Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  “Good luck with whatever it is you’re going after for the gallery,” he said.

  “I almost forgot about that,” she said, laughing with relief. “I’ll fill you in when I get back. Or sell it to you.”

  Smith had just poured himself a well-watered drink when Buffolino returned.

  “Where’ve you been?” Smith asked.

  “Having a pop with an old friend of mine from the IRS.”

  Smith smiled. “Not a bad friend to have.”

  “Yeah, he’s come in handy over the years. I got him out of a jam when I was still on the force, one of those personal sex things that would have blown him out of the water. Anyway, he owes me, and every once in a while I remind him.”

  “Having tax problems, Tony?”

  “Me? Nah. I don’t make enough to have tax problems.”

  Smith raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, until now. I mean, I wasn’t doin’ as good as I told you I was.”

  Smith said nothing.

  Buffolino sat in a leather chair and put his feet on the coffee table. “I had my friend check out tax returns for Feldman and her mother.”

  Smith cocked his head. “And?”

  “And they file every year, only there isn’t a lot of money to account for. Andrea Feldman never got paid much working for causes. Her mother lists some income from work, but she basically is on Social Security and some interest from small investments. Nothing major league.”

  “What kind of work does the mother do?”

  “My friend says she lists herself as a consultant.”

  “What kind of consultant?”

  “Like all consultants, unemployed.”

  “Any leads on where the mother might be?”

  “Disappeared, like Janet Ewald. I checked a friend at the PD. He tells me no one was ever able to make contact with the old lady to tell her her daughter was dead.”

  “She knows, Tony.”

  “How could she miss it, with all the stories on the tube and in the papers?”

  Smith had been debating with himself about how much to tell Buffolino. As a good lawyer, he knew he could only be as effective as information given him by a client, and the same tended to be true for an investigator. Yet he was reluctant to reveal too much of the Ewald family’s private affairs. He decided to tell Buffolino about the blackmail attempt by Herbert Greist, but keep Ken Ewald’s liaison with Roseanna Gateaux to himself.

  When he was finished recounting what had transpired with Greist and Annabel in New York, Buffolino said, “Weird family.”

  “Certainly not conventional.”

  “Maybe the old lady doesn’t want to be found because her daughter was murdered.”

  “I don’t follow,” Smith said.

  “Why else would she lie low? People who get murdered make their families feel guilty somehow. Like they were all victims—or all at fault, know what I mean? You got any better answers?”

  “No, I don’t. Except that I think you’d better get out to San Francisco as quickly as possible and see if you can track her down. You might also try to find out where she did her banking, whether there were any accounts for her or for her daughter. Since you seem to have friends everywhere, I assume that extends to California.”

  Buffolino smiled. “Mac, I got friends in every state, including a good one with Wells Fargo in Frisco. When do you want me to go?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “On my way.”

  “Nothin’ new on our other missing person? I came up dry so far,” Buffolino admitted as he went to the kitchen to make himself a drink.

  “No, nothing. That’s really the most pressing matter to be resolved. If it weren’t for this Greist character in New York, I wouldn’t be so concerned with finding Mae Feldman. Any ideas on how we can push the police to find Janet?”

  “They don’t take any push from me,” Buffolino said. The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” he offered. “It’s for you, Mac.”

  “Mr. Smith, this is Marcia Mims.”

  “Yes, Marcia, how are you?”

  There was a long pause. “… Mr. Smith, I really think we should talk.”

  Smith heard music and voices in the background. He also heard both the urgency and the hesitation in her voice. “I’ll be happy to talk to you any time, Marcia,” he said.

  “There are things you have to know, Mr. Smith, and I really have to talk to somebody I can trust.”

  “Fine. When would you like to get together?”

  “I was hoping …”

  “You were hoping we could do it right away. I don’t see any reason why not. I have a suite here at the Watergate. Maybe you could—”

  “Mr. Smith, I know you’re very busy and I don’t want to inconvenience you, but I’m not in the city. Tomorrow is my day off, and I came to Annapolis to stay with my cousin Tommy tonight. He owns a crab-cake restaurant in the Market House.”

  “What’s the name of his place?”

  “Tommy’s.”

  “Of course. I can head over there in a little while.”

  “I’ll be here waiting for you, and thank you, thank you very much.”

  “Just sit tight, Marcia. See you in about an hour.”

  “What was that all about?” Buffolino asked after Smith hung up.

  “The Ewalds’ housekeeper, Marcia Mims. Wants to meet with me about something. I’m driving over to Annapolis.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, that might put her off. She’s very delicate right now. You get ready for your trip, make a reservation, get set to go tomorrow. Here, copy this down and use it.” He handed Buffolino his gold American Express card. Tony noted the account number.

  “Where are you going to be in Annapolis, in case I need you?” Buffolino asked.

  “A crab-cake restaurant called Tommy’s, in the Market House.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to come with you? I love crab cakes.”

  “I’ll bring you a doggie bag.”

  Buffolino smiled, looked at his watch, then slapped the side of his head. “Jesus, I forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “I forgot I’m havin’ a party up here tonight.”

  “A party?”

  “Well, not really a party. I invited my wife and daughters up here for a little dinner, a quiet thing, you know?”

  “Tony, I—”

  “Hey, Mac, I owe ’em. This is on me. I’ll pick up the tab.”

  “That’s generous of you, Tony. And I won’t bother with that doggie bag. I’m sure you’ll make do.”

  18

  He found a parking spot near the distinctive harbor that forms the center of Annapolis, and a few minutes later walked into Tommy’s Crab Cake House. Business was good; there was a wait for tables, and a lively group was congregated in the small barroom.

  A handsome black man wearing a perfectly fitted double-breasted gray suit came from the dining room and nimbly made his way to a podium near the front door. Smith asked, “Are you Tommy?”

  The man nodded.

  “My name is Mackensie Smith. I was supposed to meet your cousin, Marcia Mims, here.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Smith, Marcia told me you were coming.” He looked around before leaning close and saying, “I’m glad you’re here. She’s very upset. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll take you to her.”

  Tommy seated a party of six, told one of the waiters to cover the front, and motioned for Smith to follow him. They walked through the dining room, entered the kitchen, went through a door leading to a short, narrow hallway, and stepped into Tommy’s cramped and cluttered office, where Marcia Mims sat on a couch, obviously having made room by pushing piles of paper and magazines aside. She stood up when she saw Smith.

  “Hello, Marcia,” he said.

  Marcia looked at Tommy, who gave her a reassuring smile. “Relax, honey, everything’s going to be all right.” He said to Smith, “I have to get back. Just yell if you need anything.”

  “Pleas
e, Marcia, sit down,” Smith said. He pulled a folding metal chair close to the couch. They said nothing for a few moments, just sat and looked at each other. Smith broke the silence. “I haven’t been to Annapolis in a long time. I guess the last time was a football game at the Naval Academy. Must be three years ago.”

  “I come here whenever I can,” Marcia said. “Tommy and his wife are very good to me.”

  “Seems like a nice fellow, and it looks like he’s made a smiling success out of crabs.”

  Marcia laughed, and Smith was glad to see it. She’d been as taut as a violin string when he first came through the door. Now, she relaxed slightly, the tightness in her body visibly falling away into the soft cushions.

  “Mr. Smith, I …”

  “Yes?”

  “I called you because … I called you because I don’t know what to do. It’s about Janet.”

  Smith sat up straight. “Janet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you … I mean, did Janet call you, or have you known all along?”

  “She called me two days ago. She’s very frightened.”

  “Frightened of what?”

  “Of what will happen to her if she comes back.”

  “I don’t understand, Marcia. What would she have to be frightened about? Does she think someone would hurt her?”

  “She doesn’t know what will happen to her, that’s all. Mr. Smith, Janet has never been comfortable in the Ewald family. She’s always considered herself an outsider.”

  Smith shrugged. “That’s not uncommon for daughters-in-law. It’s not a reason to be really frightened. Why did she call you, Marcia?”

  “Janet has always turned to me, Mr. Smith. She says I’m the only one she feels she can trust and confide in.”

  “That’s flattering to you, and deserved, I imagine. Where is she?”

  The tension returned, and she looked away.

  “I want to help, and I assume you called me because you thought I could help Janet. She certainly shouldn’t be frightened of me.”

  The housekeeper looked at him again. “I know that, Mr. Smith. I think she knows that. It’s just that I’m not sure what to do. I told her she should come back and face whatever is going to happen with Paul, but she’s too confused at this point.”

  Smith decided that to press for Janet’s whereabouts would be counterproductive. But he had to get more out of Marcia. He said, “Well, Marcia, at least she’s safe. I was beginning to wonder whether something terrible had happened to her.” He stood. “I suppose you’ll have to make your own decision about what to do with Janet. I agree with you that she should come back, but she can’t be forced to. Is there anything else you want from me at this point?”

  “Please, sit down, Mr. Smith.”

  Smith resumed his seat and waited for her to say what was on her mind.

  “I told Janet I would talk to you, and if I thought things were right, I would take you to her.”

  “Is she here in Annapolis?”

  Marcia nodded.

  “Well, here I am,” he said. “Frankly, I’m going to leave one way or the other, either by myself or with you to see Janet. The smell of crab cakes is getting to me. I haven’t had dinner yet.”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but I just want to do the right thing by her.”

  “Of course. That’s why she trusts you.”

  “Tommy has a little apartment here in town that he only uses occasionally. Janet is there.”

  “Has she been there the whole time?”

  “No, she stayed in a motel in Virginia before she called me.”

  “Let’s go,” Smith said. He could see that she was grappling with the decision she’d made, and he reached out and touched her hand. “Everything will work out, Marcia, for Janet and for everyone.”

  They stopped at the front of the restaurant to tell Tommy they’d be back, then walked slowly along the edge of the harbor, in which small boats of every description were anchored. The night was humid; a fog had begun to roll in off Chesapeake Bay. They went up a narrow street lined with shops until they reached a two-story building at the end of it. The ground level was a men’s clothing store. A separate door provided access to the second floor. Marcia pulled a key from her purse and opened the door, and they proceeded up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a single door off the landing. Marcia knocked.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Marcia, honey, and Mr. Smith.” They waited, long enough for Smith to wonder whether Janet had decided to not let them in. Then there was the turn of a lock, and the door opened.

  Tommy’s apartment consisted of a living room-bedroom combination, a pullman kitchen, and a bathroom. If it weren’t for the kitchen, it would have looked like any moderately priced hotel room. Tommy must put his money into clothing.

  Marcia immediately went to Janet and hugged her, then stood at her side. Janet had always been frail, her features thin and birdlike, but at this moment she looked absolutely fragile. There was virtually no color in her face. The yellow sweater and black skirt she wore had undoubtedly fit her a week ago, but now hung loosely on her. She was considerably shorter than Marcia; oddly, had it not been for their color difference, they could have been mother and child.

  “How have you been, Janet?” Smith asked.

  Janet played with her bony white fingers. “All right, Mac. No, not all right. Not good at all.”

  He wondered if she might collapse, and he suggested they sit down. “Would anyone like something to drink?” Marcia asked.

  “Anything cold, a soft drink,” Smith said, not taking his eyes off Janet, who sat on the edge of a chair and continued to pull at her fingers.

  As Marcia went into the tiny kitchen and opened the refrigerator, he said to Janet, “Marcia says you’re afraid to come back, Janet. Do you know that I’m handling Paul’s defense in the event he’s charged with Andrea Feldman’s murder?”

  She looked at him with wide eyes. “Yes, I heard that. I mean, I read that.” Smith started to say something, but Janet added, “Marcia told me, too. She said you’ve been helping everyone.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “How is Paul?”

  “Doing quite well, considering the circumstances.” He thought of Paul’s indifference to her disappearance, said instead, “He’s been frantic about you. It would be very helpful to him if he knew you were safe and if you were there at his side.”

  She quickly shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Why? What made you run the way you did?”

  Marcia returned with three glasses of diet soda. Smith repeated his question to Janet.

  “I had no choice. I knew they would think it was me.”

  “Think it was you what?”

  “Who killed Andrea Feldman.”

  “Kill Andrea—you?”

  “Yes, or they’d make it seem as though I did.”

  “Who would do that, Janet?”

  “Ken and Leslie.”

  Smith looked at the floor, then back at her. “Janet, I don’t know the kind of relationship you’ve had with your in-laws, but I don’t think they’re the kind of people who would falsely accuse someone of murder.”

  Marcia said, “Mr. Smith, there is a great deal that goes on in that house that most people wouldn’t dream of.”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Like …” She and Janet looked at each other before Janet said, “Paul wasn’t the only one who had an affair with Andrea.”

  Smith measured his words. “Ken did, too.” So Ken might have had a motive to murder Andrea himself. He looked at Marcia Mims and asked, “Is that true, Marcia? Do you know that Senator Ewald had an affair with Andrea Feldman?”

  “I don’t think it’s my place to—”

  Smith said loudly, for the first time, “Marcia, let’s not play games. Can you confirm that he had an affair with her?”

  “Yes.”


  “Quite a young woman,” Smith said, more to himself than to them.

  Smith pondered the situation. According to Ken’s claims about what he’d done the night of the murder, he’d spent time with Roseanna Gateaux in the Watergate; she could certainly confirm that, assuming she was forced to be honest about it. Secret Service agent Jeroldson was with Ewald the rest of the night. Smith had to ask Joe Riga what had come out of his interview with Jeroldson.

  As Smith looked at the two women across from him, he thought of other possibilities: Either of them could have killed Andrea. If Paul Ewald had gone to the Buccaneer Motel after the party and before Andrea was killed, he could have dropped her back at the Kennedy Center, left … and someone else could have killed her. Paul had denied having gone to that motel with her after the party. Had he or hadn’t he? If he had, why lie about it? If he hadn’t, and she’d gone there with someone else, that would make the motel owner, Wilton Morse, either a liar or severely mistaken because of poor eyesight. No, according to what Tony said, Morse’s eyesight wasn’t that bad. That left lying. Why would Morse lie? Had he been paid to? And, if so, who would have that much to gain by pinning Murder One on Paul Ewald?

  “Janet,” Smith said, “do you think your father-in-law had a motive for killing Andrea Feldman? Was Andrea blackmailing Senator Ewald?”

  Another look between the two women. Marcia Mims said, “I don’t know anything about motives, Mr. Smith, and I really don’t want to be involved. All I know is that Janet means a lot to me and I want to help her, nobody else. That’s why I called you.”

  “Yes, of course, and I think Janet is fortunate to have a caring friend like you. But she’s opened this whole line of conversation, to which I have to respond. After all, I am her husband’s attorney, and he’s a prime suspect in the murder. I don’t believe he did it, and if his father is the murderer, the ramifications of that are clear enough.”

  Smith turned to Janet. “I was brought here by Marcia to help you, Janet, and I thought perhaps to offer some advice. Well, my advice is for you to come back to Washington with me and face this thing head-on.”

  Janet’s nervousness returned, and she shook her head. “I can’t do that. I’m too afraid.”