Poisoned Politics

by Maggie Sefton

  “I knew she had a very reputable security company taking care of her properties, but I didn’t know about the camera over the front door. The video showed Wilson entering the house that evening, then later on, it shows some guy who looked like a repairman come to the door. Wilson went outside with him, then returned to the house. We figured the guy had car or truck trouble. Anyway, no one comes in or leaves the house for the rest of the evening. Samantha arrived about six thirty a.m. But something else caught my attention before Wilson even arrived that evening.”

  “What was that?”

  “It was something I noticed when Samantha was reversing the video. A guy showed up in the late afternoon. A young guy. Looked to be in his late twenties. Blond, short hair, kind of spiked. Casually dressed but nice. He was carrying some kind of envelope. Samantha said people stop by frequently, asking her housekeeper for directions. But I watched and he never rang the doorbell or knocked. Instead, he just left the envelope beside the door. But he looked all around first, then looked straight up into the camera.”

  I noticed that Casey’s gaze had sharpened on me. “Did Samantha recognize him?”

  “No, But she did get upset. When I asked if she’d ordered something to be delivered, she said no, but she knew who did.”

  “Who?”

  “Quentin Wilson. Apparently he used some Hill staffer with doctor connections to supply him with prescription sleeping pills and painkillers.” I watched Casey’s eyes widen. “Samantha said Wilson took Vicodin whenever he was really agitated and the sleeping pills weren’t enough.”

  “Did Wilson ever tell Samantha the guy’s name?”

  “No, but she remembered Wilson said the guy worked at the Congressional Research Service.”

  Casey stared out across the garden for a long minute. “And Ms. Calhoun told you about that video yesterday, which was Monday. That was a whole day after she discovered Wilson dead in her home. Did Ms. Calhoun tell the police about the video when they came to the house Sunday morning?”

  “She told me she just remembered it yesterday. But she did say she called her lawyer. He was supposed to deliver the video to the police yesterday afternoon. And I can tell what you’re thinking. This looks bad.”

  “It sure does. Waiting more than a day to remember you have a surveillance camera is kind of hard to explain, especially when it contains video that would help the investigation. Considering she’s also refused to say where she was that night, well … you can imagine how that looks to police.”

  “Not good, I know.” I stared off into the rose bushes once more.

  “Look, Molly, I’ll call my friend and see what he’s heard about the investigation into Wilson’s death. It could be routine suicide follow-up. But I’ll be sure to tell him this information you’ve discovered.”

  “Well, I thought police should know about this guy. Otherwise they might see the video and think he’s someone delivering an order. Meanwhile, I’ll work on Samantha.”

  I heard Casey’s cell phone’s ringtone cut through the familiar cicada background drone, and I backed away as he pulled out his phone. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said quickly before answering.

  I quickly retreated up the steps, summer morning heat rising around me. I could feel the dampness on my skin already. Expense spreadsheets were waiting for me in my office: Russell expenses and Brewster’s rental properties. The thickening humidity chased me inside and I closed the French doors behind me, escaping into the air-conditioned cool. Maybe I’d make that next cup of morning coffee iced.

  _____

  I tabbed through the spreadsheet columns, entering expenses as the string quartet played softly from the speakers I’d set up on the bookcase behind me. A Bach sonata. Nothing like Bach to order the mind. Brewster’s several rental properties were all occupied and yielding a profit after expenses. Always good news for property investors.

  Clapton’s guitar riffs momentarily overpowered Bach’s brilliant counterpoint. Brilliance in another form. I grabbed my personal phone and recognized my cousin Nan’s name and number flashing.

  “Hey, how are you? Are we still on for this Saturday evening? What can I bring?” I asked as I leaned back in the contoured chair.

  “Yes, we are, and food is all taken care of,” Nan said, her voice sounded like she was driving. “But we can always use more wine. There’ll be twelve or so, depending if our neighbors can make it.”

  “You got it. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “By the way, I was just at a client’s home discussing the dinner Deb and I are arranging for her, and her television was on in the kitchen. A morning news show was interviewing Congressman Wilson’s widow. She’s in town to arrange a memorial service for her husband before his burial in Ohio, but she suddenly started talking about her husband’s death and insisting it wasn’t a suicide, and how she wants it investigated, and on and on like that.”

  “What! When was this? Which channel?”

  “I don’t know because we weren’t in the kitchen long enough to find out. Plus, I was trying to listen to the reporter with one ear and my client with the other. But it was about ten o’clock or so. Wilson’s widow also made some reference to her husband’s ‘companion’ for the evening, as she put it. That’s not good. I wondered how Samantha’s reacting.”

  That definitely wasn’t good news. Now, not just Washington insiders but the general public would start to wonder about Wilson’s companion and ask questions. I felt a little muscle squeeze inside, realizing Samantha’s fifteen minutes of notoriety were about to begin. I had a sinking feeling that it would last a lot longer than fifteen minutes.

  “I’ll call her now and find out. Damn. What’s up with that Wilson woman? Widows are supposed to be grieving or sorrowful or at least quiet. Hell, I barely opened my mouth after Dave’s suicide, even with all those flash bulbs popping in my face.”

  Old memories suddenly reappeared before my eyes, sharp and startling. Me, standing outside our Georgetown rowhouse, my arms around my two little girls, trying to weave a path to a waiting limousine. Silently shepherding my tearful children safely through the press gauntlet. Speak? I was still shell-shocked. Walking into that grisly scene, finding my young husband lying in a pool of his own blood and gore. Half of his head blown away. Gun still in his hand. How could I speak. What could I say? I still didn’t understand. Not then, not now. Forgiveness, grudging and incomplete, had been slow in coming.

  “Yeah, I thought it was kind of strange too. That’s why I called. And don’t worry. Deb and I aren’t opening our mouths.”

  “Thanks, Nan. I know I can trust you two.”

  “That’s pretty good for Washington,” Nan’s tone turned lighter. “If you have two or three people you can trust in this city, that’s doing pretty good. Talk to you later, I’ve got a call coming in.”

  “See you Saturday.” I clicked off my cell and was about to call Samantha, then decided I’d take another stroll in the gardens outside. This conversation definitely required privacy. Besides, there was a gazebo in a garden corner that should have captured the afternoon shade by now.

  I took my mug of iced coffee and headed down the hallway once more. The Russell mansion had settled into early afternoon quiet. There was no entertaining scheduled for this evening, so no caterers were bustling about the kitchen or setting up in the living and dining rooms. My high heels echoed in the tall-ceilinged rooms and hallway as I walked.

  The heavy summer heat hit me in the face the moment I opened the glass door leading outside. I’d breached the air-conditioned cocoon. Stepping into the blazing sunshine’s glare, I pressed Samantha’s number on my phone and sped toward the gazebo, squinting. Why hadn’t I brought my sunglasses?

  Samantha answered on the third ring as I reached the gazebo’s hot shade. The wooden panels fairly radiated with the sun’s heat. I started to sit but jumped up the moment my
rear end encountered the super-heated wood. “Hey, how’re you doing?” I asked.

  “Surviving,” Samantha’s drawl drew out the word. “Trying to keep my head down and stay out of sight, if you know what I mean.”

  I did. “I figure you’ve heard about the Widow Wilson’s television interview. Nan just called me about it. I missed it.”

  “Ohhhhh, yes. I had several calls alerting me so I was able to tune in. She definitely lives up to Quentin’s description of her, I’ll say that.”

  “Apparently she insisted Wilson’s death wasn’t a suicide. What’s up with that?”

  “I have no idea. But I suspect we’ll all find out shortly. I sense this woman has found she likes the spotlight and attention. I could just see it radiating off her. I mean, you and I have been around a long time, girl. Some people use tragic events to advance themselves. I recognized those signals coming off her. Big time.”

  “Unfortunately, I know what you mean. Let’s hope she revels in her late husband’s reflected spotlight and then heads home.”

  “Don’t count on it. My sources tell me the Widow Wilson has been conferring with Ohio politicians. Word is she’s lobbying to be appointed to fill Quentin’s seat until the next election. Given how much Quent said she’d donated to the Governor’s last campaign, I’d say she is a shoo-in. She must be, because my mice also said Quent’s chief-of-staff Natasha Jorgensen has already left for Congresswoman Chertoff’s office.”

  I pictured the dynamic congresswoman from Iowa. “Well, that was a smart move on Natasha’s part. Sally Chertoff is sharper than most. She’ll go far, I predict. And her staff will rise with her.”

  “Sally will be lucky to have Natasha. She’s super smart and has great instincts. She was Quent’s right arm.”

  “Then she’ll be better off in Chertoff’s office. Listen, Nan said the Widow Wilson also made some reference in that interview about her husband’s evening companion. I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Samantha made a genteel snort. “Nor do I. But, I’m bracing myself for more. You and I were guessing that she ordered those photos and had copies, so it looks like we were right. I have no idea how much this woman knows about me, but I have the feeling I’m about to find out.”

  “Dear God …”

  “Oh, yeah,” Samantha sighed wearily. “And if she’s mad enough to turn vindictive, then it will get ugly. Quentin broke her cardinal rule. Keep it private.”

  “Well, at least the photos have been kept out of the papers,” I said, trying to find something reassuring to say.

  “So far. And pray that it stays that way. Like I said before, the police assured my lawyer that the photos were secured and sealed in their files. God, I hope so.” Her voice grew softer.

  I could feel Samantha’s vulnerability come over the phone, and I responded automatically. “Listen, Samantha, I’m coming over tonight. I know you’re staying out of the public eye right now, but you also need someone to talk to who isn’t on the other end of a phone line. And don’t argue with me. I’ll run home and pack a bag and come over as soon as traffic allows.”

  “Aren’t you and Danny going somewhere this evening? I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

  I could hear the smile in her voice, and that made me feel better. “Nothing to interrupt. Danny’s still down south in Virginia, consulting. Apparently some additional meetings were scheduled. Then he’s got a trip to the West Coast scheduled as soon as he returns. So he’ll be gone for a while.”

  “Well, that’s sweet of you to come over, Molly. I … I appreciate it.”

  I heard the telltale beep that signaled she had another call coming in on her line. “It’s the least I can do, Miss Thing.”

  “My lawyer is ringing. Talk to you tonight.”

  “Later,” I said, hearing her click off. Mentally running through my schedule, I rearranged some errands I’d planned for tonight. Considering I had to return home to pack an overnight bag, that would allow the worst of the traffic to move over the bridge and up the G.W. Parkway to McLean. Another half hour would really help. Hmmmmmm, maybe I could pass that time checking the news channels. With luck, I could catch a replay of the Widow Wilson’s interview on the evening news. I wanted to see her in action.

  seven

  Wednesday evening

  “Did you see those two interviews on the news?” Raymond asked. “One this morning and another a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes, I saw them both.” Spencer’s exasperated sigh sounded over the phone. “Damn. I have to admit I didn’t see this coming. Who would have thought Wilson’s widow would come to Washington and raise a stink. She’s a grieving widow, for God’s sake!”

  Raymond stood beside his office window. The turn-of-the-century rowhouses across the street were being demolished for new buildings. Probably another high-rise condo to block out his view. He sipped his creamy coffee. Double cream to coat his ragged throat. He’d said to hell with cholesterol years ago. Calories be damned as well. “It’s a tabloid TV world, Spencer. Everybody wants their fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Spencer snorted. “Fame, my ass. I’ve been asking around ever since this morning’s interview and it seems Sylvia Wilson has ambitions of her own. She wants to take over her husband’s Ohio seat. And she’s prepared to call in her markers to do it. Her family’s money helped the governor get elected twice, so he owes her big time.”

  “Sounds like she’s a natural for Washington already,” Raymond observed, watching a crane lift a metal beam from the skeletal remains of the building across the way. “I’m sure the others won’t be too happy hearing all this extra publicity. Would you like me to run a deeper check on Sylvia Wilson?”

  “Actually sources are already coming out of the woodwork. It seems Sylvia is a grade-A bitch and has run roughshod over her husband’s congressional staffers these last few years. So they’re anxious to tell everything they know about Congressman and Mrs. Wilson. And they know a lot.” Spencer’s good-natured chuckle sounded once more. “Larry Fillmore is taking extensive notes.”

  “I’ll bet. Well, let me know when you need additional services,” Raymond said, settling back into his desk chair, his desk spread with papers and books.

  “Absolutely. Meanwhile, relax and enjoy the melodrama. The Widow Wilson may not know it yet, but she’s given us the perfect way to counter any suspicions about her husband’s suicide. With the sleaze media’s help, of course. Watch for it.”

  “Welcome to Washington politics, Widow Wilson,” Raymond laughed, aggravating that cough, despite the cream.

  _____

  I rang Samantha’s doorbell and instinctively glanced up toward the carved floral medallion above the two double doors. Unable to resist, I smiled and waved in the general direction of the hidden camera.

  “Come on in, sugar,” Samantha said as she opened the door. “I’ve got your Cosmo chilling even as we speak.”

  Music to my ears. “Now, that’s the kind of welcome a girl appreciates. Especially after evening traffic.” I set my purse and travel bag on a nearby table. “First, let me give you a hug. You need one.”

  “You are so right,” she said, squeezing me as we hugged. “Thanks so much for coming over tonight. I appreciate it more than you know. Especially after watching the latest news.”

  I followed Samantha into her huge kitchen. “What do you mean? I caught the evening news at six. Did that woman give another interview or something?”

  “Ohhhhhh, yes.” She handed me an iced martini glass with the divine pink mixture, then sipped from her crystal glass, filled, most likely, with her favorite bourbon. “I recorded it so you could see for yourself.”

  I could tell from her tone of voice that this interview would not be pleasant to watch. So I took a large sip of my Cosmo as I followed Samantha down the hall to her library office. On an empty stomach, the vodka would hit me fast. “I ha
ve a feeling I’m not gonna like this.”

  She picked up the television remote control. “Friends have been calling all day. They’re mad as hell. Unfortunately, I’ve stepped on a lot of toes in this town over the years, so all those folks are rubbing their hands in glee, no doubt.” She pushed more buttons and the TV video footage ran backwards for a few seconds, then started to play.

  I sank into a moss green velvet upholstered armchair near Samantha’s and watched as a news anchor appeared. “What channel is this? I don’t recognize the people.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “That’s because it’s not local, it’s a tabloid TV program. All the sleaze that’s fit to broadcast. If it’s on tape, it’s good enough.” She took another sip. “And here we go.”

  I watched as another reporter appeared beside the woman I recognized from the local evening news program I’d seen earlier. Widow Wilson, looking as composed and professional as before. “Great outfit, by the way. I can smell the money over the airwaves.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Samantha smiled. “Quent was always making jokes about her clothing bills. Now, it starts.”

  The reporter held the microphone toward Widow Wilson and she proceeded to repeat the concerns she’d expressed earlier. She’d spoken with the police and wanted her husband’s death “fully investigated” because she had “questions.” The reporter probed, asking her if she doubted it was suicide. At that point, Widow Wilson looked straight at the camera and answered, clearly addressing more than the reporter.

  “I do not believe my husband committed suicide. That’s why I want police to thoroughly question the woman who owns the home where Quentin died. I have no doubt this woman was with him when he died. And this woman needs to tell police what she knows. Quentin confessed to me about their affair that very evening. And he was flying home to Ohio to see me the next day. Those are not the actions of a man who’s about to commit suicide.”

  “Do you have any idea of the identity of this woman? Could you share that with us?” the reporter asked.