Murder on Capitol Hill

by Margaret Truman

  “Of course.”

  While Veronica was gone, Lydia wandered about the den, warming her hands by the fire, scrutinizing a cracked oil of Veronica’s father and photographs of Cale Caldwell with President Kennedy and actress Helen Hayes, and of Veronica laughing at something the composer and conductor Leonard Bernstein had said.

  Abruptly she felt terribly sad. She thought of the many evenings she’d spent in the den with the Caldwells and their friends—warm, casual moments full of laughter and good talk. There had been, of course, not such good moments, too, like when the first son Mark Adam had dropped out of college to join that cult he still belonged to. The family’s bitter disappointment about that often broke through. And of course Jimmye McNab’s death had left a lingering hurt that, in spite of Cale’s and Veronica’s attempts to submerge it, never was really far from the surface.

  Photographs of Jimmye that once hung in the den had been removed. The only tangible reminder that she’d been a member of the family was a leather-bound copy of the book she’d written about brainwashing and mind control that resulted from her research into the use of those manipulative techniques by government agencies.

  Lydia took the book from the shelf, opened it and read the inscription scrawled on the title page: For Mom and Dad, who chose to love and believe in me. Love, Jimmye. She closed the blue leather cover and was about to replace the book on the shelf when Veronica came back.

  “It was a good book, wasn’t it?”

  “To tell the truth, Veronica, I never read it. I always meant to get a copy but, like they say, the road to hell…”

  Lydia sat on the couch, and Veronica went to stand at the window. “Winter again…”

  “Soon… Veronica, I’ll really have to think very carefully about what you asked—”

  “Of course. Besides, I can’t guarantee you’d be accepted as special counsel. I mean, I suppose someone could say you’re not exactly impartial, being a family friend…”

  “I could be, I think. I like to think I’m fair, and the family and I would share a desire to see justice done…”

  Veronica smiled, came around behind Lydia and placed her hands on her shoulders. “Well, my dear, give it some serious thought. If you agree, I’ll suggest you to the people who’ll be spearheading the committee… Now, will you stay for lunch?” Veronica asked as she went to the door and observed Cale and Joanne in the living room.

  “Thanks, no, I’ve got to get back to my office… God, I really admire your strength, Veronica. I doubt I’d have as much under the circumstances.”

  “We do what we have to do, Lydia. Besides, some of it’s for Cale, and of course his brother… they deserve not to have me fall apart.”

  Lydia kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” She left the house and got into her car. Jason was nowhere to be seen. The state patrolman nodded to her, went back to his newspaper as Lydia turned her car around and headed toward the highway.

  Had she looked in her rearview mirror she would have seen Jason come around the corner of the house. He stood on the porch and watched her disappear into the grove of trees, then emerge on the far side. His boyish, handsome face framed by a helmet of loose, thick brown curls was now a tight mask of undisguised anger. He looked up into a slate gray sky, squinted against its uniform brightness, clenched his fists and entered the house.

  7

  At four o’clock the next morning Quentin Hughes glanced up at the clock in the studio from which he conducted his nightly radio talk show on WCAP. He’d dismissed that evening’s guest moments before because he felt the show had bogged down, preferring instead to take calls from listeners during the final hour.

  “To you after this spot,” his producer said through the intercom.

  Hughes looked at the multi-line telephone instrument on the table in front of him. All the buttons were lit, which meant that there were still people waiting to be heard. A red light flashed above a large expanse of window that separated the control room from the studio.

  “Quentin, what ever happened with that Jimmye McNab murder? I never heard any more about it. That was two years ago, even more, huh?” said a caller.

  Hughes pointed a long, slender finger at the control room. The caller was immediately cut off and a promo for an upcoming program played.

  Christa Jones, his longtime assistant, watched Hughes lean back in his orange padded chair, close his eyes and run his fingers though long, floppy hair. She was sorry the caller had brought up the Jimmye McNab murder. Quentin Hughes didn’t need any additional upset that night, and she knew that the mention of Jimmye’s name would have that effect. She hesitated, then said to him through the intercom, “We can play that twenty-minute interview again you did with the guy from the National Rifle Association… you look beat.”

  Hughes didn’t open his eyes. He remained silent until he realized that the commercial was coming to an end. “Yeah, do that,” he said.

  Hughes left the studio and went to the men’s room, where he was obliged to listen to his own voice through the speaker in the ceiling. He hated his voice—high-pitched and undoubtedly grating to those who heard it. He knew he mispronounced too many words… he’d never finished high school. But because his voice was not out of the classic announcer’s mold, and he tended to interview guests from very much the layman’s perspective, he’d been very successful. He was known as a character, an original, an instantly recognizable voice in the night. Of course, the fact that New York had eluded him and undoubtedly always would at this late stage in his career caused him occasional anguish, but it never lasted long. At least he was king in Washington. In New York, unique as he was, he might well end up lost in the scramble.

  The taped interview ended and Hughes closed the show.

  “Feel like something to eat?” Christa asked.

  “No, I’m for home. I’ll call you at noon.”

  She watched him amble from the control room and disappear around a corner. What she felt at that moment was exactly what she’d felt for most of the years they’d worked together. In the very beginning, when she’d first been hired by him in Des Moines, things had been different between them. They’d been lovers. But that hadn’t lasted long, and for the past fifteen years most nights ended up the way this one had—Quentin leaving the studio and she, after putting the night’s materials away, going to her own apartment, where she would feed her cats, make herself something to eat and eventually fall asleep. Habit was her life… but it wasn’t all that bad. What she’d had with this difficult, abrasive yet, in his fashion, consumingly committed man was something she’d never trade for one of those gray-suited gray men with brains and personality to match…

  8

  Lydia propped a bare foot up on a coffee table to begin applying polish to her toenails. She’d showered and washed her hair but had put off drying it until there was a commercial break in the golden oldie she was watching on TV. She wore a pink terry-cloth wraparound that matched the towel she’d wound around her head.

  Although it was Saturday, she’d woken up at her usual time, six o’clock, but had forced herself to stay in bed until eight. The week had drained her.

  Caldwell’s funeral had been on Friday, family only, reflecting the deceased senator’s wishes. A memorial service at the Capitol was scheduled for Monday night.

  Lydia had called Veronica on Friday morning. It was a hurried conversation because, in addition to the funeral, Veronica was taping Quentin Hughes’s TV show that afternoon at her house.

  “Have you given any more thought to my idea?” Veronica had asked.

  “I really haven’t had a chance, Veronica,” Lydia had told her, which was true. There simply had not been enough time to make such a decision. She’d called Clarence and had tried to arrange time together to discuss it with him but he’d had to go to New York for a day and night, and the crush of business had kept her to her desk until almost midnight on Friday.

  The commercial break she’d been waiting for arriv
ed, and she turned on the handheld dryer and directed the hot air over her head. When the film resumed, she clicked off the dryer and worked on her other foot.

  Clarence’s call coincided with the next commercial break.

  “How are you? Clarence, I need to talk to you… are you free later this afternoon?”

  “No, but how about brunch tomorrow?”

  “Okay, I’d planned to go to the office early and catch up on paperwork but… oh, I meant to tell you. Veronica taped Quentin Hughes’s show yesterday. It’s on tomorrow morning. He was scheduled to run an interview with Cale but he’s putting it off a week.”

  “She taped it yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “The grieving widow…”

  “Clarence, I know what you’re thinking, but don’t be so judgmental—”

  “I’m not being judgmental, Lydia, I’m simply reacting to what seems pretty bad taste. What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Noon?”

  “Meet me at the Four Georges. I’d pick you up but I’m being interrogated in the morning by someone from the MPD.”

  “They’re coming to your house?”

  “Yes. Your turn will come. I should be free by noon. See you then.”

  She lay back, extended her legs and scrutinized the work on her toes. The movie was no longer of interest to her. She thought about Cale’s murder and Veronica’s request that she become special counsel to a committee formed to investigate his death. She knew she had to face the possibility that the offer would become reality.

  She went to dinner that night with an attorney she dated from time to time. He suggested that they return to his apartment after dinner but she declined, mostly because she felt it wouldn’t have been fair to him. Throughout dinner she’d had trouble concentrating on what he said. Invariably her thoughts came back to the Caldwell murder.

  “Sure you want to pack it in so early?” her date asked as he escorted her to her door.

  “Positive. I’m sorry, please understand.”

  “I’d hoped we could talk a little about Cale Caldwell’s murder. I hesitated bringing it up at dinner because I was sure it was the last thing you wanted to think about.”

  Lydia kissed him lightly on the lips. “That was decent of you, Craig.” He pulled her to him and deepened the kiss, the pleasure of it setting off in her a series of very mixed emotions. The comfort of his arms, his hardness, were undeniably welcome. She lingered there, her face pressed to his until finally she pulled away. “I’m really not fit to be with tonight, Craig. I loved dinner. Thanks for not pressing.”

  “You know me, Lydia, the last of a breed—chivalry above all else.” He touched her nose. “Good night. I’ll call you during the week…”

  Lord, she thought, the perils of Lydia…

  ***

  She was up at five and by six had finished off her third jogging lap around the Reflecting Pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial. She stripped off her blue sweatpants and shirt the moment she returned to her apartment; then went through a series of sit-ups, toe-touches and side-bends, followed by a lovely needle shower. She dressed in a gray turtleneck sweater, navy skirt that flowed loosely around her knees, brown calfskin boots and a muted blue tweed jacket.

  She walked into her office, flicked on the lights and one of two television sets, removed the top from a container of black coffee she’d picked up on her way, leaned back in a leather chair and perused a client’s file she hadn’t had time to review on Friday.

  A local newscast sandwiched between religious programs used as its lead the fact that no new developments in the Caldwell case had been reported. The announcer added, “Senator Caldwell’s widow, Veronica Caldwell, is expected to make a major announcement today on the Quentin Hughes television show.”

  She concentrated on her paperwork until it was time for Hughes’s program, removed glasses she wore for heavy reading and watched as Hughes’s face filled the screen.

  “You’re about to spend a half hour with one of the most courageous women I’ve ever known. I’m Quentin Hughes. Stay tuned.”

  A public service message, then the camera zoomed in on Veronica Caldwell and stayed on her as Hughes said off-camera, “Just four days ago this nation lost one of its most able and important legislators, Senator Cale Caldwell. He was the victim of a demented, senseless act of murder.” The camera dollied back to include both of them.

  “Seated with me this morning is the widow of Senator Caldwell, Veronica Caldwell. She’s been gracious and brave enough to face these cameras and the public, not only to answer questions about this tragedy but to make a statement of profound importance to all of us.” He smiled at her. “Later this afternoon the governor of Virginia, the Honorable James P. Craighton, will announce that he intends to appoint Mrs. Caldwell to complete her late husband’s term.”

  Lydia sat forward and her eyes opened wide. Veronica had, indeed, an important announcement to make. But she had to smile at the way the announcement had been made. It was so typically pompous of Hughes to have made it himself, rather than giving Veronica that privilege.

  Hughes looked directly at his guest as he said, “I’d like to discuss with you your hopes and aspirations”—Lord, Lydia thought, didn’t anyone ever have anything but that awful cliché, “hopes and aspirations” in the public sector?—“as a member of the United States Senate, Mrs. Caldwell, but before we get to that, I know there’s another very important announcement you’d like to make, one that holds a very special place in your heart.”

  A second camera caught Veronica in a three-quarter profile. She appeared composed, though her right eye displayed a minuscule tic, and the horror of the past few days was manifested in the drawn expression around her mouth, the ineradicable fatigue in her eyes.

  “In honor of my late husband I’m establishing the Cale Caldwell Performing Arts Foundation. All donations will go toward fostering and supporting deserving young men and women who strive to develop and perfect their artistic contributions to our society.”

  “I think that’s marvelous,” Hughes said. “Your husband worked so hard in the Senate to see that the arts in America received their fair share of federal spending. I know he’d be a proud man today to see that his efforts will not go unfulfilled…”

  The rest of the interview provided little news and few revelations. Veronica told Hughes that there had been no progress in the investigation of her husband’s murder, although she was confident that it would be resolved within a reasonable period of time. Hughes asked about rumors that a special Senate committee would be formed to conduct its own investigation, and Veronica confirmed that this was in the works.

  Hughes went on to tell his viewers that an interview taped with Cale Caldwell just before his death and scheduled to be aired that morning would be seen at a later date. He added, “It was my intention to cancel the program with the late Senator Caldwell out of deference to his family, but Mrs. Caldwell, after viewing the videotape of the interview with her husband, has urged me to reconsider, I—”

  Veronica interrupted, “Cale would have wanted this interview shown. He spoke of legislation that was important to him, and I intend to try to bring with me into the United States Senate a continuation of his goals.”

  Hughes looked directly into the camera as it slowly moved in on him and production credits crawled up the screen. “I’m Quentin Hughes. Thanks for joining me.” For once his show wasn’t quite a one-man affair. He’d underestimated Veronica.

  ***

  Clarence was uncharacteristically late for his brunch with Lydia at the Four Georges, in the Georgetown Inn. She’d made a reservation in her name and was given a comfortable corner table in the George II Room, which was decorated in a desert motif—sand-colored mesa brick walls, low tables and banquettes. A large party at a table across the room centered around Senator MacLoon.

  Clarence arrived fifteen minutes later.

  “You’re late,” she said.

>   “I know, I’m sorry, we’ll have to find a new place.”

  “Why?”

  He nodded toward MacLoon’s table. “Certain politicians have a way of casting a pall over even the best restaurants.” A waiter delivered a bottle of New York champagne in a bucket, opened it and poured some into each of their glasses. Clarence sniffed his, took a sip, and launched into a change of pace. “Lydia, my advice to you is never offer a cup of coffee to a policeman when he’s questioning you about a murder, and especially when his nine-year-old daughter is taking piano lessons. When he found out about me he insisted on discussing music and whether his daughter’s teacher is taking the right approach.”

  “Did he ever get around to asking you about the murder?”

  “Eventually. Wanted to know whether I had any animosity toward Caldwell, whether we had had any business dealings, personal intrigues, mutual enemies, friends. As though I’d admit to any of that if I’d killed him.”

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  “No, except that his daughter won’t practice her scales. Well, what did you think of Hughes’s interview with Veronica?”

  “Mixed feelings. How about you?”

  “I only saw bits of it because he wouldn’t stop talking. From what I heard I’d say the lady isn’t wasting much of her widowhood.”

  “Which, I think, is to be admired. You did hear about her appointment to fill out Cale’s term in the Senate?”

  “Yes, and about the foundation in his name. Let me ask you something, Lydia, and promise you won’t have my head for it—”

  “I promise nothing.”

  “Do you think it’s at all possible that Veronica Caldwell could have privately envied her husband’s power so much that she killed him, or had him killed, to get his Senate seat?”

  Lydia looked around the dining room before leaning close to him and gently placed her hand on his arm. “See, no temper. The answer, of course, is no.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s so far-out. After all, there were those who speculated that Lyndon Johnson might have had something to do with Kennedy’s death in order to become President—”