Murder on Embassy Row

by Margaret Truman

  “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “You’re in Philadelphia?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were confident.”

  “I suppose I was.”

  “Twenty minutes will be fine. Mother insists you have lunch with us.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “No imposition. Good-bye.”

  Connie stepped out of the booth and processed what had just gone on. It was so easy, too easy. She tried to think the way Morizio would think—“No such thing as a free lunch.” What are they after? She realized she’d find out soon enough, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address.

  The house had been designed by Thomas U. Walter. It was, she decided as she looked at it from the cab, French-Federal, although she wasn’t sure what that meant. It was large and made of red brick. Four white columns decorated with cupids and flowers supported the roof of the front porch. A Cadillac limousine and a red Mercedes were parked in the driveway.

  The maid answered her knock, took her coat, and escorted her to a cozy paneled library where a fire roared in a walk-in fireplace. Three people were in the room, Marsha James, her mother, and a distinguished looking gentleman in muted brown tweeds and a magnificent red beard streaked with white.

  “Miss Lake,” Mrs. Girard said as she crossed the room and extended her hand. She carried a cane but didn’t seem to need it. She was a tiny woman with silver hair and blue eyes that were very much alive. A natural pink hue forced itself through wrinkled parchment cheeks. She wore a black taffeta dress gathered at the sleeves, and a white silk shawl. Strands of pearls wound around her neck, and Lake noticed immediately that four fingers on each gnarled hand held rings of varying sizes and brilliance.

  “You’re Mrs. Girard.”

  “Yes, I am. Come, meet my daughter and her guest.” She took Lake by the hand and led her across the room. Marsha James sat in a white oak Wainscot chair. The gentleman stood behind her, his hand on the chair’s arched, cresting back as though he were ready to pose for a family portrait.

  “Miss Lake, my daughter, Marsha.”

  “Hello,” Lake said, extending her hand. Mrs. James took it but without enthusiasm.

  “And this is Sir Edwin Ferguson,” said Mrs. Girard.

  “Nice to meet you,” Connie said.

  “Yes, likewise.” He seemed awkward at the introduction and did not address her directly.

  “Sherry?” Mrs. Girard asked.

  “Ah, yes, that would be…”

  “Something else? My late husband used to say, ‘Wine maketh glad the heart of man,’ or something like that. True for women, too. Would you prefer whiskey?”

  “Scotch would be nice.”

  “He drank too much but he liked it.” She rang for the maid and gave her Connie’s order. “More, Sir Edwin?” she asked Ferguson.

  “Yes, please.”

  “A Scotsman through and through.”

  Lake glanced at Marsha James, who seemed either bored or annoyed with what had transpired, and decided to get into a conversation with her right away. “It was good of you to see me,” she said.

  “I always wish to be cooperative.”

  “I know, that’s your reputation.”

  Mrs. James smiled and looked down into a glass of sherry she cradled in her lap. She was dressed in a simple but expensive graphite-gray dress. A burgundy silk scarf was neatly arranged around her neck. Her shoes were black, sensible pumps, and her only jewelry was a plain gold wedding band. She glanced up at Connie and said, “You look nothing like a policewoman.”

  “I take that as a compliment,” Lake said pleasantly.

  “I meant it to be. You said you wanted to talk about Paul Pringle.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “If you don’t mind my putting in my two cents,” said Sir Edwin Ferguson, “I think this is totally inappropriate. The death of that fellow has nothing to do with Mrs. James.”

  “Of course not,” said Lake, “but this murder might be linked, in some way, to your husband’s death.” She said it to Mrs. James, deliberately ignoring Ferguson.

  “That’s absurd,” Mrs. James said. “They were totally unrelated. From what I read, Mr. Pringle was involved in drugs.”

  “We don’t believe that,” Connie said.

  “Why anyone would want to use those things is beyond me,” Mrs. Girard said from a maple Hitchcock rocker into which she’d settled by the fireplace. “All the criminals in Philadelphia are dope addicts. Disgusting lot.”

  “Drugs and crime do go hand in hand,” Lake said. She looked at Ferguson, who was still posturing behind Marsha James’s chair. “Are you a family friend?” she asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Sir Edwin and my husband were business associates and good friends.”

  “I see.” There was a sudden stillness in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Lake said, “This is a lovely room, so warm and inviting.”

  The maid returned with the drinks, including a refill of sherry for Mrs. Girard. The old lady raised her glass and said, “To better times, without the dopeheads.”

  Connie smiled and sipped her drink.

  “When’s lunch?” Mrs. Girard asked. “I’m starved.”

  “Right away, ma’am.”

  They lunched at the library window, at a game table inlaid with leather. Outside was a large garden rendered gray and dormant by the pending winter. Lake was glad they were staying in the room. Besides being comfortable, it meant she could leave her purse where it was, on the mantel. The tape was rolling.

  The food was simpler than she’d expected—onion soup, watery; tuna salad on a bed of lettuce; heated Pepperidge Farm rolls; and sliced tomatoes. Everyone ate quickly, and little was said. Dessert consisted of leftover apple pie and coffee.

  “Delicious,” said Lake.

  “Very nice, Mother,” Marsha James said.

  “With the price of food these days the farmers have all the money,” said Mrs. Girard.

  Marsha James sighed, got up, and returned to her chair by the fireplace. Ferguson excused himself and left the room. Connie remained at the table with Mrs. Girard, who’d sat back, her coffee cup in a very steady hand, and who was staring at Connie. “Do you really think my son-in-law’s death could be related to this Pringle chap?”

  “We don’t know,” Connie said, pleased that the topic had been reintroduced, “but we’re trying to find out.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Marsha James said, “My husband was poisoned by his valued Iranian servant, Nuri Hafez, who is in custody in Iran.”

  “That’s debatable, isn’t it?” Connie said.

  Marsha James sat up straight. Her eyes opened wide and her mouth slipped into a tight sneer. “No, young lady, there is no debate about that whatsoever.”

  Connie was tempted to back off. Instead, she looked Mrs. James in the eye and said, “We have information that leads us to believe Nuri Hafez might have been a scapegoat.”

  “Good lord,” Marsha James said, turning from Lake and looking into the fire. “I’ve never heard such drivel in my life.”

  “I didn’t say it was a fact, Mrs. James, just that there’s a possibility that Hafez did not kill your husband.”

  “You’re not here to talk about my husband.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. What can you tell me about Paul Pringle?”

  “Very little. He was a quiet man, did his job, was courteous.”

  “Hardly a drug user’s profile.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. There’d been rumors that he’d had personal problems.”

  “What kind of personal problems?”

  “I have no idea. I was not involved with the security staff.”

  “What in God’s name led you to become a policewoman?” Mrs. Girard asked.

  Ferguson entered the room. “I really should be going,” he announced.

  “Were you involved with Ambassador James in his Scottish oil company?” Conni
e asked. Ferguson looked at Marsha James. Lake added, “The one financed by the Manchester bank.”

  “I think it’s time for you to leave, Miss Lake,” Mrs. James said, standing and smoothing her dress.

  “Why is that question so out of line?” Connie asked.

  “Scottish oil,” Mrs. Girard said in a disparaging voice. “Next they’ll be seceding from the Crown, and good riddance.”

  “Please, Mother.”

  Ferguson coughed.

  Lake looked at Mrs. Girard, who was smiling. It was a sweet, satisfied smile. Obviously, she reveled in the dialogue that was taking place.

  “To answer your question,” Ferguson said, “I am retired. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He said to Marsha James, “Might I speak with you a moment?”

  Mrs. James quickly got out of her chair and followed him from the room. Connie realized her time was up, and she’d get nothing more from Marsha James. She said to Mrs. Girard, who’d returned to sipping her sherry, “Did you know the young Iranian who’s accused of murdering your son-in-law?”

  “Never met him. Damn fool, Geoffrey was, bringing that sort with him.”

  Connie wasn’t sure how to respond. She thought for a moment, then said, “Geoffrey was quite the ladies’ man, wasn’t he?”

  Mrs. Girard laughed. “Yes, he did well with them, better than he did with his business and his high and mighty diplomatic nonsense. He had more bearing than brains, as my late husband would have said, but he wasn’t so smart himself.”

  “Your…”

  “That’s right, my husband. Shock you that I’d speak this way of the dead? It shouldn’t. They were all right, my husband and my son-in-law, a couple of British stuffed shirts who knew more about how to spend money than make it, spend it on the ladies.”

  Connie was excited over Mrs. Girard’s candor. She nervously glanced at the door, then asked, “Did you know about a woman named Lindstrom, Inga Lindstrom?”

  The old woman suddenly seemed to be fatigued. She closed her eyes, slowly opened them and said, “No, was she one of them?”

  “I don’t mean to…”

  “Both foolish, my daughter and my son-in-law. She supported him in grand style with our money until he got enough of his own, then he decides to walk out on her for some floozy.”

  “Who?”

  “Who cares? That secretary of his, this Inga what’s-her-face, somebody. I’m past my nap time.”

  “Yes, of course.” Connie stood, offered her hand, which Mrs. Girard took. There was less strength than in their initial handshake. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Girard. I appreciate everything.”

  “It wasn’t much of a lunch but with the prices of everything…” Her voice trailed off as though a tiny wind-up motor inside had wound down.

  “I’ll see myself out,” Connie said. “Again, thank you.”

  Ferguson and Marsha James were in the front hall. “Thank you,” Lake said.

  “It was nice of you to stop by.” There was an awkward silence before Mrs. James added, “I don’t wish to be uncooperative, Miss Lake, but all of this has been traumatic.”

  “I understand.” She said to Ferguson, who’d put on a tan cashmere topcoat and a snappy tweed hat, “Congratulations on your retirement. Who’ll run the oil company now?”

  “It’s in the process of being dissolved,” Mrs. James said. “It no longer exists as a business entity.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks again. It was gracious of you to have me to lunch.”

  Marsha James smiled. “I think it was Mother who had you to lunch. She often invites people she doesn’t know. Mother is… well, she’s getting old and quite eccentric.”

  “She’s nice,” Connie said.

  “Yes, eccentric and nice. Good-bye.”

  Marsha James waited until Lake had disappeared around a corner in search of a cab, and Ferguson had driven off in his red Mercedes, then went to her bedroom and dialed a number in Washington. “This is Marsha James,” she said to an answering machine. “Call me at the Philadelphia number as soon as you come in.”

  14

  Morizio had come down with a head cold the night before, which was a good excuse to leave MPD early that afternoon. He went home, made himself some soup, and started going over everything he knew about the Pringle and James murders. The papers Pringle had left at Piccadilly were spread over the dining room table. Lake’s tapes of her conversations with Melanie Callender and George Thorpe played on the stereo. A lined yellow legal pad contained pages of notes Morizio made each time a thought or a potential connection came to him.

  He called Ethel Pringle at 4:30. She was slightly warmer this time, not quite so standoffish although Morizio didn’t categorize her attitude as friendly. He taped the conversation, and played the tape after they’d concluded their talk.

  MORIZIO: “Sorry to bother you again, Ethel. This is Sal Morizio.”

  PRINGLE: “It’s all right.”

  MORIZIO: “Ethel, why did Paul return to Washington?”

  PRINGLE: “I don’t know.”

  MORIZIO: “He didn’t give you any indication, any hint?”

  PRINGLE: “No.”

  MORIZIO: “He’d made a date to see me the night he was murdered. His message sounded urgent. Could it have been about the James murder?”

  PRINGLE: “Perhaps. I really don’t know anything. Thank you for calling. I know he was fond of you.”

  MORIZIO: “Wait, please. This accusation that he was involved in drugs. Can that be true?”

  PRINGLE: (After a long pause) “Paul was troubled, was involved in things he shouldn’t have been. He never shared with me, so I don’t know any of the specifics. I just know the past few months have been dreadful for all of us and I would prefer to bury them. Please understand.”

  MORIZIO: “I think it’s a damn shame.”

  PRINGLE: “Of course it is, it’s…”

  MORIZIO: “I’m not talking about his death, Ethel, I’m talking about his reputation. Paul Pringle never touched drugs in his life and I hate to see you and Harriet tainted by a lie.”

  PRINGLE: “All of it is in the past. I’m determined to start anew, and so is Harriet. Thank you.”

  She hung up.

  Morizio played the tape again, and once more. He kept focusing on her statement—“Paul was troubled, was involved in things he shouldn’t have been.”

  Lake walked in at five-thirty.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “You have a cold? You sound nasal.”

  “Yeah. What happened in Philadelphia?”

  “A lot.” She pulled the tape from her coat pocket and handed it to him.

  “You got to talk to her?”

  “Sure did, and her mother, and Sir Edwin Ferguson.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He was on the guest list. Old friend and business partner.”

  Morizio rewound the tape and started it. Lake made herself a drink and joined him on the couch. The words from Mrs. Girard’s study were clear and complete. Morizio and Lake listened from different perspectives. For Morizio it was all new. For Connie, it enhanced memories of her day; she was back in Mrs. Girard’s home.

  When the tape was over, Morizio said, “There’s a lot there.”

  “I couldn’t get over Mrs. Girard’s candor, but old people are like that sometimes. The tape misses the nuances, though, the looks between people, the subtle feelings.”

  “Tell me about ’em.”

  “You sound awful. Are you taking something?”

  “Chicken soup, canned, and Ornade.”

  “Okay, here’s the way it went.”

  They talked until two in the morning, an FM elevator-music station playing softly in the background. They went over Pringle’s papers, and Morizio’s notes. They had trouble creating a clear-cut scenario or establishing viable connections between the murders, but they did agree that the murders had to have been linked, in some way, although the actual acts had probably been committed by two different people�
�a conspiracy. Inga Lindstrom kept popping up as a missing link, and Melanie Callender took on greater importance because of Mrs. Girard’s comment about her and the fact that she was involved, to some extent, in Ambassador James’s Scottish oil company.

  “If James was that much of a player,” Morizio said, “his wife had cause to hurt him.”

  “But why Pringle?”

  “He knew something that would incriminate the murderer, or he had something, papers, like what he left me.”

  Lake yawned. “I’m beat. It’s been a long day.”

  “Tell me again about Ferguson. What was it he said, that the oil company had been ‘dissolved’? That’s a strange way to put it.”

  “He didn’t say it, Marsha James did. It was almost as though she wanted the point to be made that it was gone, finished, not worth thinking about.”

  “Let’s think about it.”

  “I assumed we would.”

  “What about James’s will?”

  Connie shrugged.

  “Did he leave everything to his wife?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she the one ‘dissolving’ the business?”

  “Sal, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t expect you to. I’m just thinking out loud.”

  “You’re very nasal.”

  “Yeah. I think I have a fever, too.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “Club soda, and let me change the music. It’s putting me to sleep.”

  Lake went to the kitchen as Morizio changed frequencies on his FM receiver. He found a college station at around 90 playing vintage jazz—an Art Tatum solo recording of “Willow Weep For Me” was in progress. Reception wasn’t good and he carefully adjusted the dial until the needle was at its maximum strength. Static continued to drift in and out, but he was willing to trade off reception for the good music.

  Connie returned with a large glass of club soda and ice. She’d poured herself a glass of tomato juice.

  “Let’s run this through one more time,” Morizio said. He drank from his glass and walked to the window. Outside, an ice storm had rolled in, turning the streets into long, wide skating rinks. It was pretty; light reflected off the glassy surfaces as though someone had randomly spilled containers of red, yellow, and green oil into water.