Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  “Yes, very upsetting. I suppose it’s only just begun, the scandal, the publicity, the nasty reports.”

  “It may not be as bad as you think,” Smith said. “We can hope that they’ll find who did this and put it quickly to rest.”

  Merle grimaced. “I’ve been saying for years that Good Shepherd shouldn’t be open night and day. We have the dregs of society coming in here at all hours—addicts, alcoholics, criminals. This is the result I feared.”

  They were joined by the talented choirmaster, Wilfred Nickelson, whose boys’ choir had performed ably during the funeral service. “Excuse me,” Nickelson said to the others. He asked Merle, “Have you seen Joey Kelsch?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t show up this morning. I was worried.” Then to Mac, Annabel, and Doris Vickery he said, “Our best young singer, flighty but extremely talented. Not like him to simply not be here.” He turned again to Merle. “Well, I thought I would ask. I’ll call his parents. Perhaps he took ill and went home without informing anyone. A breach of the rules, but Joey is a difficult boy.” Nickelson went off to the phone.

  The Smiths stood on the steps of the south entrance and watched Doris Vickery join other members of the family at the limousine.

  “Free for lunch?” Annabel asked.

  “Lunch? At a time like this?”

  “It’s not the food, Mac. I want some time to sit down with you so you can tell me what’s gone on here this morning.”

  “Of course I will, but let me find out a little more before we do that. Why don’t you go home. I’m going back in to talk with the bishop and Terry Finnerty. I’ll meet you there in an hour or so.” She was disappointed at being excluded, but he said that he felt it better, at least at the moment, to pursue this alone.

  “I’ll stop by the gallery,” she said. He kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “Mac,” she added, “don’t get roped in.”

  He knew she was referring to his involvement with the case of the Kennedy Center murder the past year. He’d pledged to her—more to himself—that despite his excitement and commitment when getting involved, he would remain forever esconced happily in academia as professor of law at George Washington University.

  “Mac.” She didn’t need to say more.

  “I know, I know, but I do owe the bishop a little more of my time, considering that he brought me into this thing this morning—and that the man who was murdered married us. Go home. I’ll join you soon.”

  Her look said it all.

  It was always easy getting into something, a lot harder getting out.

  Of anything, including debt, affairs, marriage, murder … especially murder.

  7

  That Afternoon—Mostly Overcast Now

  Smith never did make it home for lunch with Annabel, and she would not be pleased. He called twice from the cathedral to say he was still involved in sessions with the bishop but would return as quickly as possible. She responded to his first call with understanding and kindness. His second call was met with the start of the Irish iciness of which Annabel was capable, although she seldom displayed it, making its infrequent use that much colder.

  Eventually—it was sometime after three—he walked into their Foggy Bottom home. “Sorry,” he said cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to be there so long.”

  “Evidently,” she said.

  “Don’t be angry, Annabel. I couldn’t simply walk away from George and this situation he’s in. He’s very distraught, as you can imagine. He needed a sympathetic ear.”

  Annabel looked at him for a moment, then said, “And what do you need?” before walking into the kitchen. Smith followed, came up from behind, placed his hands on her shoulders, and said gently, “I don’t understand your anger, Annabel. Most of all, I don’t understand your not understanding.” He almost added that his immediate concern was that the cynical adage about good relationships being ruined by marriage might be about to take place in his own life. Now that he was a husband, did that change the rules? Was he now involved in greater accountability to Annabel than had been the case when they were simply going together? They had never lived together because, for both of them, that would have represented a tactical mistake if nothing else. Did she have to approve his every act?

  He didn’t have to ask. She turned and said in a steady, well-modulated voice, “Mac, has marriage changed us already?”

  Her taking the words out of his mouth left him without words. For a moment. “Of course not,” he said. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “Because you’re acting different. Before … before we became man and wife, you involved me completely in everything you did. When you got suckered into the mess at the Kennedy Center, you wanted me at your side. You even dispatched me to New York to talk to that slimy lawyer, and I was with you every step of the way. Now a friend of ours is murdered; another friend—who also happens to be bishop of the National Cathedral—asks for help, and you send me home to make a tuna-fish sandwich for my man when he returns from the wars!”

  He coughed, stepped back, and frowned the way he usually did when a student in his advanced criminal-procedure class asked a question he was not prepared to answer. “You know, Annabel,” he said, “one of the things that attracted me to you was your independence. After all, you are the owner of a flourishing gallery. Murder … law is really my domain.” It was a mistake, and he knew it the minute he said it. Annabel Reed had been a successful matrimonial attorney in Washington before chucking it for her primary passion in life—aside from Mac Smith, of course—her gallery of pre-Columbian art in fashionable Georgetown.

  She said nothing, but a hint of a smile indicated what she thought of his comment.

  “Yes, I know,” he said, “you are an attorney. But you didn’t deal with criminal matters. George is seeking my counsel because the ramifications of Paul Singletary’s murder are substantial. George is primarily concerned that someone from the cathedral staff might have killed him, not a drifter or drug addict, as most people are speculating. I understand his concern, and want to be helpful. I’d think you would expect that of me. Both of us have been involved, at least to some extent, with the cathedral.”

  She sighed. “Of course I want you to help. I just don’t want you to get in too deep. I just … I just don’t want …”

  He stepped close to her again and placed his strong hands on her shoulders. “You just don’t want what?”

  A mist formed in her large green eyes. “I just don’t want to be treated like a disposable wife, or see you throw away your own new life.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “But you are my wife. As for my new life: in no way disposable. How would you prefer I treat you?”

  “I meant the law school, and I mean the way you used to treat me, like an object of your affection, your mistress, your concubine, your fille de joie.”

  He listened patiently. “You didn’t mention ‘partner,’ ” he said.

  “I don’t want to be your partner, not exactly.”

  “But you said you wanted to be involved in Paul’s case. That makes you a partner.”

  “A limited partner.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that I don’t want to spend my day dealing with murder, but I would like to spend part of my day being at your side, being useful. Besides, I make lousy tuna-fish sandwiches, and you know it.”

  “Done!” He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “To be honest with you, Annabel, it’s easy for me to give in. Now that I’ve spent time with George and others at the cathedral, I really don’t see much need for me. Okay, I am once again a college professor, and you are my obscenely beautiful, talented, brilliant, and successful wi—uh, wanton harlot.” He was tempted to turn her toward the bedroom, but there was something unseemly about that idea for the moment. Would he have hesitated before they were married to dismiss the nasty brutish business of murder and then act upon his carnal, lover’s instincts? Had marriage changed them?
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br />   Hell, no, he decided, wishing he were more convinced.

  For the rest of the afternoon he graded papers, while Annabel went back to her gallery to pay some bills. She returned at six, and they settled in front of the TV to watch the evening news.

  Singletary’s murder was the lead story. The police issued a terse statement—the priest had been murdered by an unknown assailant, the method of death a blow to the head. His body had been found in a chapel of the National Cathedral. There were no leads at the moment. The body had been discovered by a woman, identity unknown, whereabouts unknown. The tag line on the newscast: “Former top D.C. attorney Mackensie Smith, now a professor at George Washington University, has been retained by the cathedral in this matter. Stay tuned.”

  “Damn,” Mac said, pouring himself a small glass of Blanton’s bourbon over ice.

  Annabel was sitting on a couch. She’d changed into a Kelly-green silk robe over nothing else, and was flipping through the latest issue of Art in America while watching the news. In her hand was a delicately shaped balloon glass with a small amount of white wine. She looked up. “Have you been retained by the cathedral?”

  “Can’t they get anything straight? Of course not.”

  “Have you told George that you would do more?”

  “No. Well, I did say that I would do what I could to make his life a little easier … give some advice, that’s all.”

  Annabel smiled, the sort of smile Mac could do without and this for the second time that day. “Uh-huh,” she said with deliberate sweetness, returning her attention to the magazine.

  The phone rang, not an unwelcome interruption for Smith. It was a reporter from The Washington Post, who wanted to confirm a rumor that Smith had been retained by the cathedral to defend one of its clergy in the Singletary murder.

  “Nonsense!” Smith said.

  Other calls came over the next hour, each an attempt to run down a rumor concerning Smith’s involvement, or a likely suspect.

  “Let’s go out for dinner,” Smith said after hanging up on yet another caller.

  She shook her head. “Put the answering machine on. I’d just as soon bring something in from the American Café.”

  “All right. What’ll you have?”

  “Mac.”

  “Yes?”

  “Reality has set in. You are going to be up to your neck in this, aren’t you?”

  “An overstatement, but yes, I do feel I have to help find the murderer of the man who married us.”

  She smiled gently and genuinely. “I understand. What will you do first?”

  Smith sat down next to her and shrugged. “I told George I’d make some inquiries here and also while we’re in London.”

  “Inquiries about what?”

  “About Paul’s movements there prior to his returning to Washington. About whatever we can learn here about motives and such.”

  “The trip to London is our honeymoon. You are aware of that?”

  “Of course. And remember that we decided to combine business and pleasure. I have to address that group of barristers, and you wanted to trace down leads on those Tlatilco female masks. I’m not suggesting an extensive investigation of what Paul did in London, just some questions. Jeffrey Woodcock should be helpful. I’m eager for you to meet him. He’s a nice guy.” Woodcock was a highly respected London solicitor, whose firm’s clients numbered, among others, the Church of England. He and Smith had been friends for many years, and when Smith and Annabel were planning their honeymoon, Smith had called Woodcock and arranged for them to meet for dinner.

  Annabel continued to browse through the magazine. She lowered it to her lap and said, “I’ve been thinking a great deal about Paul Singletary.”

  “So have I. Hard not to.”

  “I’ve been thinking about his death, of course, but there’s more. He was so charming, and so committed to good deeds … but that’s really all we knew about him.”

  “What else would you like to know?”

  She shrugged.

  “We never know everything about anyone. If we did, no one would ever get along, or marry.”

  She laughed. “How true. Maybe I’m just naturally suspicious … no, skeptical, or at least wary, of anyone in the limelight here in Washington. How much do we really know about the whole life of Paul Singletary?”

  “Wary? Even of me?” Smith said.

  “Especially of you.”

  Smith grunted. “I’ll have to ponder that. What’s your pleasure?” he asked as he pulled a restaurant takeout menu from a drawer.

  She tossed the magazine to the floor and sat up straight, the folds of her robe falling loose and exposing the slope of one lovely white breast. “You’re my pleasure, Mr. Smith.”

  “Are you about to make conjugal demands on this aging body?”

  “To the contrary. I am abandoning my role as a wife, and reverting to the whorish role that I enjoyed for so long before we got married.”

  “You’re sure this is the time for sex, Annabel? There’s been a murder in the national place of worship, of all things.”

  “And nothing will change that. If I am going to lose you so early in my marriage to your need to meddle in murder, I insist upon due compensation.”

  “What about dinner?”

  A tall woman, she stood up and allowed the robe to fall in a soft green pile around her feet. Nude, she looked down at him and said, “Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be hungry. But if we are, I’ll play wife again and whip up a sandwich for my dear husband. I make excellent tuna-fish salad. Or hadn’t you heard?”

  With a rolled-up magazine, they convinced Rufus to vacate the king-size bed, and for twenty minutes or so—neither was counting—forgot about everything except themselves. Murder would just have to wait.

  8

  Friday Morning—Sunny, but Rain Forecast

  Long before the automatic coffee maker had a chance to trip on, the phone started ringing. Two calls were from press people; the other was from the bishop, who asked if Smith had time to meet with him late that afternoon. Smith said it looked like a full day, with two classes, one a seminar, but that he would find an hour. They settled on four o’clock at St. James’s home.

  “What should I tell others who call?” Annabel asked sleepily. She stood near the front door in robe and slippers as Smith prepared to leave for the university.

  “Tell them I expired,” he said, slipping into his raincoat.

  “Don’t even joke about something like that,” Annabel said.

  “Tell them there is no sense in calling me, because I have no official connection with the investigation of Paul’s murder.” He kissed her on the cheek, then changed his mind, found her lips, and pressed hard. “I wish I had time to stay around. You exude a certain heightened sensuality early in the morning.”

  “Don’t feel you’ve missed anything,” she said. “I exude a certain exhaustion but I’ll be out of here in a half hour. Lots going on at the gallery today, including a meeting about the fund-raising exhibition we’re doing for St. Albans.” St. Albans was the Episcopal church on the cathedral grounds that served a local congregation. Annabel had recently taken over a vacant store next to her gallery in Georgetown and promptly committed the new space to St. Albans’s mission fund for a showing of artists who had some connection with the church. It would take a month for renovations on the gallery’s addition to be completed; the exhibition was scheduled to be hung in six weeks.

  Smith took Rufus for a long walk before going to his class. Rufus needed the exercise and Smith needed to think. They wandered Foggy Bottom, an area of Washington defined by Eighteenth Street on the east, Constitution Avenue on the south, the Potomac River and Twenty-sixth Street on the west, and Pennsylvania Avenue on the north. Originally a malarial marsh incorporated as Hamburg but called Funkstown after Jacob Funk, who’d purchased the original land, it eventually became known as Foggy Bottom, an unkind reference to the foul emissions produced by the many industries that once had b
een settled within its boundaries. Today, it is an attractive neighborhood that is home to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, George Washington University (the second-largest landholder in Washington after the federal government), and the departments of State and Interior. It had been Mac Smith’s home ever since his wife and son were killed and he’d left his luxurious Watergate apartment suite and bought the narrow two-story taupe brick house on Twenty-fifth Street, its trim, shutters, and front door painted Federal blue, its rooms devoid of painful memories that had started to suffocate him as a Watergate widower.

  He returned Rufus to the house, and after carefully checking his briefcase, which he had checked and repacked the night before (he could not go to sleep without having prepared his briefcase for the following day), and taking his raincoat from the closet, as rain was predicted, headed for Lerner Hall. A reporter from the Post was waiting on the front steps, along with two uniformed officers from the MPD.

  “Mr. Smith, could I have a word with you?” the reporter asked. One of the officers motioned Smith to approach them. Smith excused himself with a word to the reporter and went to where the officers stood. “Mr. Smith, we tried you at your home, but your wife said you’d left.”

  “Yes, I took a walk. My dog and I, that is. What can I do for you?”

  “Chief Finnerty would like a word with you.”

  “Now? I have a class to teach.”

  “He said for us to bring you to him as quickly as possible.”

  “You’ll just have to tell him I won’t be available for the next two hours.”

  “I’ll call in,” the other officer said. He returned from the squad car and said, “The chief says we should wait for you, Mr. Smith. He says you should teach your class, but that he would like to see you right after it.”

  Smith looked at his watch. “All right, but you have two hours to kill.”