“No, thanks. I’ve seen them enough times.” He walked on.
Gunner seemed weighed down by something. I figured his reaction had a lot to do with the nature of the job. The homicide police deal with such sadness and horror and wasted lives every day. Maybe after a while, it’s hard for them to get excited even if they do solve a case, because they know it’s just one tiny chip off the iceberg of evil. But, as always with Gunner, I felt there was something else he wasn’t telling me. Something important.
Chapter 33
I come here for the chocolate fountain,” Grider said as we stood in the reception line, waiting to say hello to the Sahalas. Rashid Sahala was the ambassador of Otann, a small, progressive, oil-rich Arab state in the Gulf. However, it was his wife, Nouria, who had put the tiny country on the social map. Since their arrival in Washington seven years ago, Nouria Sahala had raised the profile of the embassy higher than the price of oil. She courted important people with enviable determination, yet remained fiercely loyal to her friends, especially when they were no longer in power. Owing to the changes in political fortunes, her larger parties had swelled to the size of football rallies in order to accommodate all the has-beens and the have-nows, as well as up-and-comers who showed promise, and her constant core of close pals.
I saw a lot of people I knew that evening. I waved to Peggy and Rolly Myers, to Molly Raft, an artist and famous Georgetown hostess, to Tessa Winston, whose husband John started the Kennedy Center Honors years ago, to Greta Dalton and her husband Lon, whose small, elegant dinners boasted an international guest list and were a required social stop for any new ambassador in town, to Justine and Lander Marx, who had a billion-dollar art collection in their elegant modern house, and to Nan Liddell, a well-known art dealer who often bought things for her clients in my shop. The dreaded Marge Horner accosted me and acted very friendly.
“Reven! I haven’t seen you in ages!” Marge said, immediately turning to Grider. “And Senator, how nice it is to see you too!”
Grider had that do-I-know-you look on his face, but he shook her hand and acted cordial.
“Who’s that again?” he asked me when Marge flounced out of sight.
“Someone you want to avoid,” I said.
I knew from Violet that Nouria wasn’t that fond of Marge, even though Marge was always offering to give her dinners and luncheons and teas. But Nouria was also a kind soul who understood how much social life meant to Marge, so she always included her in the large parties, but never at the small dinners.
Grider and I finally reached our host and hostess, who introduced us to the guests of honor—the Otanni foreign minister and his wife. Nouria made sure that a photographer captured Senator Grider shaking hands with her husband and the minister. Then she posed with all of them herself. She was very good at her job. She said a warm hello to me and pulled me into one of the pictures. Grider said to the photographer, “I’d like a copy of that one, please.”
Formalities over, Grider and I wandered into the main entertaining room, a large square space with delicately carved lattice walls. A circular fountain, covered with colorful floral mosaics sat in the center of the tiled floor, its tall spout dribbling water down into an azure pool. Rose petals floated on the water, giving off a sweet scent.
“So where’s the chocolate?” I said.
“Different fountain. Follow me.”
Grider led me across the room, where a group of guests were crowded around what looked like a pedestal with a basin on top. Protruding from the center of the basin was a spigot spewing out liquid chocolate. Waiters in long white coats stood at attention, holding silver trays filled with juicy fresh strawberries and sliced oranges on long wooden skewers. Grider plucked two skewered strawberries from a tray and held them under the cascading chocolate. In seconds, they were coated in sweet chocolate. He popped one into his mouth and handed me the other to try. The chocolate enhanced the flavor of the strawberry, and vice versa. It was a delicious treat.
“Best dessert in Washington,” he said.
Grider helped himself to another chocolate-covered strawberry, then looked around the room.
“’Scuse me a second. There’s someone I need to talk to,” he said and abruptly walked away.
I stayed by the fountain to experiment on my own. I was running an orange slice under the chocolate waterfall when another skewer playfully nudged mine aside.
“Ah-ah, no chocolate barging.” I laughed, turning around.
The man holding the dueling skewer was Bob Poll. I felt a jolt of something—I’m not sure if it was embarrassment, shock, nostalgia, or what exactly. But whatever it was, I just stood there like an idiot, staring at him, holding the dripping orange slice over the fountain.
“Long time, no see, Reven,” he said. “Come on over here and talk to me a sec.”
I’m not quite sure why I followed him over to a corner. I told myself it was because I was interested to hear what he had to say about all the events that had transpired since we last met. But it was more than that. I still felt a tug of attraction.
“So how are you, beautiful?”
Beautiful? How long had this guy been married?
“Fine thanks, Bob. How are you? How’s married life?” I asked him breezily.
“Unfortunately, it’s just how I remembered it,” he said with a smirk.
“Do I dare even bring up the subject of Maxwell?”
Bob shook his head. “What a shock, huh?”
“Was it?” I said pointedly.
“Damn right. The guy had great references. He worked for the Dumonts, for Chrissakes. I’ve been dealing nonstop with the cops and the press…. Nightmare. It’s been pretty tough on Mel, too. Not exactly the perfect way to start out.”
“I can imagine,” I said, recalling the tell-all articles written by Bob’s ex-girlfriends.
“Listen, uh, I was very sorry about your, uh…that girl who worked for you.”
“Amber.”
“Amber, right.”
“You saw her, you know.”
“I did?”
“Yes. That day Maxwell came to drop off the cookie tin. You looked at her through the shop window. She thought you were cute.”
“I don’t remember. I was looking for you.”
“I was there. You could have come in.”
Bob lowered his voice. “Listen, I, uh…I know I should have called you, Rev.”
“About Maxwell?”
“No, well, yes…but I mean before that. I should have called and told you I was getting married. I feel bad about that.”
“Just out of curiosity…why didn’t you? Were you afraid I’d throw a hissy fit?”
“Let’s just say my bride had some jealousy issues.”
“Really? But you were seeing Melody the whole time we were going out, weren’t you?” I knew this from Gunner.
He cocked his head to one side. “Who told you that?”
“Oh, you know Washington. So many little birds with such big mouths.”
“I don’t know who told you that, but it’s not true,” he said unconvincingly. “So is this thing with you and Grider serious?”
I stepped back and looked him up and down. “You know what, Bob? It’s none of your fucking business.”
With that, I turned on my heel and walked off. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Melody making a beeline for Bob. She didn't look pleased. I turned away. Grider was in a corner, talking to a man I vaguely recognized. They both stood with their arms crossed, tilting slighting toward one another like giant bookends. Grider caught sight of me and waved me over.
“Reven Lynch, Sam Pomador.”
We shook hands. “Ms. Lynch,” Pomador said with a smile, exposing a set of tombstone teeth.
Pomador patted Grider on the back and said, “Glad we had this conversation, Zack. I’ll be seeing you. Nice to meet you, Ms. Lynch.” He walked off.
“Who’s that?”
“You really don’t know who anyone is, do ya? Sam Pomad
or’s one of the longest-serving senators in history. He’s the Senate’s pro tempore emeritus and a senior member of some very important committees. He also happens to be chummy with your pal, Ms. Rinehart. He’s on her board.”
“I thought he looked familiar. There’s a picture of him in her office. Tell me something, what horse died so Senator Pomador could have his teeth?”
Grider roared with laughter. He sounded like a clanking engine.
“He wants me to go on her board,” he said at last.
“Will you?”
“I don’t go on boards. It’s not in the public interest.”
“Violet introduced Senator Pomador to Cynthia, you know. And then he got a lot of influential people to go on her board.”
“I’m not surprised. Sam’s a persuasive man…. Well, I’ve had my look-see. Let’s go get some dinner. You like fish?”
Grant and Cynthia were arriving just as we were leaving. They were part of a large crowd. They pretended not to see us, and we pretended not to see them.
Chapter 34
Tucker’s was a simple, no-frills restaurant on Connecticut Avenue, just down the street from Politics and Prose, one of the last independent bookstores in Washington. Grider said he liked it because he could have a meal and then go buy a book, or the other way around if he was dining alone. The home-style eatery had a bar at one end, long wooden communal tables in the center, and smaller tables off to the side. It smelled of homey cooking aromas. The host knew Grider. He greeted the senator warmly and showed us to a table for two in a darkish isolated corner. I sat on the wooden banquette. Grider sat opposite me on a chair. My paper placemat was decorated with engravings of all the U.S. presidents. Grider’s placemat featured a map of the United States. Our utensils were folded into red-and-white-check paper napkins. The setting was about as romantic as a fishing camp.
The host handed us menus and took our drinks order. I ordered a glass of white wine. Grider ordered a beer.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.
“Beer’s not drinking. Beer’s a food group,” he said with a grin.
There were only two appetizers and two entrées to choose from. Grider recommended the iceberg lettuce wedge topped with blue cheese and the whole grilled bass.
“This place is part-owned by a Greek fella,” he said. “Trust me, the Greeks know how to grill fish.”
Our drinks came. The waiter took our orders, and we relaxed.
“How’d you ever find this place?” I asked him, trying to hide the skepticism in my voice.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” he said. I got the feeling he was referring to more than just the restaurant.
“Saw you talking to your old friend Bob Poll. I was glad to hear he got married,” he said.
“Really? Why is that?”
“’Cause it meant you weren’t going out with him anymore…. Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Depends.” I braced myself.
“You ever get your twenty thousand dollars from the Rinehart gal?”
“No. Unfortunately.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“Just wondering, that’s all.”
“How come you’re so interested in Cynthia?” I asked him.
“She’s an interesting gal. She made a big splash with that hundred-million-dollar contribution to the Kennedy Center. Got my attention.”
“She got mine when she ran off with my best friend’s husband.”
“Mr. Potomac Bank. That’s what I call a keeper.”
“Please…I hate her, okay? She’s ruined my friend Violet’s life. She stiffed me. And I’ll tell you something else. She makes these splashy contributions, gets all the publicity, then she withdraws them on some flimsy pretext.”
Grider’s eyes narrowed. “You know that for a fact?”
“Absolutely.” I told him about Constance Morely’s lupus foundation and the rumor about the Folger. “Violet’s keeping track of everything. She’s obsessed with Cynthia. She’s even got a private detective checking into her background. If you want to talk to someone about her, talk to Violet.”
“Uh-huh. What else did your friend Violet tell you about her?”
“Well, it’s no secret that Cynthia thinks she owns the Kennedy Center. I guess in a way, she does. You should talk to Carmen Appleton and Peggy Myers about that. They have to work with her. You know what Peggy told Violet the other day?”
“Like to hear it.”
“Peggy’s the president of the Capitol Symphony, as you know. Well, apparently, Cynthia isn’t happy with Leonid Slobovkin, the conductor.”
“I’m a symphony goer. I know Maestro Slobovkin.”
“So his contract’s up this fall, and Cynthia wants Peggy to appoint Nelson Mars as the new conductor. Nelson Mars!”
“Who’s that?”
“You never heard of Nelson Mars? He’s this pop conductor. He’ll make Beethoven sound like Beyoncé.”
“Who’s Beyoncé?”
“Never mind. Nelson Mars isn’t the right person for that orchestra, okay? And furthermore, Peggy doesn’t want him, and she’s the president, so it should be her choice, right? But the Trailblazer is butting in.”
“The Trailblazer?”
“Oh, that’s what we all call Cynthia because that’s how she referred to herself in that big article in the Post. She said, ‘Call me a trailblazer.’ So that’s what we call her. Except that she’s blazing a trail straight to hell, if you ask me.”
The waiter set down our appetizers as I rambled on with other grievances. Grider sat there like a big blotter, chomping on his lettuce wedge, soaking it all in. When I’d finished my spiel, he said quietly, “I don’t know why you ladies think Ms. Rinehart owns the Kennedy Center.”
“Because she gave them a hundred million dollars, that’s why. She who gives the most money owns,” I said, as if it were obvious.
Grider leaned back in the rickety chair. “Well, now, as a matter of fact, she hasn’t given them the money yet. In fact, she doesn’t ever have to give it until Congress comes up with the matching funds.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Kennedy Center’s a creature of the federal government. That’s why the chairman and the board members serve at the pleasure of the president. He appoints them. The hundred million dollars Ms. Rinehart has pledged is contingent upon a matching grant from Congress. Provision for that grant is tacked onto the Energy Bill, which is stalled in committee at this moment. I know this ’cause I’ve been trying to get it passed.”
“Wait…. You’re saying she never has to give the money?”
“Not unless that bill passes.”
“What are the odds?”
“Ice cube’s chance in Hades.”
“So you mean to tell me she’s gotten all this publicity and recognition for money that she’ll never give?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
I was amazed. “How come people don’t know about this?”
“A lot of people do. But Ms. Rinehart also gives a million dollars a year to the center, which is independent of that grant.”
“Yes, but she practically spends that on the parties she gives there. And meanwhile, she’s making big splashes all over town by donating money, getting a lot of attention, and then finding some excuse to withdraw the funds. Look what she did to poor Constance Morely. The minute Constance introduced her to the prime minister, she reneged on most of the pledge.”
“Sometimes it’s not so easy to renege on a pledge. Some of these big fellas make you sign a commitment, and they’ll sue you sure as shootin’ if you try and get out of it.”
I shook my head in disgust. “And this is the woman who Grant Bolton thinks walks on water.”
“Well, now the Boltons are a philanthropic family. They have a big foundation. They do a lot with no fanfare. Old school.”
“I know. I told you, Violet’s my best friend. She’s going to be very interested to
hear this. So, would you say that Cynthia’s doing anything illegal?”
“Well, now, that depends on if she’s violating any regulations.”
“What regulations?”
“The regulations governing the status of a 501(c)(3) foundation, which is a charitable, nonprofit, gift-giving foundation. See, now, if you were a little more interested in politics, you’d know that I am very interested in foundations.”
“Why?”
“Why am I interested?”
“I mean, why foundations particularly?”
Grider put down his knife and fork and leaned in across the table. Watching him answer my question was like watching a piece of coal warm up and glow.
“Foundations in this country gave away close to forty-three billion dollars last year. Philanthropy is big business. Any time big amounts of money are involved, people are gonna try and cheat the system. It’s just human nature. I don’t like it when rich people cheat. I don’t like self-dealing. I don’t like it when the well-off and the well-heeled use a charitable foundation to line their own pockets. I like charity to go where it belongs: to the needy, the poor, the suffering, and the deserving. I’ve held hearings on foundation abuse. I’ve called for legislative action to stop it. And yet it continues because people are greedy, and greed fuels greed. There’s a dangerous feeling around that once people get theirs, they are free to do as they please, and laws don’t matter. Well, let me tell you something, young lady,” he said, his eyes burning with indignation, “a country cannot survive on the impropriety of its wealthiest classes.”
Grider slumped back into his chair and sipped his beer. He looked sheepish, like he knew he’d gotten carried away. It was the first time I’d seen real passion in the man.
“Wow. You really care about this issue, don’t you?” I said.
“Yup. I do. You know in the Bible where it says it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven? Well, that’s why rich people invented loopholes—so they can get into heaven without suffering,” he said.
Mortal Friends Page 24
