Death of a Washington Madame

by Warren Adler

  "That's another story." Roy said bitterly.

  "Madeline Newton didn't seem to have many fans in this house."

  "No," he mumbled.

  "Why were you all so down on her?" Fiona asked.

  "Because she totally captured Billy." His anger was tangible, his expression no longer impassive. "She dominates him completely. He is incapable of acting without her approval. He's become a completely different person."

  "Apparently Mrs. Shipley seems to have shared your view."

  "It was Madame's view and she was right," Roy muttered, his anger accelerating. "She controls Billy, mind and heart. She turned Billy against Madame. She is an evil, selfish woman. With her, its how does it play. The human aspect is ignored."

  Fiona was surprised at the extent of his concern and the venom it generated. His hate of Madeline Newton was palpable.

  "She's playing for big stakes," Fiona said, "With her help, he's become a household word, a serious Presidential contender."

  Roy turned away and focused instead on the kitchen wall.

  "If he becomes President, the real power will be in her hands," he said bitterly. "Nothing's been the same since she came into his life. Nothing."

  Fiona felt that his sudden puzzling outburst on the subject of Madeline was forcing the interview in the wrong direction. She needed to bring it back into focus.

  "So Gloria was angry that Billy believed Lionel was the guilty party."

  "Very."

  "And she was convinced that Lionel was innocent?"

  "I told you that. We both are.... were." He shook his head obviously realizing he was having trouble with his tenses now that Gloria was gone.

  "Did you often have these little heart to hearts?" Fiona asked.

  "You mean did we confide in each other?"

  "More or less."

  "We worked together all those years."

  "People could work together and still keep themselves at arm's length."

  "The thing we shared most was our devotion to Madame."

  For some reason, she sensed that he was fielding her questions too glibly, deflecting any relevant information.

  "Roy," Fiona snapped. "I get the feeling that you're holding something back."

  "I can't help that, Sergeant. I'm trying to answer your questions as best I can."

  "Your answers stink of evasion," Fiona shot back.

  "I'm sorry if you think that," Roy said. She could sense that he had drawn a line in his mind.

  "Did Gloria ever discuss this business of the inheritance with you?"

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded his head.

  "In passing."

  "What does that mean Roy?"

  "Gloria thought about it more than I did. I wasn't interested in Madame's money."

  "Roy, as you acknowledge, you're an old man. What was wrong with Mrs. Shipley making provisions to keep you secure for the rest of your life after a half century of loyal service? Are you telling me you won't accept her largesse?"

  "I'd prefer that we didn't discuss this," Roy said, growing agitated. A flush rose in his cheeks.

  "Why?"

  "I don't have to answer that," he said angrily. "You're here to discuss Gloria's suicide, not my private life."

  Private life? Fiona was puzzled by the reference. Was it possible that this intelligent and oddly articulate, arthritic old man, a loner, who had devoted his entire life to one female employer, had what he called a private life? A family, perhaps? Children? How old was he? Late seventies she remembered. Postponing further speculation, she continued her interrogation.

  "Roy, I think you've got a misapprehension here. We have a murder and a suicide. We have a confessed killer...."

  "Thanks to me," Roy said, his voice rising.

  "And a man who could be the real instigator of the crime."

  "I'm well aware of that Sergeant. All I'm saying is that I resent your prying into my private life."

  "You think maybe we rushed to judgment, Roy?" Fiona asked, again exchanging glances with Gail.

  "Somebody did," Roy said. "Lionel is a sad man, but he isn't stupid. If he was known to the boy why would he approach him in the first place?"

  "Maybe he never thought the boy would get caught and be forced to tell the tale," Fiona said pointedly.

  "Caught by me. Forced by me," Roy muttered. "For which I am being persecuted."

  "We were talking about Lionel," Fiona pressed.

  "Give me another fifteen minutes with that little monster and I'd get the truth out of him."

  "Maybe Lionel took his chances," Fiona said. "Maybe he didn't count on your zeal in finding the boy and...."

  "Torturing him," Gail shouted.

  Roy looked at her with blazing eyes and blew air between his teeth in an expression of derision.

  "Why would Lionel put himself at that little bastard's mercy?"

  "Maybe the risk was worth the reward," Fiona said.

  She watched Roy Parker's face looking for signs of his own discomfort. After all, he, too, was slated to benefit from Mrs. Shipley's demise. It was not inconceivable, Fiona thought, for Roy to have induced a third party to target Martine or to do it himself in disguise, which would explain how quickly he had found him.

  Even his defense of Lionel could be a ploy to evade suspicion. A multitude of possible scenarios were spinning in her head. She decided to keep this latter possibility to herself. It was certainly not ready for Gail's consumption.

  "Roy," Fiona said, wishing to get to the end of this interview, wondering if it was more of an exercise for Gail's benefit." Do you think she killed herself because of this thing with Lionel or what Billy had said or was it something else?"

  "I wish I could answer that," Roy said.

  "Something must have set her off..." Gail mused aloud, as if she had found a path out of her dark tunnel of guilt. "Something so ... so terrible ... that, considering all that was coming down on her, she just couldn't cope with it."

  "Perhaps she talked with someone whose revelations became the straw that broke the camel's back," Fiona said. A path of logic seemed to be opening up.

  Roy shrugged, remaining silent, offering no suggestions.

  CHAPTER 16

  A suicide note would have shed some light on the reasons for Gloria's drastic action. Absent that, they were left to speculate wildly on what had triggered the compulsion to kill herself.

  "What was the dominant obsession in her mind?" Fiona asked as they drove back to headquarters.

  "Lionel," Gail said.

  "Not just Lionel."

  "Let's say then that it was the accumulation of events. Everything coming at once. Human beings are very fragile, Fi."

  Fiona knew the reference had a personal connotation. Doubt about Lionel's guilt had erased the euphoria of the night before. At least Gail wasn't tail spinning again into the racial morass.

  "We're missing something." Fiona said,

  Back at headquarters, Gail began the process of checking with the telephone company to find out if Gloria had spoken to anyone that morning while Fiona reported to the Eggplant who appeared in a foul mood.

  "Apparently Gloria Carpenter hired a hotshot lawyer for her brother," the Eggplant said. "Haskell Fremont."

  Fiona was stunned.

  "How could she do that, she's dead?"

  "Maybe before she died. Sometime this morning. He's been interviewing Lionel for hours."

  Fremont was a member of the firm once headed by Edward Bennet Williams, a Washington icon who defended those who often looked as if they were hopelessly guilty and who subsequently, through his clever ministrations escaped the full brunt of the law.

  "The man demands a fat retainer," Fiona said. "Gloria must have tipped him off on the expected inheritance. Now that she's dead, it goes to Lionel. If he sticks with the case, he must be well aware of the revenue flow."

  "That slimeball is not known for his charity," the Eggplant sneered.

  He had good reason for his attitud
e. Fremont had turned around many cases that Homicide and the prosecution had considered airtight, beyond reasonable doubt. It was one of the great frustrations of their job.

  "Won't be much left of the inheritance after he gets through with him," Fiona said.

  "With those sons of bitches, the case could be well worth its weight in publicity gold as well. That's what they live for. And Fremont is a real hot dog."

  "Madeline Newton will go ballistic,"

  "She already has." He drew in a deep breath and let it out as if he had ingested poisoned air. "I already got the call from ol' violet eyes."

  From his expression, Fiona could tell there was a storm on the horizon. She knew better than to make any comment. He drew out a panatela, ripped off the wrapper and shoved the unlighted digit into his mouth.

  "Seems that Gloria called the Governor this morning..."

  "So it was Shipley who set her off."

  "Not him. According to her, she took the call."

  "And Gloria told her that she believed Lionel was innocent and intended to fight the idea that he was the one put the kid up to it..."

  "So it was Madeline that lit the fuse," Fiona interjected.

  "She lit my fuse, that's for sure. She was really pissed. Said we had mishandled the case."

  "In what way?"

  "The domino effect. If we hadn't jumped the gun on Lionel, there would be one less flashpoint for the media."

  "I thought the Governor and his lady liked the idea of.... of Lionel being the one."

  "When it was going their way, they did," the Eggplant said, champing on his panatela. "But she hadn't reckoned on Gloria's hiring that shylock. Now she's got to reverse the spin."

  "And she's blaming us?" Fiona asked.

  "More or less," the Eggplant cried. "The Fremont hire was inflammatory. Fremont has a gold star in media manipulation. For her, that's real competition. Remember how many times he's pissed on us."

  When in doubt, Fremont found a way to accuse the police of screwing up.

  "She's right to be worried," Fiona said, relieved not to have Gail in the room. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice, telescoping the controversial aspect of her forthcoming comment. "Fremont is perfectly capable of playing the race card, Chief, making Mrs. Shipley look like a slave owner. Portray Lionel and Martine as black victims of the evil white conspiracy. Hell, there isn't even a record of wage payments to Gloria, as if she were being paid by Mrs. Shipley's whim, a virtual slave. A clever bastard like Fremont could make something of that. I'm sure it's thoughts like that that are making the star crazy."

  "That's why she wants us to reconsider."

  "Reconsider what?"

  "Back away from Lionel, discount the kid's identification. Show him up as a liar. Maybe even publicly apologize."

  "And thereby remove Fremont from the picture."

  "Woman knows the PR game plan," Fiona said. "What did you tell her?"

  "What I wanted to tell her or what I told her?"

  "Come on Chief...."

  "I gave her a big fat maybe. It was too early in the day to tangle with the pushy bitch."

  "Chief," Fiona said. "Keep it low. The ladies will be on your case for misogyny."

  "First step on the journey to sexual harassment," the Eggplant mused bitterly. His eyes met Fiona's. He offered no words but she got the message. "I trust you Fiona." At home, she knew, he was persecuted by a woman: his wife, from an old-line gold coast black family, to whom a male cop, unless he was Chief Cop, was merely a blue-collar flunky. Their snobby pecking order would put the lily white social hierarchy to shame.

  It was a prejudice, Fiona had learned from Gail, that was bred into the black female of that social class who proudly considered themselves to be the real aristocrats of their race and gender, and, therefore, superior, stronger and more snooty than their male counterparts. And they did not shrink from exhibiting their attitude and exercising the considerable power they wielded in their circles.

  The bottom line for the Eggplant, clearly manifested in his working life, was that he did not take kindly to being pushed around by females of any race outside the home. Knowing this was an advantage to Fiona who tread lightly when she observed the phenomena at work. Like now.

  The Eggplant shook his head and jammed the panatela into his mouth. Was this some symbolic macho gesture? Fiona wondered. A flaunting of phallic penetration? She smiled inwardly at the Freudian psychobabble.

  "Did Madeline Newton's call come before.... or after Gloria's swan song?"

  "Before."

  "And when she learned the news...?"

  "She was not shy. She called again." He bit hard on his unlit panatela. "...demanding to know why Gloria committed suicide."

  "As if we were to blame for that as well."

  "She didn't say it. She didn't have to. But I did tell her that it looked like Gloria might have been depressed about her brother. I guess that put some gasoline on the flames."

  "She's blaming us, right."

  "Big time. She's got a mouth," the Eggplant said. He smashed the panatela into his cigar leaf littered ashtray. "Said that we were causing the domino effect. If we hadn't burned Lionel, then Gloria would be alive. She wondered aloud if someone, some magic force, was putting us up to it."

  "Meaning a political enemy. Someone who wanted to rain on their Presidential parade."

  "I'd say that was her gist," the Eggplant said.

  "What will they do?"

  "She threatened dire consequences."

  "If we didn't walk away from Lionel."

  "She didn't say it."

  "But she meant it. You could tell."

  "Not just tell. Smell."

  At that moment, a knock sounded on the Eggplant's door. It was Gail.

  "Gloria called three numbers," Gail said.

  "Haskell Fremont," Fiona said. "First call."

  "Are you psychic?" She paused. "Who's on second?"

  "The Governor again, insisting that she speak to him and not the star."

  "Very good," Gail said. "But that one was logical. She probably told him, no matter what that she was going to fight for Lionel, that she had hired the fancy lawyer."

  "Now who's showing off," Fiona sighed.

  "And the third call?" the Eggplant demanded.

  "Riggs Bank."

  They all exchanged glances.

  "Now why didn't we think of that?" Fiona said.

  They were in the reception room of the Riggs Bank trust department in less than a half hour. A tall lean fortyish man wearing a blue blazer and charcoal gray pants came out to greet them. He was brown haired, gone slightly to gray with a ruddy outdoorsy complexion accentuated by a cherry red bow tie.

  "I'm Angus Macintosh," the man said, holding out his hand and offering a toothy smile. He ushered them into his office, a dark paneled room festooned with golf mementos. He sat them on a couch to one side of his office and faced them on a leather chair.

  "We understand that sometime yesterday you had a conversation with Miss Gloria Carpenter ?" Fiona asked.

  "Yes. We did have a chat," he answered. From his attitude it was obvious that he had not yet learned of Gloria's suicide. "Very nice lady."

  "Undoubtedly it was about Mrs. Shipley's estate."

  He nodded, put on a pair of half-glasses and took a file of papers from the table next to him and opened it.

  "Yes. Terrible tragedy. I did discuss with Miss Carpenter some of the details of the estate in general terms. Unfortunately there is much information still privileged, but I'll be happy to help you with whatever I can."

  "As we understand it from Mr. Brewer, the beneficiaries of the estate are Roy Parker and Gloria Carpenter."

  He looked over the papers.

  "Yes. That is so. They are the sole heirs. Except for heirlooms and objects of emotional meaning to her son." He lifted one of the papers from the folder and read the contents. "Mr. Shipley signed a waiver."

  "Which means he won't challenge the estate."


  "That's correct."

  "No other behests?" Fiona asked.

  "As far as I can see none."

  "May I ask the value of the estate?" Fiona asked. "I mean after everything what can they both expect ... in general terms."

  "As I told Miss Carpenter it is impossible to be completely accurate, especially considering the various loans and mortgages and any other claims against the estate. Some rather complicated calculations must be made."

  "All we want is a rough idea," Fiona said.

  "There are a great many things to be considered here." He looked up from his papers and coughed discreetly into his fist. "When we took over ten years ago, Mrs. Shipley's holdings were still in quite good shape."

  "What does that mean?"

  "There was the house, of course. The artwork, the antiques, jewelry. Some stocks. Bonds."

  "Yes."

  "We..." He cleared his throat and put a finger around his collar to loosen it. For some reason, he was finding the interview painful. "We received the account from a Mr. Brewer who she thought was getting senile." He paused. "We did our best."

  "What are you trying to say, Mr. Macintosh?"

  "The value of the estate, provided we can get a fair price for the real estate and the contents might, I say might, reach, perhaps..." He paused, as if he were calculating in his head. "It's hard to come up with a hard figure."

  "How about a soft one?" Fiona asked.

  "She was very generous," Macintosh continued, obviously evading the question." She funded trusts for her son and, early on had been one of Washington's great hostesses. Such a lavish lifestyle unfortunately exceeded her income. Even in later years...."

  Macintosh paused as if he was unsure whether or not to proceed.

  "At one point, she insisted that we up her cash allowance. It seemed rather extravagant, but we had no choice."

  "When was this?"

  "I'd say six, seven years ago."

  "What did she do with the extra money?" Fiona asked.

  "That was her business."

  "It never went through her checking account."

  He shook his head.

  "As I said it was a cash allowance."