Death of a Washington Madame

by Warren Adler

  The choir was spirited, melodic and obviously heartfelt and sincere as if sounding the note loud enough to be heard in that other, more heavenly world, where these church people seemed to believe they would achieve release from the perceived intolerance and hostility of this one.

  But beyond the ritual, the singing, the mood and the atmosphere, Fiona could see Madeline Newton's well-honed public relation's instincts at work. They had entered the church through a wall of cameras and the interior of the church was lit by hot lights with more cameras in the rear of the vestry.

  There on the podium was the Governor and his magnificent wife, white faces in a sea of black ones, somber and, above all, illustrating their human connection through grief. Gloria had known William Shipley from birth and one could easily assume unbreakable bonds of love, forged in infancy and childhood, between him and the deceased.

  The picture ops in this situation and the connotation of sympathy and solidarity with the black community of a southern state, the Capital of the Old Dominion no less, were beyond a politician's wildest dreams, with the power, almost, to dispel any cynicism about the process.

  To Fiona what she was observing was seductive but only to a point. This was an obvious orchestration by Madeline Newton to move the PR agenda to a higher plane, to seize it from the tabloids and rescue her husband's reputation from the sleaze factor surrounding his mother's death and foreclose on any strategy Haskell Fremont might devise, if he stayed with the case.

  William's eulogy of Gloria was a masterpiece of dramatic and, undoubtedly heartfelt eloquence. There wasn't a dry eye in the place, including her own. One could see in him the true merger of the Thespian and the Politician.

  "I loved this woman," he told the rapt audience in an accent more Southern with a near perfect black inflection than he had exhibited in his ordinary conversations. "She was my rock and my inspiration, a life-long friend, yes a mentor. To my mother she was a loving companion, and their love, loyalty and respect for each other was the bridge over all the artificial chasms of separation. Between them was God's heaven sent equality not man's poor imitations of that state."

  He quoted from the bible, both the old testament and the new and told stories of his early life with Gloria, her loving strictness, her demand for excellence in all things, her sense of humor, her earth mother warmth. His anecdotes elicited laughter through tears. The man was a born actor.

  At one point, his voice rose as he looked toward the heavens and invoked what was unmistakably a heartrending plea for mercy in the street language of the ghetto.

  "Man," he cried, his voice cracking with emotion. "Stop mah black brothahs and sistahs pain in yoh domain, mah Lawd Jesus."

  Fiona held her breath, suddenly chilled to the marrow. Surely, she thought, they would see these words from a white man as patronizing, grossly imitative and phony, which is the way she interpreted them at first.

  For a long moment, not a sound came from the audience. Then suddenly with one voice it broke out in the traditional responses that hit her ear as "amens," "praise the Lawd" and "Yes Jesus."

  Fiona was stunned. He had, apparently, hit the gong of truth for this audience and they fell into lock step, their comments a rising crescendo.

  Indeed, there were moments when the Governor became so overcome with emotion, he had to reach for his handkerchief and wipe his tears.

  Throughout the eulogy, Fiona waited for the moment when the words would ring hollow and inert, at least to her. It came finally when he brought his wife into the content, putting her deftly into the eloquent basket of grief and restoring Fiona's inherent cynicism. He told of his wife's loving friendship and understanding, her sensitivity to Gloria's needs, citing the confidences they shared and the commonality of their womanly concerns.

  Turning she glanced at Roy. On his face was an expression of profound disgust.

  On cue, Madeline dabbed her eyes. Real tears flowed down her cheeks. Perfectly timed, she bowed her head, clasped her hands, looked upward to the heavens. It was a magnificent performance, equal in power to her husbands and Fiona could see that the audience loved it. This was star quality at its emotional apogee.

  She turned to Gail who sat next to her. Knowing Gail's antipathy to the Governor and his wife, she was surprised by her reaction. Like the rest of the congregation, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She turned away from Fiona's gaze, sniffled, wiped her eyes, and when she had recovered, she whispered to Fiona.

  "I know its all bull, but look at me," she said, sucking in a deep breath, and shrugging helplessly.

  When Gloria's funeral service was over, the mourners followed the coffin out to the front of the church, where it was put into the back of the hearse and the cars behind it loaded up with close relatives. The media scrambled for the best shots of the Governor and Madeline.

  Under the sharp eyes of the plainclothesman, Lionel with his wheelchair was assisted to the first car behind the hearse. He looked up and caught Fiona's eye. Despite the sickly muddy complexion, she noted an air of familiarity, as if he wanted to share something with her. It could have been her imagination, she acknowledged. He was holding something back. She was sure of it.

  With Gail driving, they followed the funeral procession.

  "I know you think it was hypocritical of me to go all soft when Shipley spoke," Gail said.

  "I made no comment to that effect," Fiona said.

  "I could see it in your eyes."

  "I was a little teary-eyed myself. Unless your heart is made of stone you're reminded of the loss of your own loved ones."

  That, Fiona knew would get her off the hook.

  "You're right. I thought of my Daddy."

  "And I thought of mine and how much I loved him and miss him."

  They were silent for a long time as they drove. Fiona was being ingenuous. She hadn't thought of her father at that moment, although he occupied her thoughts and memories often and she did miss him and had loved him deeply.

  "But when it got to the part about Madeline. What I really wanted to do was throw up," Fiona said.

  "Amen," Gail muttered. "I lost my ... my fortitude."

  They drove through the cemetery entrance. It was located in a broken down area on the border of the District of Columbia and Prince Georges County. The graves were well cared for and studded with flowers and the open grave awaiting Gloria's coffin was neatly prepared with a green canopy over it.

  They huddled at the edge of the circle of mourners. Fiona scanned their faces searching for any sign that might provide a clue to the real reason for Mrs. Shipley's death. The Governor and his wife were appropriately somber; Clayton was, as ever, watchful, his eyes scanning the crowd. Gloria's sister and her progeny, Lionel in his wheel chair; all appeared to be sincere mourners witnessing the ritual of farewell to the beloved sister and aunt.

  At one point, Fiona and the Governor exchanged glances. His eyes were glazed with tears and he looked genuinely grieved. Perhaps she had been too hard on him in her thoughts. Even if he had stretched the truth about his wife's relationship with Gloria, he might have been sincere about his own. He had, after all, been a loved presence in that house, little Billy, the golden boy. His marriage to Madeline Newton could hardly have erased completely that feeling in Gloria and Roy.

  After the graveside service, the mourners straggled slowly back to their cars. One of them, a young man came up behind her. She felt his eyes on her back and turned.

  "I'm Ben," he said. "Gloria's nephew."

  "Yes, Ben," Fiona said, introducing Gail.

  "I have to talk to you," he said quickly, furtively. "About Uncle Lionel." Up close, he looked sickly, his eyes badly bloodshot. His hands, Fiona noted, were trembling and his voice was reedy. Having invoked the name of his uncle, Fiona could see the resemblance, complete with the haunted look she had observed in the hospital.

  "When?" Gail asked.

  "I'm taking Mom home." He looked at his wristwatch. "Say an hour at the MacDonald's on East Capital S
treet."

  They nodded their consent and he moved quickly back to his mother's side.

  From a corner booth at MacDonald's they checked in with the Eggplant.

  "Quite a showing," Fiona said. She described the funeral in general terms and told them about Ben wanting to see them. "He said it was about Lionel."

  The Eggplant groaned.

  "Tough to back away from," he said. "The boy sticks to his story and the Juvie people are into the victim garbage, child abuse by family members, male and female. How's our Governor and the star?"

  "Professional to the eyeballs. He was awesome and she was magnificent."

  "They were," Gail said when Fiona had signed off. "We all bought it."

  Neither of them was hungry, ignoring their Big Macs, but picking sporadically at their fries while sipping their coffee. Ben was late and when he arrived he seemed out of breath and his expression could best be described as hangdog. He had the round face of the family, but his cheeks; instead of fleshy like his mother's and his aunt's were sunken. His eyes, as they were earlier, were bloodshot and twitchy and his lips were cracked and parched.

  "Hungry?" Gail asked.

  He shook his head in the negative.

  "It's about Uncle Lionel," he said, lips trembling. He had put his hands on the table, but noting the way they were shaking, he quickly got them out of sight.

  "What about Uncle Lionel?" Fiona asked, trying to be as gentle as possible as if the slightest untoward word might push him into nervous collapse.

  "That boy is a liar," Ben croaked. "Uncle Lionel is not the person he saw. No way."

  "Can you prove that Ben?" Fiona asked. She cut a glance at Gail who observed him anxiously.

  "He was with me," Ben said, suddenly breaking into a hacking cough.

  "Ben, you're his nephew," Fiona said when he had stopped coughing. "People will question your motives in validating his alibi. You'll have to be more specific and, for insurance, it would be nice if you could produce more witnesses."

  "Where were you, Ben?" Gail asked.

  Ben swallowed. This obviously was a massive effort of overcoming reluctance on his part.

  "Shooting up," he said, lowering his eyes.

  "Where?"

  "A house on U Street."

  "Were there other people there?" Fiona asked, knowing the answer in advance. Shooting drugs was a social occasion.

  Ben nodded, then looked up at them, lips trembling. He drew in a deep breath.

  "Fat chance any of them will corroborate your story, Ben," Fiona said.

  "Yeah. But the reason Uncle Lionel won't say is because of me. Not them."

  "Were you there all Wednesday night?" Fiona asked.

  "The whole day and over night. We both left in the morning."

  "People will say: Ben you're a junkie. How does a junkie keep track of time?"

  "I know what they'll say," Ben said, shuddering. "Promise a junkie a fix and he'll say anything."

  "There's truth to that, Ben," Fiona said.

  "I swear," Ben said.

  "An oath is hardly credible coming from a junkie," Fiona said.

  Fiona studied Ben's face. Under the haggard look and sad discouraged eyes she tried to imagine him as a handsome young man looking at life's possibilities with exuberance and energy. A wishful thought, she decided sadly. Despite this courageous act to save his uncle, his life was in shambles.

  "Do you believe me?" he asked.

  Fiona and Gail exchanged glances.

  "I do, Ben. I truly do," Fiona said.

  "Does your mother know?" Gail asked gently.

  "Poor mom. I wanted to tell her before I came here. Only I can't. All she's been through. And what it did to Aunt Gloria. It'll break her heart some more." Ben said. "She thought we both were clean after we rehabbed six months ago and were on Methadone. Mom will blame Uncle Lionel only it was me that turned Uncle Lionel on again."

  He exhaled, nodded his head, brought his hands up to the table and looked at them. They were shaking uncontrollably.

  "I can't live like this no more," he sighed. "All the money wastin' and lyin'. Now seein' Uncle Lionel in trouble over that sad boy who did that to Miz Shipley." He scanned them both with sad pleading eyes. "I'd rather die first than let this happen to Uncle Lionel."

  "One death in the family is enough for now Ben," Fiona said.

  "Your mother will find out soon enough," Gail said. "You should tell her before she learns it from others."

  "Yeah. But I gotta help Uncle Lionel. That boy...."

  "You realize you'll be blowing the whole shooting gallery," Fiona said. "You could be in real trouble. You and your Uncle."

  "I know. But I ... I can't let this happen to Uncle Lionel."

  "Coming forward was an act of courage," Gail told Ben who managed a thin cynical smile. He made no comment letting the compliment hang in the air.

  "I just dunno what happened to us. Aunt Gloria ... she was the best of us. An look what we did to her."

  "You didn't do anything to her Ben." Fiona said. "She made her choice by herself ... like the choice you just made."

  "The best way to show your love for her Ben is to clean up your act," Gail said.

  "I will. I know I will.... "He suddenly broke down and began to sob, his shoulders shaking. It took him awhile to get himself under control. "Finally," he said, sniffling. "Maybe I done somethin' good."

  Fiona went over the scenario in her mind. If Ben were telling the truth, Uncle Lionel would probably confirm it. The chances were that the nark squad knew all about the house. Probably a nest of snitches. Deals would have to be made. The Eggplant would be off the hook as far as Madeline was concerned. There would be no need for Haskell Fenton. Alls well that ends well, she told herself. With one exception. If not Lionel who?

  "Ben, I have to ask you some important questions that deal only with your Aunt Gloria."

  Ben nodded.

  "She helped you all out with money, didn't she?"

  "Aunt Gloria was the best," he said, tears flooding his eyes.

  "It's okay Ben, we know how great and generous Aunt Gloria was to the people she loved." Gail said reaching out and putting a comforting hand on his arm.

  "Did she say that when Miz Shipley died, she would be getting an inheritance?"

  "She said that, yeah. Only..."

  "Only what Ben?" Fiona pressed.

  "Only we didn't expect that to happen any day soon. Neither did Aunt Gloria." He sighed and shook his head. "What happened to our family?"

  They sat in silence for a while, each deep in their own thoughts. The question he had asked hung in the air, unanswerable.

  Ben had put his hands back on the table, folding them in front of him to hold them still. Keeping one's emotional distance was an essential part of police work. Was this an exception? Considering the images that they had been exposed to, the cherished family photographs in Gloria's room, the pride she took in her hard-working parents, her apparently non judgmental love for her family, Fiona could not totally remain outside the circle of involvement.

  "Ben," Gail said. Again she moved her hand and placed it on the troubled young man's arm. "Why..."

  Fiona knew that the question was part of Gail's quest for her own answers.

  "I think about that all the time," Ben sighed. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. "There are a lot of excuses, a lot of things I can blame it on. You know what I'm talkin' about sister." Fiona understood her own irrelevance to the exchange. She watched as his bloodshot eyes narrowed and he seemed to be looking deep inside of Gail.

  "Then I look at you," Ben said. "And I know where to place the blame."

  He jabbed a thumb into his chest, jabbed it hard, as if it were a knife.

  CHAPTER 18

  The persistent jangle of the front door chimes eased Fiona out of a dead sleep. It was her day off and she had earned it. Besides, she wanted to be rested for Hal, who was scheduled to arrive that evening.

  Raising her head, she
looked at the green digital numbers of the electric clock ... eight-thirty. She got out of bed, padded across the carpet, her mind groping for the swiftly fading images of a lost dream.

  Actually she had gone to bed on a cloud of tranquility, a rare response considering the countercurrents that eddied around the confusing events surrounding Mrs. Shipley's murder. Confronted with Ben's revelations, Lionel had collapsed his stonewalling and broken down, if not in gratitude, with great relief.

  She had guessed correctly that her colleagues at MPD knew quite a lot about the shooting gallery in question and it had, indeed, been riddled with snitches, who had confirmed that Lionel and his nephew had spent the Wednesday in question and part of Thursday in the house.

  It had provided both Gail and Fiona with yet another emotional moment as Ben confronted his Uncle with the information and they had watched the drama of the two men embracing in a familial clinch that drew tears all around, even from the somber demeanor of Haskell Fenton who had observed the proceedings.

  Goodness, Fiona had remarked to herself, could be found in the most unlikely places, although the emotional high experienced by all concerned would inevitably be tempered with the reality of what dependence on addictive substances can do to human beings. In the cooler light of reflection, the future for both Lionel and his nephew in that regard looked bleak.

  What remained for Fiona and Gail was to visit Martine and confront him with the facts of refutation. He had been transferred to a maximum-security section of the Juvenile Detention Center. His wounds, due to the extraordinary recuperative powers of extreme youth, were apparently well on their way to healing.

  They could tell from the personnel present, a guard and a matron, both black, that he had been placed on a track that viewed him more as a victim than a perpetrator, a condition that had earlier been the source of Gail's tailspin. At that point, however, after the dramatic events of their day, Gail seemed to be feeling less certain of this mindset than she had been the day Martine was discovered beaten and bruised in Mrs. Shipley's wine cellar.