Sandra seemed unfazed. “I’ll spare no details and provide you with as many interesting facts about the mansion and the Washington family as possible. Follow me.”
We bypassed hundreds of tourists waiting in line for a standard house tour. As we marched in front of them, I felt the sting of the jealous stares. At least the Mayflower Society offered some tangible benefits.
From my previous visits, I knew that George Washington built the mansion in stages. The wooden construction was Palladian style European architecture featuring porticos along the front and rear. The signature red shingled roof provided a striking contrast to the farmhouse’s pristine white. Washington built the original two-story structure in the late 1750s after he inherited the estate from his brother. Secondary northern and southern wings enlarged the manse during the Revolutionary War to its twenty-one-room final configuration, complete with an octagonal cupola tower topped with a dove of peace weathervane selected by Washington himself.
After watching a short video outlining the mansion’s history, we strolled inside the house. Sandra announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the New Room.”
Buffy swiveled her head around, surveying the grand salon. “I could have sworn this was a dining room.”
Now it was a large, open room with chairs lining the edges. It was painted an unusually bright bluish green, with numerous grand paintings on the wall. There was no serving table or indication the room had been used for dining.
Sandra clasped her hands in apparent delight at Buffy’s comment. “You are correct! Mount Vernon previously identified this room as a place in which the Washingtons served impressive luncheons and dinners. However, further research proved it was designed as a European saloon.”
Frederick Valdez chortled. “Saloon? I don’t see any booze. If you’re serving some of Washington’s whiskey, be sure to let me know.”
Sandra smiled tightly. “Not a ‘saloon’ in the American sense of the word. In European architecture, saloons showcased great wealth. They had little practical purpose, except to advertise the prosperity of the home’s owners by displaying impressive collections of artwork. We like to call it Washington’s ‘statement’ room.”
“What statement was he trying to make?” asked Drake.
Sandra didn’t miss a beat. “At eleven thousand square feet, Mount Vernon was ten times the size of the average colonial home in Virginia. This house was the foremost residence in the New World. That is precisely the statement Washington wanted to make.”
The buzz of conversation that immediately erupted indicated Mayflower Society attendees were impressed by Washington’s grandiose statement. The tour continued through several parlors and into the main entryway. Sandra pointed out an iron key hanging on the wall inside a glass enclosure. “This was one of Washington’s most prized possessions. It is the key to the Bastille given to him in 1790 by the Marquis de Lafayette after that prison’s destruction in Paris.”
I heard Drake mutter to Cecilia, “That name sounds familiar.”
I interjected myself into their conversation. “There’s a portrait of Lafayette on the floor of the House of Representatives. He was the first foreign dignitary to address a joint session of Congress.”
“Drake’s really becoming a history buff,” said Cecilia proudly. “All of our time spent at the Continental Club is having a real effect on him.”
Drake nodded. Perhaps Cecilia was telling the truth and Drake was smarter than he seemed. However, something told me Drake was more familiar with the first floor bar than the second floor library.
The last stop on the ground floor was Washington’s study. “George Washington got up at four in the morning, dressed inside this room, and reviewed paperwork until breakfast. He often read in this room until going to bed at nine.”
I heard Drake’s voice yet again. “Not exactly my schedule.”
There was no doubt I was eavesdropping, but Drake had provided me with another tidbit. “Are you a night owl?” I asked innocently.
Before Cecilia could interrupt, Drake replied, “The party usually gets started around midnight.” With a chuckle, he added. “But not last night.”
“Really? I heard there was quite a party at the bar after dinner.”
“Nope, at least not for me. I had one drink and headed upstairs to bed.”
Cecilia linked her arm with Drake’s. “We were tired from our trip to D.C. from South Carolina.”
Drake had been quick to mention he retired early last night. Was he intelligent enough to realize the importance of a tight alibi? Or was he simply telling the truth? Was Cecilia covering for him because he was guilty or just plain dumb?
We walked upstairs to the second floor, which consisted entirely of bedchambers. Sandra regaled her attentive audience with various details about each room, including who had slept there and why specific colors and decorations were chosen. Finally we arrived at the last room on the floor. Sandra motioned for our group to gather around her so everyone could hear her spiel.
“This is one of the most important rooms in the entire house, the chamber of George and Martha Washington.” She stepped aside so we could get a good look. The bedroom was the largest of the lot, located directly above the study.
Sandra continued, “Notice the bed and its size. It’s much longer than the conventional bed of the time period. Washington was over six feet tall, so he needed a bigger frame to prevent his feet from hanging over the edge.”
Although grander in scale than the other bedchambers, the room had an elegant simplicity about it. The Washingtons had apparently reserved their regal statements for the downstairs entertainment salons. Their own private sanctuary conveyed more of a minimalist austerity than grandiose wealth or power.
“This was also the room in which Washington died. His illness was very short. He contracted a throat infection after riding his horse during inclement December weather. Two days later, he was dead.”
“Did Washington die in that bed?” Lola asked.
“Yes, he did. After his death, Mrs. Washington closed up the room and moved upstairs to the third floor. She couldn’t bear to set foot inside their bedroom again.”
Every time I heard the story of Washington’s death, I was surprised all over again by the rapidity of his demise. Of course, eighteenth-century medicine left a lot to be desired. Washington’s doctors likely did more harm than good, hastening his passing instead of preventing it.
Since the upper floor was rarely open to visitors and not part of the mansion tour, we headed back downstairs. We walked outside onto the piazza, which ran the entire length of the house and provided a memorable view of the Potomac River. Thanks to First Lady Jackie Kennedy’s intervention, commercial development within sight of Mount Vernon was not allowed, thus preserving the pristine landscape George and Martha enjoyed on the east side of the house.
Something was nagging at me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe a minute to clear my head would help. After all, it had been a trying day. I sat in one of numerous wooden chairs lining the piazza, rested my head on the high back, and closed my eyes.
Less than a minute later, a familiar voice interrupted my reverie. “Penny for your thoughts?” Doug asked.
“We’re at Mount Vernon. Don’t you mean a quarter?”
Doug chuckled. “Yes, a quarter. Your thoughts are certainly worth more than a penny.”
“I hope so,” I said, “but I was referring to Washington’s handsome profile.” I sat up straight. “I’ve got one of those notions inside my brain I can’t quite shake.”
Doug tilted his head to the side. “It usually means you’re on to something.”
“Correct. But it’s no good unless I can figure out what that is.”
Doug leaned closer. “When did the feeling appear?”
“A few minutes ago. At the end of the mansion tour.”
After replaying the tour in my mind, I snapped my fingers. “Got it!”
“Tell me.” Doug�
��s voice had gotten too loud. The killer could be sitting next to us.
I motioned with my hand for him to take it down a notch. “Relax, Doug. I haven’t solved the case. But Washington’s death gave me an idea.”
“George Washington? He died because he didn’t take off his damp clothes after prolonged exposure to a cold winter rain. He wasn’t poisoned.”
“I’m well aware of the details. The relevant part of the story is the speed of his passing. Before anyone could chop down a cherry tree, he was dead.”
“Why does that matter?” The glimmer of hope on Doug’s face was gone.
“We haven’t considered how Grayson Bancroft died.”
“He was poisoned, Kit. Try to keep up.”
I ignored his sarcasm. “I meant the type of poison. Whatever the concoction, it was extremely fast acting. Think about the timing for a moment. Grayson was dead in less than seven hours.”
“Aren’t all poisons instantaneous? That’s what happens in the movies.” Doug grinned.
Here’s where my penchant for reading mystery novels came in handy. “Not especially. I’ll have to research it, but I don’t think this fits the profile of the big three.”
“You’ve got me. ‘The big three’?”
“You don’t have to look any further than Dame Agatha. Arsenic, cyanide, and strychnine. Remember, Grayson died so quickly, he wasn’t able to scream for help or stagger downstairs. It’s unusual.”
Doug rubbed his chin. “I suppose you’re right.”
I grabbed his hand in excitement as another thought surfaced. “The method of delivery could be important, too.”
“The needle?”
“I’d call it an injection for now. If the murderer invited Grayson for a drink, why not put the poison in a libation when his back was turned? Why risk the violent act of sticking our victim in the neck?”
“I like where you’re going with this.”
“Don’t get too excited. Right now, we have more questions than answers.”
Doug’s eyes sparkled. “As long as those questions point toward my father’s innocence, I’m grateful.”
I shifted in my chair and drew back. For Doug and me, the stakes in a murder case had never been higher. Surrounded by the spring beauty of bucolic Mount Vernon, I should have felt sprightly and hopeful. Here the father of our country had shouldered all the problems of a young country. At this moment my burden felt no lighter. I had to clear Winston’s name. Our future happiness depended on it.
Chapter Nine
“You have one hour to explore Mount Vernon before your bus leaves.” Our guide Sandra’s voice interrupted my solemn musings about our current predicament. Doug and I reluctantly rose to our feet.
Having visited Mount Vernon on numerous occasions, we could skip the stroll around the grounds. With my back to the Potomac, I scanned the portico. Out of my left eye, I spied a couple walking across the lawn toward several of the outbuildings flanking the southern edge of the mansion. The woman’s distinctive long, flowing dress identified her as Lola Valdez. Her husband Frederick accompanied her.
I gave Doug a gentle nudge. “Let’s follow them.”
We took off in quiet pursuit. Frederick and Lola headed inside the storehouse and smokehouse. Doug and I finally caught up with them inside the washhouse.
Spotting us, Frederick extended his hand to Doug. “Too nice of a day to spend inside at the museum.”
I admired the way Lola’s blue, feathery earrings framed her face. “Every time I see this building,” she said, “I’m in awe. Imagine dealing with the laundry for the entire estate without a washer and dryer.”
I was in awe, too. The large copper tubs of water sat near the hearth. The elbow grease of slave women had powered the washers, not electricity. After cleaning, they hauled the wet clothes and linens outside to dry and then carried them inside again for ironing and folding.
As we milled around the structure, I asked, “Where are you walking next?”
“The pioneer farm. Care to join us?” said Frederick.
We nodded eagerly and followed. “That wasn’t difficult,” Doug whispered.
“Let’s see if they know anything about the murder,” I whispered back. “I’ll take the lead.” Doug’s anxiety about his father’s status as a suspect was obvious. Frederick and Lola seemed intelligent. A direct approach might scare them off, particularly if either one was responsible for Grayson’s death.
Frederick pointed ahead to the educational center. “We need to catch this shuttle or we won’t make it back in time for our departure.”
The four of us hustled and climbed inside the vehicle. Our bus driver informed us it would take five minutes to reach our destination in the southwestern corner of the estate. Lola beamed. “We haven’t visited the sixteen-sided barn in ages.”
“We’ve never seen it,” I said.
Lola gasped and squealed in delight. “You’re in for a real treat.”
Frederick rolled his eyes and checked his cellphone. I edged closer to Lola. “Are you staying at the Continental Club tonight, despite Grayson’s death?”
Lola readjusted the headband restraining her lightly tousled tresses. “We’re not leaving,” she answered firmly.
“You and Frederick knew Grayson well, right?”
“For decades, just like the Hollingsworths. As Frederick may have told you, I’m the history buff in the family. We never missed a Mayflower Society meeting.”
“What did you think of Grayson?” I softened my voice so the interrogation wouldn’t seem too obvious.
Lola blinked rapidly. “Everyone had an opinion about Grayson Bancroft.”
“I can only imagine. Did you like him?”
“There’s no easy way to answer that question. He was a complicated man. I appreciated his support of the Mayflower Society. But I didn’t like how he ran it.”
“Really? This is my first meeting, but everything appears in order.”
“Grayson threw a lot of money around as a bigwig donor. That’s why we receive such first-class treatment at places like this.” She swept her arm around in a circle. “But he had an agenda, like everyone in Washington.”
“An agenda for a historical society?” I suppressed my frustration. Lola seemed credible, but she was losing me.
The bus stopped at our destination. As we exited, the driver reminded us we had half an hour to explore the pioneer farm before the next shuttle back to the mansion grounds departed.
Before I could follow up with Lola, she pointed in the distance. “There’s the barn. Let’s go! We don’t have much time.”
Frederick fell in step with me. “Best to do what she says. Once Lola gets fixated on something historical, no one gets in her way.” Although Frederick hadn’t meant his comment as incriminating, it made me wonder if Grayson’s so-called agenda provided Lola with a credible motive for murder. It seemed that she might be the only person who took the Mayflower Society as seriously as Doug’s father did. Her enthusiasm might even exceed Winston’s.
“Why is this barn so impressive?” Doug seemed puzzled. Focusing as he did on political history, he must have missed the lecture on American agrarian practices.
Lola grinned, ecstatic to have at least one eager pupil. “It’s not really the sixteen-sided shape of the barn, but the two levels of the building.” We followed her inside.
“Horses were led inside the barn after wheat was placed on the ground. After the horses treaded the crop for less than an hour, the grain fell through the spaces between the floorboards to the first floor. The wheat stalks could be discarded and the valuable seeds collected from underneath. Ingenious!”
Lola and Frederick left us to read a plaque detailing the architectural design of the barn. I caught up with Doug as he gazed around the polygon structure. “Don’t get too caught up in the excitement, Mr. History. Remember, we followed the Valdezes so we could find out if they’re credible suspects.”
“You don’t need to remind me. I chat
ted up Frederick during the shuttle ride.”
“And …?” I asked, hands on my hips.
“There was a longstanding, competitive rivalry between Frederick and Grayson. Sort of like a battle of the modern-day robber barons. Frederick has made a ton of money on cellphones, yet I got the sense his wealth never came close to Bancroft’s. That disparity clearly bothered Frederick.”
“Enough to kill Grayson?”
Doug shrugged. “Hard to say. I had a feeling he would have told me more, but just as we were getting to the good stuff, we arrived at our stop.”
“Same with Lola. She mentioned something about Grayson having an agenda attached to his leadership of the Mayflower Society. I ran out of time before I could probe deeper.”
“We’d better head back to catch that bus or we’ll miss our ride back to the Continental Club,” said Doug.
Frederick and Lola must have had the same concern. They were waiting for us outside the barn, and we walked together to the shuttle stop. A minute later, we were on our way.
Doug and I both wanted to continue our conversations, but as soon as we boarded the shuttle, both Valdezes closed their eyes. Rather than risk annoying them, I stared outside at the bucolic farmland. No wonder Washington returned to Mount Vernon every chance he had.
The day must have been exhausting for everyone. The ride back to D.C. was quiet and uneventful. I caught up on email and Doug listened to music using his trusty Bose In-ear Headphones. When we exited the bus at the Continental Club, Buffy stopped us.
“Let’s have a drink in the bar in a half hour. I need to drop my packages in the room and freshen up.” It was a command more than an invitation.
Buffy was hauling three large bags. “Did you go shopping during our hour of free time?” I asked curiously.
“Of course, darling. The shops at Mount Vernon are not to be missed.” She showed me an abundance of items, including Christmas tree ornaments, garden accessories, and even a Dining with the Washingtons cookbook.
The latter intrigued me. I didn’t know Buffy enjoyed the culinary arts. “Are you going to try your hand at eighteenth-century cooking?”
Calamity at the Continental Club Page 8
