Violet and I went up to the attic, and she opened a small cherry-wood case, where an ornately engraved, pearl-handled gun nested on a bed of blue velvet.
“The Boltons gave this to me two years ago for my birthday,” she said with evident pride.
I didn’t want to take it at first—not just because Gunner had told me I needed a permit, but because I’d never shot a handgun. I wasn’t particularly afraid of guns. My dad taught me to handle a shotgun when I was fourteen. He used to take me skeet shooting at a range on Long Island. I got so I was hitting more clay pigeons than he was. Mom hated guns, and she hated the fact that I liked to shoot skeet. For a while she called me her “little killer,” until Dad told her to quit it.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said, as Violet continued to press the gun on me.
“How’d you like to wake up some dark night with Bob Poll creeping up the stairs and you without any protection? This is a good gun. Grant’s practiced with it.”
That did it. I took the case with the gun inside and put it in my suitcase, along with a handful of cartridges.
My first night home, I got the jitters. Even though we’re all packed in closely in our little Georgetown row houses, I was still nervous about someone breaking in. Amend that: I was nervous about the serial killer breaking in. I’d installed an alarm system once upon a time, but cancelled the monitoring service a year ago to economize. The alarm might go off, but no one would come to my aid because it wasn’t connected to a central station. I lay awake in bed, glad I had that gun.
At breakfast the next morning, I began the tedious process of going through the stack of mail I’d neglected since Amber’s death. Among the bills and circulars, one letter stood out. The second I saw the ecru envelope with the congressional seal on it, I suddenly remembered that I’d stood up Senator Grider! The letter inside consisted of a single scrawled line: “You missed a good show.” It was signed, “Zachary Grider.”
I felt bad. I really did. But it was an honest mistake. I’d completely forgotten about his invitation in the wake of the murder. I found his card and called to apologize. I left a message with some aide, hoping it would eventually get passed up the ranks, never really expecting to hear from him again.
Chapter 30
Spring was here at last, and there were signs that things were picking up in the trade. Just as life was kind of getting back to normal, Rosina called and told me she and Martin were going to stay in Uruguay a while longer, and when they came back, she was going to work for her husband’s contracting firm. I was heartbroken, but I wished her luck and sent my love. I couldn’t help wondering if Amber’s death had been a factor in her decision. She recommended a friend of hers to take her place.
Polo Martinez arrived at the shop one cloudy morning and immediately brightened my day. Polo had been working in an art gallery on Connecticut Avenue, and he wanted a change. I spoke to him for five minutes and hired him on the spot. Like Rosina, Polo was born to sell. There’s nothing like a puckish, raven-haired gay guy with a Spanish accent to charm the ladies and the gents. He was a natty dresser in his designer jeans, driving shoes, Turnbull shirts, and a rainbow collection of cashmere sweaters that he wore slung around his shoulders. He was always on time and always in a good mood—which is more than can be said for myself. It was a pleasure to come to work every morning and see his smiling face.
As I got to know him, I learned that Polo was the Scheherazade of gay Washington. He loved regaling me with endless tales of his illicit trysts and descriptions of the male strip clubs around town, along with the prominent men who frequented them. Even I had no idea how many people led double lives around this town—men and women alike. Polo was not discreet, which I loved.
I was beginning to feel a little more hopeful about life, less apprehensive. Then one evening, I was home alone when the phone rang around nine. I picked it up, but no one was there. I figured it was a wrong number or a computer. It rang again about five minutes later, and the same thing happened. My phone didn’t register a number. It just read “Private Caller.”
A thought flashed through my mind. What if it was the serial killer, trying to find out if I was home?
It happened a third time, and I just let it ring. When it rang a fourth time, however, I’d had it. I picked up the phone and yelled, “Listen up, you bastard, whoever you are, you better quit calling me or I’m gonna sic the police on you!” I hung up. A few seconds later the phone rang again. I picked it up again and yelled, “Whaddya want from me?”
After a slight pause, I heard a soft raspy voice say, “Ms. Lynch?”
“Yes?”
“Zack Grider.”
I gasped. I was so embarrassed. “Senator! I’m sorry! I’ve been getting these crank calls, and I thought it was another one.”
Without missing a beat, he said: “You don’t like politics. You don’t like theater. You like Asian art?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You familiar with the Freer and Sackler Galleries?”
“Of course.”
“They’re having a shindig there tomorrow night. I’m dropping in for a look-see. Like to have you on my arm if you’re free.”
“Listen, I have to explain about the theater, I—”
“Explain it to me tomorrow night,” he interrupted. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll pick you up. Not taking any chances this time,” he said with his rusty-hinge laugh.
“Do you know where I live?”
“Yup. Got all that information. Wrote you a card, remember? Just need your e-mail address or fax machine number.”
“Why?”
“Gonna have my secretary send you a copy of the invitation with all the particulars.”
I gave him my e-mail address.
“Pick you up at seven sharp. Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said.
I hung up, somewhat amused. The phone didn’t ring again.
The next morning I opened the e-mail from Senator Grider’s office and found a nice note from his secretary, along with an electronic copy of the invitation for that night’s party. It read, “Cynthia Rinehart invites you to a special night at the Freer and Sackler Galleries to celebrate the birthday of Grant Bolton Jr….” Or words to that effect.
I simply couldn’t believe it. It was my impression that Senator Grider didn’t know Cynthia or Grant. And what in God’s name was Cynthia doing, giving a birthday party for Grant in the first place? And in a museum of Asian art, of all places! How this venue related to a man whose main passions in life were his bank, his fishing camp, and golf was anybody’s guess. To Grant, the Far East was the tip of Long Island, and his idea of Nirvana was a hole in one. Was this the hidden Grant—the Grant I didn’t know? Or was it simply a vast miscalculation on her part?
And there was another thing: how Cynthia got permission to give a dinner in those galleries was a mystery. Years ago, Violet had tried to organize a dinner there for the head of the Osaka Bank, who had done business with Grant. She even got the Japanese ambassador to intervene on her behalf, but there was just too much rigmarole with the board and everything, so she finally gave up and instead held the dinner at Evermay, a pretty little landmark estate in the heart of Georgetown available for rental. I suspected that Cynthia had once again pledged a ton of money to the galleries, a persuasive tactic that works far better than diplomacy in today’s world.
I called Violet, told her about the invitation. I offered not to go if she didn’t want me to. Much to my surprise, she was ecstatic. She’d heard about it already. She said: “Go! Wear a videocam and report everything back to me!”
Still, I was a little nervous. What would Cynthia do when she saw me there? Not to mention Grant.
Senator Grider rang my doorbell at seven o’clock. I invited him in for a drink, but he declined.
“I’ll take a rain check, if I may. Don’t want you to miss the exhibition.” He paused. “Like that outfit,�
� he said pointing to my midnight blue silk dress.
“Thank you. An effort was made.”
“Well, then, thank you.”
He showed me to his car, an old gray Buick, natch.
“I pretend this car is a red Porsche convertible,” he said as he started the engine.
“Why don’t you just buy a red convertible? It doesn’t have to be a Porsche.”
He cranked up a laugh. “Oh, you’re funny, you are.”
We started off down the block.
“Senator, let me explain about the theater, okay?”
“Only if you call me Zack.”
“Zack…”
I told him about Amber. He glanced at me as he drove.
“Oh, yeah, I think I read something about that crime. You’re saying that young girl worked for you?”
“Just for a week or so. My assistant left to get married, and she filled in. It was such a shock.”
“Oh, I can b’lieve that. Scary thing, murder. ’Specially when it comes close.”
“Has it ever come close to you?”
“Well, let’s see now…. I remember this minister shot his entire family when I was a boy.”
“Did you know him?”
“Nope. He lived in another town. But I never forgot it. Man of the cloth doing something like that makes you realize there’s real evil in the world.”
“Well, they think she was murdered by the Beltway Basher. You’ve heard of him, right?”
“Who hasn’t? I’m not as much of a one-tracker as people think.”
“What’s a one-tracker?”
“Person who keeps his mind on one track to the exclusion of everything else.”
“Well, anyway, I’m sorry I stood you up. I just completely forgot. I’ve been a little out of my mind.”
“Understandable,” he said with a nod.
“You should know something else too.”
“What’s that?”
“About tonight. Cynthia and Grant are not going to be pleased to see me there. In fact, she may ask me to leave.”
“’Cause she fired you, right?”
“Right. I didn’t know you knew Cynthia.”
“I don’t.”
“Oh. Do you know Grant?”
“Nope.”
I looked at him askance. “Then how come you were invited to this party?”
“I’m a United States senator. I’m invited places all the time by people I don’t know. This Rinehart gal’s invited me to a whole mess of things. She wants to give me some award—a brass ring or something like that.”
“A golden key?”
“That’s it…. Never went to anything of hers before ’cause it didn’t interest me. Now I’m interested.”
“Why?”
“Oh, just interested to have a look-see, is all. Maybe run into a few elephant bumpers.”
“What are elephant bumpers?” I asked, amused.
“People who think they’re big shots and only wanna hang out with other big shots…. ‘Babylon endures wherever human folly shines or human folly lures,’” he said with a chuckle. “Elephant bumpers are always fun to see.”
“Well, I warn you. Cynthia’s not going to be at all happy to see me. And Grant will probably bust a gut.”
“Both of ’em can bust away. Long as you’re with me, they’ll have to stick it,” he said, giving my arm a solid pat.
Chapter 31
The invitation stipulated that guests were to enter through the Sackler Gallery on the Mall side. Traffic was backed up in front of the serene classical building as cars inched their way into the circular cobblestone courtyard. A valet attendant took charge of the Buick and handed Grider a ticket. A guard checking names on a list recognized Grider as we entered the museum.
“Evening, Senator,” the guard said. Grider shook the man’s hand with genuine warmth. He seemed touched the guard knew him, rather than treating the encounter as a chore.
An attendant took our coats. The guard directed us to the underground galleries leading to the Freer. Grider offered me his arm as we walked down the diamond-shaped staircase together.
The first perk of the evening was the chance to view a special exhibition of ancient Chinese bronzes, which, unsurprisingly enough, had been made possible by the Cynthia A. Rinehart Foundation—a fact heralded by an enormous sign at the entrance to the rooms. We began our tour in the Sackler and continued on through the underground passageway leading to the Freer, where the dinner was being held.
Grider knew quite a bit about Asian art. He was explaining the finer points of a Shang Dynasty bronze brazier to me when I spotted Cynthia striding briskly through the exhibition, breezing by history as if she had only the future in mind. She was wearing a tight, heavily embroidered mandarin-style dress, the breast area of which featured a cutout designed to reveal her bosoms squished together like two large balls of Turkish delight. She ignored all but her most prominent guests.
Luckily, she didn’t see me. Grider and I had continued strolling through the exhibition when he suddenly raised his head and sniffed the air.
“Something’s burning,” he said.
I smelled it too. We quickly made our way upstairs to the Freer’s boxy reception room, where the aroma of sandalwood incense was intense. There was a sudden crashing sound, as if someone had knocked over a cabinet full of crystal ware. A few seconds later, another crash came.
“What in the heck’s that?” Grider said irritably.
Just then I spotted Greg the Spy, as I called him. Greg Boyd was a former schoolteacher who now worked as a majordomo for Couture Cuisine, one of the best caterers around town. In that capacity, he not only supervised big events such as this, he also saw to it that dinners and parties ran smoothly in the private homes of the most powerful people in Washington—including cabinet members, congressmen, the president of the World Bank, and the chairman of the Federal Reserve. He was privy to many sensitive dinner-table conversations. Greg knew what everyone really thought of everyone else, but he was trustworthy to a fault. Since he was way overqualified for his job, I always teased him about being a spy for some covert government agency.
I flagged him down as he was offering a tray filled with champagne flutes to passing guests.
“Greg! What’s with the crashing glass?” I asked him.
“That’s meant to be wind chimes, but the sound system isn’t working right.” Greg offered me some champagne, then said to Grider, “Can I get you a diet cola, Senator?”
“Yup, thanks,” Grider said. “This is almost as bad as the peacocks, isn’t it, Greg?”
“Almost,” Greg said with a smile as he walked off.
“What peacocks?” I asked.
“Greg and I were at the opening of this place years ago. They had these peacocks parading up and down the lawn. Two of ’em got into a fight, and there was blood all over!” Grider said with a guffaw. “I told Greg, let’s get those birds into Congress, and we can all join in!”
“So you know Greg?”
“Everybody knows Greg,” he said. “He was the only one my wife would ever let into our kitchen.”
Another crash. Grider and I both cringed.
“Oh, where is Cole Porter when we need him?” I said blithely.
“You like Cole Porter? He was a Hoosier, you know. Born in Peru, Indiana.”
“Do you make it your business to know where everyone is from?” I asked him.
“Just people I like a lot. And people I don’t like so much.”
“Doesn’t that just about cover the waterfront?”
“Nope. There’s a world full of people I don’t give a hoot-owl hoot about.”
At the far end of the room, a giant papier-mâché laughing Buddha on a pedestal loomed over the room like a macabre parade float. We went to take a closer look. Our skin glowed blue under the glaucous lights. We looked like a roomful of corpses.
Eight round tables set with brown tablecloths, orange gauze napkins, and black chopsticks sur
rounded the Buddha. The centerpieces consisted of glazed pink pagodas rising up out of beds of brown moss. These modern sculptures, capped with sloping tops, were slightly reminiscent of penises.
“This looks like a party for an Asian porn star,” I said.
“Never been to a party for an Asian porn star, or any porn star, for that matter. Have you?” Grider said.
“No. It was just a little joke.”
The Buddha was the only one laughing. The noise, the smell, the lighting, and the décor had dampened both of our spirits. In fact, all the guests seemed to be moving in slow motion, like they were in an aquarium.
I saw Cynthia chatting with several people, but Grant was nowhere in sight. It was getting late. We were all hungry. Then a voice rang out over the crowd: “Quiet, everyone! Grant Bolton is coming! Grant Bolton is coming!”
“Paul Revere at the Freer!” Senator Grider quipped, looking to me for approval. I rolled my eyes. “Didn’t like that one, eh?” he said.
“Senate humor, I presume?”
A smiled twitched across his thin lips. He seemed to like it when I teased him.
The crowd quieted down. Grider and I edged closer to the entrance. I wanted to get a good look at Grant. Finally he appeared, looking dapper in a custom-made tuxedo and black needlepoint pumps embroidered in red with his intertwining initials. He remained glacial despite the applause. Cynthia threw her arms around him and cried in a breathy Marilyn Monroe imitation, “Happy birthday, Mr. Bank President!”
“Now maybe we’ll get to eat,” Grider said.
Cynthia paraded Grant around the room like a show dog. When he caught sight of me, his face kind of crumpled with consternation. The next thing I knew, Cynthia was barreling toward me like a fist.
Mortal Friends Page 22
