Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  A few hours later, Annabel had moved to a chair, leaving Rhonda alone on the couch to digest the final few pages.

  “Well?” Smith asked when Rhonda had finished.

  “I don’t know what kind of upright president Ken Ewald will make,” Rhonda said with forced lightness in her voice, “but he sure must be good horizontally. His bedside reputation isn’t exaggerated.”

  Smith said, “Frankly, I don’t think his reputation is deserved, although I suppose it depends on what church you go to. Janet Ewald was the one who first told me that she thought her father-in-law was having an affair with Andrea Feldman. Marcia confirmed it that night in Annapolis, although not with much conviction. Now, in the diary, she seems to make a more substantial case for it. If you read those sections carefully, however, you’ll see that she deals from a certain base of supposition. The fact that Ken brought Andrea Feldman into the house on many occasions, and that she even remained there overnight on a few of them, doesn’t prove they slept together. At least, it wouldn’t hold up in court.”

  “It holds up with this juror,” Annabel said. “Whether Ken Ewald and Andrea Feldman actually slept together or not isn’t the issue. What is important is that Ken brought her into his inner circle, which meant she had access to a lot of information that would be of interest to his enemies, including his competitors for office.”

  “True,” Smith muttered. “That means that there is the likelihood that Andrea Feldman was selling secrets out of the Ewald camp.”

  “Selling them to whom?” Rhonda asked.

  “According to what you told me before Annabel arrived, Rhonda, she was being paid by the DAF, which, according to your sources, is funded by Garrett Kane Ministries. By extension, Colonel Morales and, possibly, Raymond Thornton could also be involved.”

  “What about Greist?” Annabel asked. “He claims to have something of great importance he wishes to sell to Ken Ewald, or at least is willing to hush up in return for a large payment.”

  “You’d have to nail down a link between Andrea Feldman and Greist,” Rhonda said.

  “I think we can do that,” Smith said. He told them of the conversation he’d had with Tony Buffolino in the hospital in San Francisco. Buffolino had briefly filled him in on the content of his conversation with Carla Zaretski the night he was shot. She’d said that Andrea Feldman had been born out of wedlock to Mae Feldman, and that the father, whom Mae Feldman steadfastly refused to name, had been a young attorney in New York. That matched up with what Smith had learned from his friend Morgan Tubbs about Greist’s beginnings. Then, too, there was the similarity between Greist’s physical makeup, as described by Annabel, the size and shape of suits found in Mae Feldman’s closet, and the photograph Annabel had pulled from a drawer in Mae Feldman’s room.

  “Herbert Greist was Andrea Feldman’s father,” Rhonda said.

  “Looks that way to me,” said Smith. “I’m not a gambler, but I’d put money on that.”

  Annabel sat up straight in her chair and became more animated. “If we follow through on this, Mac, it means that Andrea was selling secrets either to the DAF or to Herbert Greist.”

  “Or to both,” Smith said.

  “Why would she do that?” Rhonda asked.

  “Maybe that’s at the root of who killed her. Let’s say she was supposed to deliver information to one of those two ‘employers,’ but delivered it to the other instead. That could get people pretty mad at her.”

  “The same information? If you’re saying that she was selling inside information from the Ewald camp to the Soviet Union through Herbert Greist—and, bear in mind, we can’t be positive that he is her father—what the Soviets would be interested in is hardly the same thing that would interest the DAF, Kane, and Morales.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Smith said. “If I were a Soviet intelligence agent, I would find great use for information that might link DAF and Kane to the funding of Morales’s troops in Panama. Don’t forget that the Soviet Union is supporting the regime in power in Panama. If they could come up with something substantial that proved that DAF and Kane Ministries were funneling money illegally to Morales’s troops, they could leak it to the Western press, which would, I’m sure you agree, put a hell of a lot of pressure on those people to stop.”

  Rhonda Harrison shook her head and said, “Somehow, from what I’ve learned about Andrea Feldman, which, I admit, isn’t much, I have trouble accepting the scenario that she would deliberately sell information to the Soviet Union, even if her father is a Communist sympathizer.”

  “I tend to agree with you, Rhonda,” Smith said. “Don’t forget, there was a locked box in Mae Feldman’s apartment that evidentally contained material sufficiently important to cause two men to break in and steal it.”

  “Maybe it was just money,” Annabel said. “Tony said Mae Feldman had cleaned out the bank account.”

  “Carla Zaretski, to be more precise,” Smith said.

  “What if it wasn’t money?” Rhonda asked. “What if it was material Andrea Feldman had stolen from Ken Ewald?”

  “Certainly a possibility,” Smith said. “Marcia Mims says in her diary that she observed Andrea removing papers from Ken’s files.”

  “What would be unusual about that?” Annabel asked. “Andrea Feldman was a trusted member of the Ewald staff. It would be only natural for her to pull things out of files.”

  “That’s something we’ll have to ask Marcia when—and if—we see her again.” Smith looked at Rhonda. “I agree with you, Rhonda. Seems unlikely that Andrea Feldman would sell secrets to an enemy of this country. She might have given whatever she stole from Ewald to her mother for safekeeping. In that case, Mae Feldman could have turned over that same material to Herbert Greist, which would have cut Andrea out of the picture as far as DAF and Kane are concerned. And by the way, let’s not forget to include President Manning and Raymond Thornton when we mention Kane and Morales.”

  Annabel sat up even straighter now. “If Greist ended up with whatever it was Andrea stole, and was passing that on to a Soviet contact, that would be motivation enough for him to suddenly disappear as he has, and for the FBI to have a heightened interest in him beyond simple dossier-building. From what you’ve told me, Mac, Greist has always been nothing more than a Communist sympathizer, and, as far as I know, we haven’t harassed Communist sympathizers since Joe McCarthy.”

  “At least not as overtly,” Smith said glumly.

  “Why didn’t Marcia Mims just go to Ken Ewald and tell him what she’d observed about Andrea Feldman?” Rhonda asked. “I get the impression from what you’ve said about her that she’s an extremely loyal and dedicated employee.”

  Annabel laughed. “That’s probably true, except she keeps a diary filled with intimate details about her employer’s extracurricular sexual life. Sounds to me as though she intended to write a book.”

  “Whatever her motivations,” Smith said, “she certainly has been a keen observer. I was interested in her references in the diary to Ed Farmer.”

  “You mean how he picked Andrea Feldman up on the mornings after she’d stayed overnight at the house?” Rhonda asked.

  “Yes,” Smith replied. “She says she observed this from an upstairs window, and found it strange that Farmer did not drive through the gate and up to the front of the house, as he otherwise did. Each time he picked up Andrea, he waited outside on the street. Why?”

  “Why was he picking her up, or why out on the street?” Annabel asked. “I certainly see nothing untoward about him picking her up. Ed Farmer is a young man with ambition, and people like that get called on to perform all sorts of services for their political masters, including covering up affairs. Besides, he and Andrea worked closely together. Maybe he just wanted to get her into work on time.”

  “Nothing unusual about him picking her up, Annabel, but why out in the street? According to Marcia, that broke his usual pattern.”

  Annabel slouched back in her chair. “Who has the answers?” she as
ked. “Marcia Mims has vanished. So has Janet Ewald. Andrea Feldman is dead. I suppose you could ask Ed Farmer about his habit of picking her up at the house.”

  “Yes, and I may do that,” Smith said. “First, though, I want another conversation with Ken. I’ll try to catch up with him tomorrow and put some of these questions to him.”

  “Want me with you?” Annabel asked.

  “No, not necessary. By the way, Tony is returning on Thursday, and I would appreciate some help in seeing that he’s settled. I made an appointment for him on Friday with Dr. Kroger at the university.” He turned to Rhonda. “I made a last-minute decision to include you in on everything we’ve come up with, Rhonda, including Marcia Mims’s diary. I know you’ve been very open with me.” If Smith had expressed what he was thinking, he would have gone on to say that he’d lost his sense of propriety, maybe even lost his head. He’d breached a confidence by Marcia Mims and knew he should not have shown her diary to anyone, or even read it himself, despite his earlier rationalization. Was his involvement in this case beginning to undermine his character? Too late now, he told himself. To Rhonda, he said, “All I ask is that until we clear this up, you use whatever material that comes out of it for the article, and not to develop any fast-breaking stories for WRC. I realize that’s putting a restraint on a good journalist and, Lord knows, I’ve stood up enough times in my career for the First Amendment. But can you live with that, Rhonda?”

  She got up and placed her hand on his shoulder, looked into his eyes, and said, “Don’t agonize over showing me the diary, Mac, and don’t worry. You have my word that I won’t do anything with what’s been discussed here tonight until I get the go-ahead from you.”

  30

  Smith called the Ewald house on Tuesday morning.

  “Hello, Leslie, it’s Mac. Is Ken there?”

  “No, he’s not.” She didn’t sound happy. “He’s in a series of meetings all day.”

  “I see. I am anxious to talk with him. Any idea when I might be able to catch him?”

  “Well … he’s meeting with party bigwigs at the Willard at four. They think the nomination’s okay, or almost, but they also want peace with Backus. I’m meeting Ken at the Watergate at six to go over plans for the upcoming testimonial dinner.”

  “I see. Maybe I could steal a little of his time between meetings. Think you can arrange that?”

  “I’ll try. The Watergate meeting is in suite 1110. Why don’t you stop by at five-thirty.”

  “I’ll be there. Thanks.”

  At four-thirty that afternoon, in one of the Willard Hotel’s renovated suites, Ken Ewald sat in a meeting with the chairman of the Democratic party, Matt Blair, and Blair’s staff.

  “Ken, I think it’s wonderful that things have been sorted out with your son,” said Blair. “It must have been a difficult time for the family.”

  “Very difficult,” Ewald said. “We’re all thankful it’s over.”

  “Frankly, you had us worried,” Blair said. “Primary results aside, having that charge of murder hanging over your family’s head would have … well, a lot of rethinking would have been necessary.”

  Ewald nodded. “Let’s just say I’m glad rethinking won’t be necessary. You’ve seen the latest poll we commissioned.”

  “Yes. Impressive. It was, of course, directed at those groups who are predisposed to support Ken Ewald.”

  Ewald laughed. “Has there ever been a candidate-sponsored poll that wasn’t ‘directed’?”

  The secretary of the party, a former representative from Missouri, Jacqueline Koshner, said, “Senator, polls aside, we’d be less than honest if we didn’t express certain concerns we have with your candidacy.”

  “My son? He’s never been charged with anything.”

  “No, unless that flares up again between now and the convention. I’m talking about the irrefutable shift in this country toward a more conservative posture.”

  Ewald narrowed his eyes. “What I see is the pendulum swinging back.”

  “Maybe,” Blair said, “but Jackie is right. If the pendulum has begun to return to center, it has, in our judgment, a long trip ahead of it. This is now, Ken. If you are the party’s candidate—and it looks as though you have a good shot at it—we feel you’ll need balance on the ticket.”

  “Jody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impossible. Oil and water.”

  “I prefer to see it as sweet and sour,” said Jacqueline Koshner, “the palate being satisfied in all ways.”

  Ewald said lightly, “I hope you consider me the sweet in that recipe.” His comment did not generate smiles. He said, “I will not run with Jody Backus.”

  Blair glanced at his staff, looked at Ewald, and said, “It’s possible you won’t run at all.”

  Ewald’s anger was evident. “You aren’t suggesting that the party … you … would attempt to deny me the nomination, are you?”

  “Of course not. If the delegates give you the votes you need, you’ll be our candidate. However, Ken, your candidacy is not without obvious problems. Jacqueline is right. We are still a country that for a long time has gone to the right of center, and that will be the case in November. We want the White House this time around, Ken, and we are not about to let it slip out of our grasp. This is the year. Manning has run his string, and Thornton represents only four more years of the same, or worse. You are extremely popular in some segments, unpopular in others. This thing with your son and the murder of one of your staff members, even though it seems to have been buried for the time being, hasn’t helped. Do you … do you see any other such incidents looming between now and the convention?”

  “Another murder that my son will be suspected of committing? No.”

  The expression on Blair’s face said that he was not pleased with Ewald’s flippancy. “I think all that’s left to be said at this juncture is that if you win the nomination, the party will support you in every way. But also know that if you are our candidate for president, the choice of your running mate will not be yours to make unilaterally.”

  Ewald nodded and stood. “I’ll be happy to confer on my choice of vice-president, but strike Jody from the list.”

  The others remained seated as Blair walked Ewald to the foyer. He slapped him on the arm. “Keep one thing in mind, Ken.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Backus. Even though he lost to you in a majority of the primaries, he comes into San Francisco with a hell of a lot of clout. It may not be as easy for you as it appears at this moment.”

  “Nothing is ever easy, Jack.”

  “One last thing between friends.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Is there anything else, anything that might explode between now and the convention?”

  “About me personally?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “No, just …”

  “Just what?”

  “Just rumors. Things good at home?”

  “Things are very good at home, Jack. Thanks for the time. I have to meet Leslie to plan the testimonial dinner for me. Looking forward to seeing you there.”

  “Yes, it should be a lovely evening. Thanks for coming by.”

  Smith arrived at the Watergate suite precisely at five-thirty and was surprised to find Ken there. He and Leslie were alone. “My good luck,” Smith said, “to have both of you here at the same time.”

  Ewald shook Smith’s hand. He was obviously not in a pleasant mood. He spoke in short sentences, and the ready smile that endeared him to millions of voters across the country seemed to have been put on a shelf, at least for the moment.

  “Look, I know you’re terribly busy, Ken, and I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of your schedule, but I have some important information to share with you. In fact”—he looked at Leslie—“I think it’s probably best shared with both of you.”

  Ewald perched on the arm of a stuffed chair and said, “Go ahead, what is this info
rmation?”

  Smith filled a glass from a pitcher of orange juice, came to the center of the room, and said, “As I told you on the phone, Ken, we’ve been pursuing this Herbert Greist thing.”

  “Who’s we?” Ewald asked gruffly.

  “Various people I’ve brought into this, including Annabel, Tony Buffolino, my investigator, and a journalist who’s been doing some pretty serious digging on her own.” Smith’s expression now matched Ewald’s, made to seem all the more serious by dark stubble that had sprouted over the course of the day.

  Leslie sat on the chair’s other arm. “Go on, Mac, please.”

  Smith said, “I told Ken a little of this on my call from California, but let me fill you in quickly, Leslie.” He told her about Tony having been shot in California, and that Tony had discovered a locked box in Mae Feldman’s apartment but hadn’t had a chance to ascertain its contents because of the intrusion of the two unidentified men. He said to Ewald, “We think that box might have contained material stolen from you.”

  Ewald looked nervously at his wife before saying, “You told me about this mysterious box, Mac, and I told you it couldn’t have contained anything stolen from me.”

  Smith hesitated, then said, “What you told me, Ken, was that you never kept anything of significant interest in the house, at least from a national-security point of view.”

  “I said that because it’s true.”

  Leslie asked, “Why are you asking this, Mac?”

  “I’m just trying to put all the pieces together, Leslie. Let me continue. Ken, I assume you’ve told Leslie about the blackmail threat from Herbert Greist.”

  Ewald displayed his first smile, and directed it at his wife. “No, in the frenzy of everything I forgot to tell lots of people lots of things. Go ahead, Mac, fill her in.”

  Smith looked into Leslie’s angry face and told her the salient facts about Greist and his threats. When he was done, she asked, “Who is this Greist? He sounds like a lowlife, a cheap blackmailer.”