Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  Many of those in the room tried to reach Ewald as he and Leslie made their way to the door, preceded by Farmer and Secret Service agents. Mac and Annabel didn’t try to catch up with them. They lingered, watched, and, once the Ewalds and official followers were out of the room, made their own way to the lobby.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  Smith shrugged. “I have my reservations about Ken, but I keep coming back to the conviction that he’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Yes, I’d like to see him in the White House. I think some good things must come out of it.”

  When they returned to the Watergate suite, Buffolino told them that his airline friend found no passenger between Washington and Miami by the name of Janet Ewald. “Funny thing, though,” he added. “Riga called me. His people have been checking manifests, too, and he said they ran across a passenger flying to Miami from D.C. by the name of Andrea Feldman.”

  Smith said, “The Andrea Feldman we know isn’t taking trips anywhere these days.”

  “Yeah. Kind of spooky though, huh?”

  “Try checking it through,” Smith said.

  Annabel turned on the TV. Buffolino said, “I think I’ll go downstairs and get a drink. I’m getting cabin fever here.”

  Buffolino went to the lobby, which was bustling with well-dressed people—a typical Watergate crowd, he thought. There was a group of Japanese tourists, a familiar sight in every city in America. An aristocratic couple with regal bearing waited at the elevator, he in a tuxedo, she in a floor-length ball gown bursting with sequins. He then saw the same slender, nicely dressed Hispanic young man they’d seen on their floor earlier in the day. He thought of Smith’s comment, that he was probably a member of hotel security, and decided Smith was right. He acted like a plainclothes security guy, his eyes taking in everything and everyone. Still, Tony didn’t like it. Then again, all Hispanics made him uneasy since the night he’d been set up by Garcia. He had to admit that, and he did as he went to the bar and enjoyed a leisurely drink by himself. I hope this booze goes right to my thigh, he thought; it’s killing me.

  35

  Mac Smith had never believed in the observation that the great leveling factor was putting on pants one leg at a time. For him, it was paying bills, and that unpleasant task, long neglected the past weeks, was what he focused on the next morning. It seemed a good chore to undertake while waiting for a phone call from Geof Collins about whether or not Janet Ewald had arrived.

  Annabel called him from her gallery to see if he’d heard. “No. I think I’ll call him,” he said, looking up at the clock. It was noon.

  “You’ll let me know as soon as you find out anything.”

  “Of course. How are things this morning with your little stone friends?”

  “My little friends are fine. I’ve missed them. They’ve gotten dusty, poor things. James is an asset, but I suspect he doesn’t do windows, and I know he doesn’t dust. Talk with you later.”

  Smith’s call to Collins was disappointing. Not a word from Janet. “No idea where in Florida she called from?” Smith asked.

  “None whatsoever, Mac. She’s very fragile, very enigmatic. I’ll be relieved when we do hear from her. If we do.”

  “You and a lot of other people. Mind if I call again in a couple of hours?”

  “Not at all.”

  He was writing out a check against his monthly tab at the Foggy Bottom Cafe when the phone rang. It was Buffolino, who wanted to know what the plans were for the rest of the day.

  “Frankly, Tony, I haven’t made any. Annabel and I are going to the testimonial for Ken Ewald tonight at the Watergate.” Smith laughed. “How do politicians stand it, one dinner after another, plaques that never get hung up on the wall, bone-crushing handshakes, fattening foods, and having to suffer fools always looking for something from you?”

  “Takes a certain kind a’ guy.”

  “Yes, it certainly does. Anyway, there is that dinner tonight we’re going to. We’ll stop up at the suite before.”

  The last of the bills paid, and after a lunch of two hard-boiled eggs, sliced tomatoes, Bermuda onion, and bread-sticks, Smith headed for the Yates Field House for a workout. During the drive, he thought about the contest between Ewald and Backus for their party’s nomination. He also admitted to himself for the first time that he’d begun to question Ewald’s ability to lead the nation. Did his friend lack the necessary strength of character? Smith had never viewed it that way, preferring to chalk up any perceived weaknesses in Ewald as representing simple human frailty, a concept that was dear to Smith’s heart. As he got older, he’d become more tolerant of his fellow man (and woman, of course), and of the human dilemma.

  But running for president of the United States demanded less “humanity,” didn’t it, someone with fewer foibles than the pack? Ken Ewald was very human—good enough for a friend, but was that good enough to lead the greatest nation on earth? Smith puffed his cheeks and expelled the air in a burst. “Who knows?” he muttered. “Who knows anything?”

  He thought of Backus, whose political views were anathema to him yet who seemed to possess those traits necessary, perhaps, to lead effectively. Ironic, he thought as he pulled into the parking lot, that his kind of human being might be the best qualified for the White House.

  While Smith ran and lifted weights and thought about him, Senator Jody Backus reached Washington, Virginia, after slightly more than an hour’s drive. There were few cars parked in front of the Inn at Little Washington, and they were what one would expect to see there—two Jags, two BMW’s, and a Mercedes limousine.

  He paused at the main entrance to the inn and looked back at the empty road. This was the first time since he’d announced his candidacy that there wasn’t at least one other vehicle trailing behind, usually filled with Secret Service agents. He’d really had to put his foot down to get them off his tail today. Thank God for Jeroldson, who took the responsibility for letting him go off on his own for a couple of hours.

  Backus knocked on the door of the largest suite in the ten-room inn. It was opened by a young man who said, “Come in, Senator. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Backus had met this boy before and didn’t like him. His name was Warner Jenco. A head of carefully arranged blond curls formed a helmet above his placid face. His suit, shirt, and tie were as bland as the rest of him.

  Backus stood in the middle of the living rrom. “Where is he?” he asked.

  “On the phone, Senator. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Tell him I don’t have all day.”

  Jenco disappeared into a bedroom. Backus went to the window and looked out over the Blue Ridge Mountains; they might have been painted there for the visual entertainment of guests, who paid top dollar for the suite. A profound sadness came over him. The mountains reminded him of his home in Georgia, where as a boy he’d spent countless days roaming them. How long ago that seemed; he saw himself—a chubby, barefoot kid with the bottoms of his overalls rolled up—wading in a crystal-clear trout stream, a sort of Mark Twain–Norman Rockwell kid. Those were good days, when he was a good kid.

  The moment of reflection calmed him. Now, as he paced the large room, waiting, his anger returned. Easy, he told himself. You’ll have a heart attack. He took deep breaths. His face was red; he could feel his heart pumping in his large chest.

  Just as he was about to go to the door and bang on it, it opened, and the Reverend Garrett Kane entered the living room. The smile that lighted up millions of television sets across America was in place as he said in his deep, cultured voice, “Jody, how good to see you.” He closed the gap between them and extended his hand. Backus looked at it, and a sour expression crossed his face. Kane kept his hand extended, the smile never dimming. Backus finally took it, pumped once, let go.

  “Please, sit down, Jody. Bourbon? I had it ordered up just for you, your favorite brand.” He crossed to a small bar and held out a bottle for Backus’s approval, like a wine steward pre
senting the evening’s choice.

  “Yeah, I’ll have me some of that. I need a belt of something.”

  Kane carefully measured the drink with a shot glass, poured it over ice, and handed it to the senator, who had begun to perspire. “Turn on some AC,” Backus said, downing the drink. “Hot as hell in here.”

  “I find it quite comfortable,” Kane said, pulling up a straight-back chair. “Refill?”

  “I’ll get it myself.” Backus poured directly from the bottle.

  “Do you ever worry that you drink a tad too much, Jody?” Kane asked.

  Backus looked at him with watery eyes. “What in hell business is that of yours?” He consumed half the drink, and added, “There’s nothin’ like men of the cloth who raise hell against sin, then go out and do all the sinnin’ they damn well please.” He sank into an oversized leather chair.

  “I hate to see you this upset, Jody,” Kane said. “No need to be upset about anything. It seems to me that things in general are very well in control, very well indeed.”

  “I don’t see it that way, Garrett. I told you up at Zach Filler’s lodge that I had a feelin’ things had gone too far, and I’m here to tell you it’s got to stop!”

  Kane raised his head, an amused look on his face, the fingers of one hand gently touching his chin. It was a pose Backus had seen him adopt too many times before, a posture of superiority and scorn. Backus wanted to lunge at him, beat a fist into his smooth, tanned face, see his perfect white caps fall on the floor like little ice cubes.

  “Jody, I only ask about your drinking habits because a man who drinks too much often finds his judgment clouded, his lips becoming unnecessarily loose. Do you understand me?”

  “Look, drinking has nothing to do with this, and you know it. I didn’t get to where I did with bad judgment and a mouth that flaps.” He fixed Kane in a steely stare and, for the first time, saw the minister’s cocky, arrogant expression change—not much, but enough to give Backus control. “What’s happened here, it seems to me, is that like with a lot of good things, some people go too far, ruin it, turn somethin’ good into somethin’ bad, somethin’ that starts to smell. I see it all the time. You could see it on the Iran-Contra committee. Riled the hell out of me that good people like North and Poindexter took a worthwhile project and turned it into somethin’ stupid and illegal. I saw it when Nixon resigned in disgrace, and when Kennedy pulled his goddamn Bay of Pigs. Happens all the time in government, because people get swelled heads and think they know everything, think they are above everybody else. That’s when good things go to hell in a handbasket, Garrett, and that’s what I see happening here.”

  Kane had listened intently. When Backus’s short speech was over and he returned to polishing off his drink, Kane pointedly looked at his watch. “Are you finished?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think I am. I want your promise that the things I’m speaking of are goin’ to stop. Listen closely to me, Garrett. If I don’t get your promise, you lose this U.S. senator, and you need him.”

  “I think you might have it backward, Jody. The fact is, you need me more than I need you. That’s probably hard for a man like you to accept, wheeling and dealing in the Senate for so many years, handing out favors, collecting your share, buying votes, and burying bodies.” He strung out the last two words, said them with careful and precise emphasis. There was silence as they looked at each other.

  Backus said, “You’re the one with clouded judgment and loose lips, Reverend.”

  “And you’re the one with the blood of a dead girl on your hands.”

  Backus rose to his full height and shouted, “Don’t you say anything like that to me ever again, you hypocritical, sanctimonious bastard!”

  Kane flinched at the power in Backus’s voice. He quickly opened the bedroom door and said, “Come in here.” Jenco and another young man stood in the doorway. Kane said to Backus, who still shook with rage, “I thought we might have the next president of the United States as a friend. You want to know the truth, Jody? You’re a loser—a big, fat, drunken slob of a loser, who’s going to end up shining Ewald’s shoes and making speeches on his behalf. At least, that’s what would be the case if I weren’t here to think clearly, to understand what’s at stake and to have the guts to stop it. Now, I suggest you leave and continue to go through the motions of seeking the Democratic nomination. It looks good that you do that, even though none of it makes any difference. Raymond Thornton will be the next president of the United States, and you will continue to slap backs and make promises in coatrooms until, one night, you’ve had too much to drink and run your car into a telephone pole. The nation will mourn the death of Senator Jody Backus.” That famous smile suddenly lit up his face, and his eyes widened. “And I will be honored to officiate at the funeral. Get out!”

  Backus started to say something, but the two young men came around to either side of Kane. Backus seemed unsure of what to do. He held up the glass that now contained only ice cubes, and for a second poised to hurl it at the Reverend Garrett Kane. Instead, he dropped it to the floor and slowly crossed the room, pausing at the door. He turned and said, “I’ve had a distinguished career as a United States senator. I may have played the political game rough at times, but I never lost sight of why. I love this country, Garrett, and I have given to it the best years of my life. You may think what you want of me, but if there is one thing this fat ol’ Georgia politician is not, it’s a party to assassination.” He slammed the door behind him.

  Backus had left for his meeting with Kane from his Senate office. Now, he drove directly home. His wife, Lorraine, was baking biscuits for dinner. “What are you doin’ home so early?” she asked, her southern accent as thick as his. Lorraine Backus was a short, round woman whose reservoir of energy seemed never to run out. She was one of the most popular Senate wives in Washington.

  Backus crossed the kitchen and kissed her on the cheek. “Those biscuits smell good,” he said.

  “Made them especially for you, Mr. Senator. You go take your shoes off and get comfortable, and I’ll bring you a drink. I have some news for you.”

  Backus lumbered from the kitchen, heavy with a fatigue that threatened to pin him to the floor. He went to his study and did exactly as he was told, removed his shoes, slipped his feet into a pair of slippers, and sat in a favorite chair by a bow window. A window seat in front of the window was used as a ledge for many framed family photographs. Backus leaned forward and looked at them, as he often did. There was something wonderful about a family, something sustaining. Backus had two sons and two daughters, all grown and married, and five grandchildren. Nothing gave him more pleasure than being with his grandchildren. He’d taught them all how to fish. The youngest, Paula, had caught the biggest bass of the five; a picture taken on Jody’s boat in Georgia showed a proud Paula holding her catch, almost as big as she was. Behind her, and beaming from ear to ear, was Backus.

  Lorraine Backus came into the study, handed her husband a glass of bourbon, and sat on a hassock at his feet. “Well, now, what brings you home at this hour?”

  “I’ve got to do some serious thinkin’, Lorri, and I got to do it fast. I figured I could think better here than someplace else. What’s this news you have for me?”

  “You are about to have yourself another fishing student.”

  “What in hell does that mean?”

  “Winnie is expecting again. She called me just a couple of hours ago. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Backus sat back and clasped his hands on his chest. Tears formed in his eyes. Few people knew that Jody Backus, all 260 rough-and-ready pounds of him, was capable of crying. He made sure he did it privately, but the tears were real in solitude.

  “Jody, are you all right? You look very tired today, or very worried, or both.”

  He managed to smile, reached out and took one of her hands in both of his. “Just a little pooped, Lorri,” he said. “I think it’s time for you and me to get away, take a nice vacation, maybe go to
Paris, where you’ve always been wantin’ to go, then come back and spend a little time fishin’ with the kids. That sound good to you?”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “Sure does to me.” He patted her hand and released it. “Now, you get back in that kitchen and make sure those biscuits don’t burn. I need to be alone for a bit.”