“ENTERTAINING …
Truman has always been a stickler for authenticity. Accordingly, she does well here with her close descriptions of her imposing setting and with the details of the religious business conducted there.”
The New York Times Book Review
“All the bodies and blood, sex and surprise, intrigue and excitement Truman has given readers in the past are here again, this time melodramatically illuminated against a Gothic backdrop of stone and stained glass.”
The Washington Post Book World
“Truman writes with a deft hand and a wry sense of humor. Her knowledge of Washington and the National Cathedral delivers a satisfying you-are-there feeling and the mood, while still churchy, is eerie. Mac and Annabel Smith make an enjoyable husband and wife mystery team. Let’s hope there’s more sleuthing to come their way and ours in the future.”
Mostly Murder
“EXCITING …
Let’s just hope that Truman decides to use Annabel and Mac in more mysteries.”
The Indianapolis News
“An excellent story, in keeping with Ms. Truman’s reputation as a top-notch storyteller.”
The Chattanooga Times
“An irresistible plot, an aura of utter authenticity about Washington people and places.”
The Raleigh News & Observer
“What is most fascinating about this and her other novels is the possibility, because of Truman’s insider knowledge of Washington, that much of this fiction is really true.”
Grand Rapids Press
“Truman writes convincingly about both the landmarks and the political moving and shaking that goes on in their back corridors and closed rooms.”
Winston-Salem Journal
“WELL PLOTTED, WELL WRITTEN AND SUSPENSEFUL.”
Midwest Review of Books
“Another excellent whodunit by an author who knows both the Washington scene and whose characters are totally believable and interesting.”
Abilene-Reporter News
“Truman spins a good tale.”
San Antonio Express News
“Once again, Truman ushers the reader into a little-known sector of our nation’s capital, showing that even the religious world has its share of infighting and political backstabbing. Her fans will be delighted by this latest effort.”
The News & Courier [Charleston, SC]
“The tangled plot involves secret service agents, a playboy priest, jealous husband and a worldwide peace organization that may not be peaceful.… Will keep the reader turning pages.”
The Sunday Oklahoman
Murder at the National Cathedral is a work of fiction. The characters in it have been invented by the author, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The story is also fictitious, and no such crime as described has taken place at the National Cathedral. The National Cathedral had no participation in the creation of this book.
A Fawcett Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1990 by Margaret Truman
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
FAWCETT is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Excerpt from the hymn on this page is from Hymnal 1940, published by the Plimpton Press. Copyright 1940 by the Church Pension Fund.
ISBN 978-0-449-21939-3
eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-5283-9
This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.1
To Wesley Truman Daniel with love from Gammy
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Other Books by This Author
“This church is intended for national purposes … and assigned to the special use of no particular Sect or denomination, but equally open to all.”
Pierre L’Enfant 1791 Plan for the City of Washington
“… a national house of prayer for all people.”
The Congress of the United States—1893
“Here let us stand, close by the cathedral. Here let us wait. Are we drawn by danger? Is it the knowledge of safety, that draws our feet
Towards the cathedral? What danger can be …?”
T. S. Eliot
Murder in the Cathedral
“Someone has been murdered in the cathedral.”
The Right Reverend George St. James, bishop of Washington
1
The National Cathedral, Washington, D.C.—A Very Hot Morning in August
“Dearly beloved, we have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and woman in Holy Matrimony.”
Mackensie Smith, contented professor of law at George Washington University, formerly discontented but preeminent Washington, D.C., criminal lawyer, told himself to focus on what was about to happen. He’d been thinking moments before about what an ambivalent structure a cathedral was, even this relatively new addition to the world’s cathedral population. So much majesty and awe—so much stone—so much bloodshed in the older ones over centuries. How inspiring these Gothic monuments to the simple act of believing in something greater and good, and how dangerous, as with all religion, when in the hands of creatures who get carried away and misuse the potent metaphor of faith.
Those thoughts banished, Smith glanced to his left. The stunning, mature woman who would become his wife in a matter of minutes turned to him and smiled. Annabel Reed had reason to assume that his thoughts at that tender moment were only of his adoration and love for her. She was largely correct, although her husband-to-be had room in his capacious mind for less romantic contemplations. He was also wishing that the priest conducting this ceremony in the Bethlehem Chapel of the National Cathedral weren’t compelled to be quite so formal. Smith understood, of course, that there was a certain amount of religious boilerplate that had to be indulged. Still, he would have preferred something a little less stiff, perhaps something between an elaborate high mass in the cathedral’s nave, and a last-minute midnight, minimal, bread-and-butter ceremony in an Elkton, Maryland, justice of the peace’s home.
The priest, Paul Singletary, paused after intoning the tender words from the Book of Common Prayer, and smiled at Smith and Reed. The couple had known him for a time; Smith went back six years with him. Mac Smith was a close friend of the cathedral’s bishop. George St. James was out of town that week, which was not the reason Smith hadn’t asked him to officiate. It had more to do with what Smith termed “a reasonable level of modesty.” Asking the bishop to marry them would have smacked of a certain overkill. Just a priest would do fi
ne, thank you, especially one known to them.
Smith again looked at his bride. A tiny drop of perspiration was proceeding on a slow but steady descent down the right side of her lovely aquiline nose. Should he reach over and remove it? An affectionate gesture certainly, but probably not good form, so he didn’t. Outside, the final days of August in the nation’s capital had turned, characteristically, viciously hot and humid. It was cooler here in the chapel below ground-level, but even God’s natural stone air-conditioning was wilting under the meltdown that Washington called summer. Carved figures of King David with his harp and Ruth with a sheaf of wheat looked down from their niches on the south wall as though they, too, might begin perspiring at any moment. The Bethlehem Chapel, one of four in the cathedral’s substructure, was the first to be completed. Since 1912 it had been the site of many services, and was the church home over the years for the services of various denominations—Polish Catholic, Jewish, Russo-Carpathian, Serbian, Greek Orthodox. A national cathedral.
Reverend Singletary looked once again at the Book of Common Prayer. Smith looked into the priest’s eyes. Was he amused at something? He seemed to be, Smith decided. Marriages made later in life always had a different aura from that accompanying the ritual of officially coupling the young for the first time.
Smith was widowed; his wife and only child, a son, had been slaughtered on the Beltway by a drunk driver. Annabel Reed had never married, although, God knows, more than a few attractive and successful men had energetically pursued the idea. That she had decided upon Mac Smith was flattering to him. But not humbling. No false modesty here. Smith was a handsome man by any standard, slightly taller than medium, stocky and strong, hair receding slowly and within acceptable limits, face without undue deficits.
Annabel’s beauty was even less debatable. Playing the whom-do-you-look-like game, which Smith detested (his least-favorite version of it being “Which of us do you think the baby looks like?”), it was inevitable that Rita Hayworth was mentioned. Yet Annabel was more beautiful than any actress, at least in Smith’s eyes. She was, to put it simply, the most beautiful female creature he’d ever seen, not much at acting, for she never put up a false front, and rather nice to boot. By virtue of the ritual being performed here today—all day?—she would be his wife. Let’s get on with it, he thought. Enough.
Though any clergyman could make a determination as to whether the lawfulness of a proposed marriage was in question, Smith was surprised when Singletary chose to invoke that medieval section of the marriage ceremony. “If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now or else …” he said, allowing scant time for the clearing of a questioner’s throat, much less speech, “forever hold your peace.”
There was a silence that Smith hoped was not pregnant. The Bethlehem Chapel seated 192 people; thirty of their close friends, including a few former members of Smith’s law firm who had forgiven him for closing it down following the deaths of his wife and son, were clustered up front.
Mac’s thoughts were on only one person, however—Tony Buffolino, a disgraced and dismissed former Washington MPD vice-squad cop whom Mac had once defended, and who’d become an unlikely friend in the best odd-couple tradition. If anyone pretended to raise an objection to the marriage just for kicks, it would be a character like Buffolino. Mac turned his head slightly, saw Tony, who winked at Mac, started to raise his hand, brought it down, and lowered his head.
Paul Singletary smiled at her as he said, “Annabel, will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”
“Oh yes, I will,” she said with unmistakable cheer in her voice.
Singletary repeated the vow to Smith, who replied, “I will,” in a surprisingly gruff, emotional voice.
Smith looked to the choir loft, where four members of the cathedral’s boys’ choir—the few who preferred music to baseball in August—had gathered to sing. Later in the service they would perform Annabel’s favorite hymn, “Wilderness,” the choice of which had pleased Father Singletary because of its humanistic, contemporary theme.
Singletary read the verse beginning “Love is patient; love is kind” from I Corinthians, and the four boys got through “Wilderness” rather quickly; the usual tempo seemed to have been accelerated by a third. Mac Smith approved. He was also impressed, as was everyone else in the chapel, with the strong, bell-like voice of one of the boy sopranos, whose tones rang out above the others.
Soon, it was time to exchange rings. Annabel had virtually no family. She had friends, of course, but her hectic schedule as an attorney-turned-art-gallery-owner and almost constant companion to Mac Smith had severely limited time to cultivate and nurture friendships. She was being given “away” as a wife by his mother, Josephine Smith, as spry and sparkling as a split of champagne, a tiny woman who lived in the Sevier Home for the Aged in Georgetown, a facility operated by the Episcopal church, and who often said that she considered Annabel as much a daughter as she did Mac a son, and sometimes more. Smith’s best man was the new dean of GW’s law school, Daniel Jaffe. Josephine Smith and Jaffe handed the rings to their respective charges.
Mac and Annabel Smith slipped the gold bands on their ring fingers, and Singletary blessed them, concluding with the familiar “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”
“Amen,” said their friends.
As Mac and Annabel knelt (It’s always the knees that go first, Smith thought), Singletary intoned the final blessing of their union. They stood. They kissed. Eyes met eyes.
“The peace of the Lord be always with you,” said the priest.
“And also with you,” came the reply.
After the ceremony everyone went outside, where friends took quick point-and-shoot photographs, delivered quick point-and-kiss greetings to Annabel, and grasped the groom’s hand, with an occasional teary kiss for him, too. Properly, they congratulated Mac, who said in mock modesty, “It was nothing,” and added, “just a four-year chase.”
“Going on a honeymoon?” one of Smith’s colleagues at the university asked him.
“London, but not right away. Somehow it seems you don’t take an instant honeymoon at this stage in your life.”
Another professor laughed. “You two have been on a honeymoon for years.”
“I suppose we have,” Smith said, not precisely caring for the innuendo in the comment.
Tony Buffolino came up and extended his hand. He was accompanied by his third wife, Alicia, a waitress he’d met at the Top of the Mark in San Francisco, where he, Smith, and Annabel had gathered while solving one phase in the murder of a presidential aide at the Kennedy Center. Afterward, Smith had got Buffolino a job as a security guard at the university. But Alicia came along with grander ideas. They now owned what Buffolino fondly referred to as the only Vegas-type cabaret in Washington, minus slot machines, of course.
“You did good, Mac,” Buffolino said, in his best congratulatory style. Alicia kissed them on their cheeks. “Such a beautiful couple,” she said.
“Frankly, I’m glad it’s over,” Smith said. He looked at Annabel. “You?”
“Frankly, I’m glad we’ve begun. Besides, I love weddings,” Annabel said. “Maybe we could do this every couple of months. Don’t forget, Mac, I’ve never been a bride before.”
Father Singletary joined them. It was said that many women in the parish were in love with him. He was a tall, fine-looking man with a shrewd gentleness to his eyes and a wide, smiling mouth that women naturally responded to, a man self-assured without much—though with just a touch of—vanity. Singletary seemed, as Ralph Waldo Emerson had written, created of “God’s handwriting.” He took Smith’s and Annabel’s hands and grinned. “I was certain somebody would protest this marriage,” he said.
“Who would protest it?” Smith asked.
> “Me. I’ve been mad about this woman ever since I met her.” Singletary smiled down at Annabel. “I suppose the fact that you’ve chosen a lawyer rather than a man of God says something about you.”
“In God we trust, all others pay cash,” Annabel said.
“If this distinguished legal beagle doesn’t work out, Annabel, call me,” the priest said.
“Don’t wait by the phone, Paul,” said Annabel, laughing. “And thank you for making us one.”
“My pleasure. Well, excuse me. I have a funeral to prepare for. The cycle of life.”
“Birth and death,” Tony Buffolino said, pleased that he was able to contribute to the conversation. He always felt awkward around clergymen.
“Yes,” said Singletary. “And marriage and …”
“Divorce?” said Smith.
“Fortunately, the church doesn’t have a ceremony for divorce,” Reverend Singletary said. “Maybe someday. Or the rite of blessed separation.” He laughed.
“Not for us, thank you,” Annabel put in.
“Better not be,” said Singletary. “If you do, find another priest.”
“No divorce,” Smith said. “No separations. Just ordinary, routine bliss.” He hugged his wife.
“All best,” Singletary said. “I’m off to do the funeral. Then London tonight. I have to go there often.”
As the man who had married them walked away, Smith’s thoughts returned to where they’d been at the beginning of the ceremony. Odd. He looked up at the graceful portal above the flight of broad steps leading to the cathedral’s south entrance. The carved, dominant figure of Christ stood with His disciples at the Last Supper. Death? Resurrection? Fact or fiction? No matter, not if one believed—or didn’t.
A black cloud crossed the sun.
Mac was glad they’d eschewed any suggestions of a party following the ceremony. He wanted them to be, as the song says, alone together.
“Come on, Mrs. Smith,” he said, “let’s go home.”
2
Lambeth Palace, London— Two Months Later. A Windy, Cold, and Wet October Tuesday. “Decent Day,” the Locals Said.
Murder at the National Cathedral Page 1
