anything less than variety, an accusation that frightened her. Or was it that old Catholic bugaboo, the echo of her mother's admonitions, which put making love on a level of sinfulness along with theft, lying, even murder, which was an irony in itself.

  At times she wished she could scream out at her mother's clinging ghost, which haunted her mind and memory, impossible to exorcise. Fiona was certain that her genes had absorbed molecules of guilt in her mother's womb, marveling often at their enduring power.

  She let herself into the house and yielding finally to the strain of exhaustion, unbuttoning and unzipping as she beat a path to her bedroom and fell naked into bed and quickly, thankfully, into oblivion, leaving the question of Hal Perry's offer in dark limbo.

  The persistent ring of the telephone blasted into the black tunnel of her dreamless void. Opening her eyes to painful spears of sun, she grabbed for the phone and noted the green digital number. Ten to twelve. Christ! It was the Eggplant's gruff voice, not a sign of apology, hoarse and ominous.

  "Here's one we don't need, Sergeant."

  "What?"

  "Clippings. Data. History. I hate the ones with history."

  "What are you talking about Chief?"

  "A rich older lady, mid-seventies, stone cold dead, stabbed and possibly raped."

  "Raped? Mid-seventies? Real sicky."

  "Maid came home after a night out. The uniforms are there waiting, say it's a mess. You take scene FitzGerald. Get Prentiss."

  "Where?"

  He gave the address. Her heart banged against her chest and her throat constricted.

  "Name of Shipley."

  He paused, letting the name sink in. When she didn't respond, he spoke.

  "You there?"

  "Yes."

  "Strike a chord. Maybe before your time. The hostess with the mostest."

  "I know."

  "Get my drift. Mother of the Governor of the old Dominion, mother-in-law of..."

  "I know."

  "So here it is in your lap, FitzGerald. The team's big chance. Let's shove it to them Fi."

  She liked that. Him calling her Fi. She rushed to the bathroom, turned on the shower, then shut it off and moved to the sink. She'd take a whore's bath instead, smiling inwardly at the reference.

  She drove at full speed, sirens blazing, portable lights flashing, pushing her memory of Deb Shipley, who she had actually met years ago, the tall lovely beauty who, in her father's day, presided over the best table in Washington and was the star of the Society Pages in the days when Washington newspapers devoted pages to report those events. Her dinners were legendary, right up there with Perle Mesta and Gwenn Cafritz.

  She recalled an article in the Washington Post Style section a few months ago."Socialite Shipley Sails in a Calmer Sea," was the oh so clever headline that floated into her memory bank. She was not surprised at the fidelity of the memory since her parents had once taken her to an Easter Reception for Senatorial families at the three-story Shipley mansion where the lady had made an indelible impression.

  Concentration embellished the physical memories of that visit, and she saw again in recall the massive great room, two stories high. There was the huge fireplace that could accommodate a standing human, and above it, commanding the room, a painting of a young handsome man in uniform emblazoned with decorations, heroically posed with a cape over his shoulder and in the background, bursts from falling artillery rounds and other imagery of war's chaos.

  Fiona had held her cup of pineapple punch in her white-gloved hand and looked up at that painting. Odd, how she could still remember looking up at the young man's face and imagining that the eyes, nuggets of cerulean blue, seemed to move following her. Suddenly, she had felt a trill of fearful panic and had darted off to find her father's comforting hand.

  There were other aspects of the room that also impressed herself on Fiona's memory, the profusion of paintings of dogs of many breeds, Shepherds, Collies, Poodles, Rottweilers all beautifully rendered by an expert and glorified in pose and detail. Scattered on surfaces around the room were various bronzes, mostly of dogs and horses.

  She remembered other paintings as well, serene scenes of Washington's stately landmarks, the various memorials, the White House, the Capitol, the dome in a sunburst as if to emphasize the spiritual aspects of the structure as well as it's Hellenic lines.

  There were photographs, too, scattered over every flat surface, Mrs. Shipley with the various celebrities of the era, even one with her father.

  The article in the Post had featured a large color picture of the old lady, posed in that very same room, with the picture of the young heroic warrior in the background. Although the man's identity had not crossed her mind at the time of her visit, the article revealed that it was in actually a portrait of Deb Shipley's husband, reported missing in action in World War II. She recalled references to a handsome dashing Lieutenant who had crossed the Channel in Normandy, had fought through the hedgerows of France only to disappear, which meant disintegrate into dust, in the Battle of the Bulge.

  In the newspaper photograph, the aged Mrs. Shipley was wearing her trademark black lace dress, perhaps a perpetual symbol of mourning and fealty, despite the white ruffled high collar. Fiona seemed to remember a sparkling emerald pendant on a gold chain necklace that had completed the public costume. In the photograph of the aged woman it had been replaced by a large cross.

  In the woman's face, there still remained vestiges of the old beauty, the high proud cheekbones, the large searching dark eyes, vivid gray blue, set off with black mascara, the smooth ivory complexion, the hair, dyed as black as a moonless night, still parted in the center and brushed back severely, looking vaguely Spanish. And her posture, despite her age, still appeared ramrod straight, aristocratically arrogant. Seated at her side in the photograph looking fiercely protective, was her German Shepherd, identified in the caption as "Marshall".

  In the article too, Fiona recalled, were recorded the woman's tart and deprecating remarks, insults really, although vaguely amusing and tolerated only because they came from the mouth of an old dowager type like Deb Shipley. Such aging female institutions, epitomized by the foul mouthed cynicism of such paragons of historical rudeness as the late Alice Longworth Roosevelt, seemed exempt from the constraints of the usual social disciplines of civilized discourse. Their comments had transcended insult and become entertainment.

  Deb Shipley's arrogant aphorisms were also duly recorded for posterity in the article and Fiona remembered such gems of dubious accuracy as "Harry Truman picked his nose in public" or "Mamie Eisenhower was drunk by noon and stupefied by teatime." or "That young Kennedy had seduced one of her maids in a hall broom closet while she entertained at a cocktail party given in honor of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor." She had, she told the reporter, "attributed the odd hissing and clanging noises to a fault in the plumbing system."

  She was also quoted as saying that "she no longer entertained or went out, living a life of reflection and devotion to God," an observation confirmed by her son at Daisy Hodges party. Her only company, she told the interviewer were her two loyal retainers, a maid and a "manservant," prompting an obvious comparison to Norma Desmond of "Sunset Boulevard" fame.

  The writer of the article also made much of Deb Shipley's house, describing its antiques, art works and various eclectic collections, pointing out that "it was still standing in defiance of its deteriorating slum neighbors." Once the neighborhood had been the appropriate backdrop for her moment of stardom.

  Despite the spin toward nostalgia, the article delved into the philosoph
ical aspects of the Washington social scene. The writer, showing off her alleged insight, pointed out that the powerful were still magnetized by the rich and visa versa and there was rarely anything more tantalizing than the example of the classic dinner party of peers in full regalia in the old world atmosphere of Deb Shipley's mansion. "The bees of power were dependent on the flowers of society," the article concluded in a purple prose flourish "and Deb Shipley had once provided both the bees and the floral display."

  Fiona had passed the architectural relic often in her work. Violent crime had invaded the surrounding neighborhood. It had become a drug bazaar and a killing field. There was a sad elegance about the structure, a relic of another more ordered and decorative time, although it seemed oddly well maintained in the midst of the chaos and ruin of its seedy neighbors.

  Nothing in the article or her memory bank could have predicted such a violent end for this towering icon of Washington society.

  Gail was waiting in front of her apartment building as Fiona pulled up. Without a word she got in and the car careened, sirens blaring, down Connecticut then east to 16th. As they drove Fiona gave Gail a shorthand account of what she knew about the victim.

  "She was the darling of Washington society," Fiona explained. "A genuine Grande Dame."

  "Of white society," Gail corrected.

  "As represented by the media of the time," Fiona said, taking note of the comment and redefining its meaning, knowing that Gail was, at times, fiercely, even snobbishly, defensive on the subject of "Black Society," its exclusivity and eliteness. Fiona had learned that for Gail it was not a subject to be trifled with and she quickly changed the focus of the conversation.

  "Eggplant says it's the make or break case for the team," Fiona said.

  "Then let's make it."

  Captain Luther Greene, dressed for the occasion in his best media clothes, dark brown suit with a light yellow striped, beige buttoned down shirt and subtle yellow patterned tie, shoes spit shined, freshly shaven and wearing the appropriate concerned expression, stood inside Deb Shipley's bedroom surveying the crime scene.

  The body, already showing signs of rigor, lay on the blood-soaked mattress of her elaborate carved wood four-poster bed. The lower part of the body was naked and configured in such a way as to suggest rape. A white satin nightgown, soaked with blood from neck to mid-section had been rolled above the waist.

  Beside the body was a comforter, also bloodstained, but in such a way to suggest that it had been thrown over the body after the killing.

  The woman's eyes were open, still reflecting the terror crazed look of her last moments. The face, a mask of death, seemed more youthful than the body and on closer inspection Fiona noted the tiny scars of the surgeon's knife along the hairline near the temples. The woman's trademark hair, as suspected, had been died jet-black.

  The bedroom was large. On both sides of the bed were antique end tables, on one of which was a glass in a saucer and the dregs of what looked like milk, which coated the glass.

  Above the bed was a large painting of a young woman in jodhpurs caressing the neck of a horse. In the background of the painting was a meadow on which were pictured a gaggle of hunting beagles ready for the sound of tallyho. The woman, obviously, was a younger version of Mrs. Shipley, extraordinarily beautiful in the full flush of youth. There were also other paintings in the room, mostly pastoral scenes of vaguely familiar country in various seasonal stages.

  To one side of the room was yet another large painting, this one of a seated figure of a little boy wearing a black velvet jacket over a white shirt with a Buster Brown collar. In short pants, he was pink cheeked and cherubic and wore an amused expression, just short of a sunny smile.

  It was the kind of stylish painting once fashionable among the very rich which Fiona remembered seeing in the homes of her wealthy friends. Son and heir was the title that jumped into Fiona's mind. Undoubtedly, it was of William Shipley Jr., aged four or five.

  A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling giving the room a baroque feeling embellished by two massive heavily varnished twin still lifes of what seemed to Fiona of Italian origin, depicting elaborate exotic flowers against a dark background. To one side of the room was a sitting area with a small couch and two chairs facing a round marble topped low table.

  On the wall next to the sitting area was a large breakfront inside of which was a display of porcelain figures. Various pieces of polished antique furniture graced the room on which were framed pictures of Mrs. Shipley with a number of past Presidents and Washington celebrities. Others recorded the life of her son, from babyhood to his gubernatorial inaugural in which he was shown taking the oath of office.

  Fiona and Gail had secured the scene and Flanagan's techies had already arrived and were busy with their chores, dusting for prints, taking pictures, gathering and bagging potential evidence. The maid and manservant, both older, obviously retainers of long standing, shaken and pale with apprehension waited in the kitchen in the company of one of the uniforms. Fiona had already talked to them briefly.

  "Entry?" the Eggplant asked, shorthand for how did the killer enter the area. It was always a remarkable transformation when the Chief appeared at a crime scene. Normally harried, often emotional and subject to temper outbursts, in the presence of a homicide scene he became extremely subdued and spare and direct in his speech. He maintained this composure even when he faced the media, before whom he was determined to project an image of authority, competence, self-assurance and seriousness. The man, after all, was campaigning for the top police post and Fiona suspected that he had spent hours practicing this assumed role before a mirror.

  From experience, Fiona knew the form in which she was to provide the information. Just the facts, Ma'am.

  "Broke in a door that leads to the basement," Fiona replied. "Slid his hand between the bars, broke the glass and opened the door from the inside."

  "Between the bars?"

  "The perp apparently had small hands," Fiona said.

  "A kid?"

  "Maybe."

  "And then?"

  "He moved through the basement then up the stairs to a door that opened near the staircase on the ground floor. Then he moved along a rear corridor to the kitchen then to a door that took him up the back stairs," Fiona continued, reading from her notes. "These big old houses have backstairs, originally to accommodate servants of the upstairs, downstairs variety. He proceeded up these stairs, onto the second floor, to the master bedroom, where the victim was lying in bed, reading. Looks like multiple stab wounds and a rape."

  The Eggplant shook his head in disgust.

  "Time?"

  "Would have to be sometime after ten last night. The man who worked for her said she usually got into bed at ten. He always brought her a glass of hot milk around ten. She was in bed, he told me, reading the bible. She always read the bible before she went to sleep. The book was on the floor." She pointed to the glass and saucer.

  "Was she alone in the house?"

  "No. The man sleeps downstairs in a room off a corridor next to the entrance to the back stairs. The maid was off."

  "You say he slept near the back stairs. Didn't he hear anything?"

  "He's pretty deaf, wears hearing aids on both ears which he takes off when he goes to sleep."

  Fiona had followed the path of entry from the basement level, then up the back stairs, which were thickly carpeted. She had tested the possibility of squeaks or vibrations that might have awakened the man, but found the steps extremely quiet.

  "And the maid?"

  "The maid, a black woman, takes Thursdays off. Visits her sister's family in Southeast Washington. A nephew drove her home late. He dropped her off and she let herself in with a key. She saw and heard nothing amiss, went directly to her room on the ground floor in the back of the house, and went to bed. She got up around seven, prepared the breakfast, and went upstairs about eight with a tray to Mrs. Shipley's room. She calls her Madame. House is run with old-fashioned ri
tuals. Anyway, she went up, put the tray on a table, then opened the blinds."

  "Like in those old black and white movies," Gail interjected.

  "Opens the blinds, sees what she sees, screams. Roy is up by then, his hearing aids in place. He hears her screams, runs up."

  "Roy?"

  "That's his name," Fiona said. "Like the maid, Gloria, another old retainer. Roy's the one who called 911. Brought the uniforms."

  "Who covered her?"

  "Probably him," Fiona said. "They're both still shaken. We'll talk to them some more when they calm down. We did manage to get a few details."

  "Anything taken?"

  "According to the maid, everything seems in its place, except for the big gold cross she wore around her neck."

  Fiona looked toward the body and the Eggplant's gaze followed.

  "She said the victim wore this big gold cross around her neck, even when she went to sleep. As hysterical as she was, she noted this. I checked. He apparently didn't pull it off, but removed it by slipping it over her head. Maybe he found religion after he did it. An epiphany."

  "Nothing else? No money? No jewelry?"

  "Her pocketbook was opened, the contents spilled. Nothing in it but lipstick, change purse with a few pennies. No wallet. The maid told us that she kept the wallet in her desk drawer. There's a small office adjoining the bedroom. It was still there."

  "And no jewelry missing?"

  "Nada. As far as we know now."

  "Nothing missing in any of the other parts of the house?"

  "Hard to tell, but the maid doesn't think so and there's no evidence that the perp went into any other rooms. Just here, backstairs, basement and out the way he came in."

  "What's upstairs?"

  "One additional floor, the third. The maid said she never goes up there. No one has for years. Just closed guest rooms."