Murder in the Smithsonian

by Margaret Truman

  “Want me to take you there?” the driver asked.

  “No, thank you. I suppose they have a checkroom inside. But thank you for offering.”

  “Sure. You’re British, huh?”

  “Scottish.”

  “They sound the same to me.”

  “Sometimes to me too. Thank you.”

  The checkroom was immediately to the right of the entrance. Heather checked her bags, put the receipt in her pocketbook and went to the Information Desk, where a pleasant woman with blue-tinted hair smiled and asked if she could be of help.

  “I’d like to see Chloe Prentwhistle, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I think she’ll see me. It’s about… about what happened here last night.”

  The woman’s face tightened. “Yes, just a moment.” She consulted a directory, dialed three numbers and told whomever answered that Chloe Prentwhistle had a visitor. “Your name?” she asked.

  “Heather McBean.”

  “Heather McBean,” the woman said into the phone.

  The woman listened, looked up. “You said your last name was McBean?”

  “Yes, Heather McBean.” She suddenly felt faint, realized she was very hungry.

  “Ms. Prentwhistle will send someone down for you shortly.”

  “What? Oh, yes, thank you.”

  Heather looked across the main floor to the Foucault pendulum, where a group of schoolchildren waited for the brass bob to fell another red marker. “I’ll be over there,” she said.

  She joined the children. They’d grown giddy as the moment drew near and, for a second, Heather forgot about what had brought her across the ocean, the jarring jangle of a telephone in the middle of the night, the faraway voice telling her something that was, at first, incomprehensible, then still unbelievable. Could one phone call topple her from the delicious heights of the past few months, send her into the deepest despair? It could and it had.

  Only weeks before, she had celebrated her thirty-fourth birthday and had never felt more alive and positive about her future. If there was a prime of life, this, she decided, certainly was it as the Mouton-Cadet Bordeaux claret and the warm outpouring of affection from her friends washed through and over her. She’d actually become tipsy that night, a rarity for her. Her uncle, Calum McBean, had once commented about her, “She looks, smells and acts like a woman, but she drinks like a man…”

  The children’s squeals of delight broke into her reverie as the next red marker fell. Seeing them so happy almost made her smile.

  “Ms. McBean?”

  Heather turned.

  “I’m Chloe Prentwhistle.”

  “Oh, yes, I…” She looked at the children. “It’s a pleasure seeing them enjoy it so—”

  “Yes. How fortunate they aren’t aware that it happened here—”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “The terrible business… Doctor Tunney… that’s where he fell. The police finished up what they had to do and gave us permission to…” The face she had been talking to suddenly slipped from view as Heather McBean sunk to the floor.

  “My God, she’s fainted,” Chloe Prentwhistle said, and called out for a guard to come help. “Immediately.”

  Chapter 5

  Heather awoke on a couch in Chloe Prentwhistle’s office. A physician stood over her, a broken vial of smelling salts in his hand. He checked her pulse. “You’ll be fine, you fainted.”

  Heather tried to focus on his face. Her stomach was queasy; there was ringing in her ears.

  “Here, my dear, take some tea,” Chloe said as she placed her hand behind Heather’s neck and helped her slide into a sitting position. “It’s not as good as you’re used to in England but it isn’t at all bad. It’s herb tea, hibiscus flowers, rose hips, apple… try it. Take a sip.”

  “I’ll be going,” said the doctor. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

  When he’d left, Heather breathed in the tea’s aroma, “It smells wonderful. I think I was just hungry.”

  “Of course. You’re looking much better. The color is back in your cheeks. What would you like to eat?”

  “Nothing right now, thank you. This tea will do me fine.”

  Chloe observed Heather closely. No doubt about her being Scottish—fair-skinned, black hair worn short and nicely framing her face, broad cheekbones and a sharp, definite nose appropriately sized to the rest of her face. She judged her to be about five four, someone who had to watch her weight.

  And if her physical features weren’t enough to confirm Heather McBean’s Scottish heritage, her outfit surely did. She wore a red, green and white pleated skirt in the MacBean clan tartan (the “a” had been dropped years ago from the clan’s spelling). Her white blouse was frilly and hugged her neck. The clan crest on her blue blazer was of a demicat, rampant and gules. The motto across the bottom of it read: “Touch not the cat bot a glove.” It meant, “Touch not the cat without a glove.” The MacBeans were famous for their combativeness…

  Heather put the cup on a table, stood up and went to a wall on which numerous framed photographs were hung. Chloe was posed in each picture with someone of note, a politician or a leading name in the arts world. In a group apparently photographed at a dinner, Heather recognized Peter Peckham. “You know Peter?” she asked.

  “Peter Peckham? I met him once, at dinner.”

  “Did you know Lewis?… Dr. Tunney?”

  “No, not really.” Chloe paused, then said, “You’re Calum McBean’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  Heather turned from the photographs. “Niece, actually, but raised as his daughter. Did you ever meet my uncle?”

  “No.”

  Heather returned to the couch, cradled the teacup in both hands, closed her eyes momentarily and then said, “I want to know everything about… how he died.”

  Chloe went to her desk and absently shuffled papers. She looked up over half-glasses. “Why do you have such interest in Dr. Tunney’s murder?”

  “Because we were engaged to be married.”

  “I didn’t know that. That sort of news usually travels fast.”

  “It happened a few weeks ago, at my birthday party. We only announced it to close friends.”

  Chloe almost congratulated her, but caught herself in time. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and joined Heather on the couch. “How terrible for you.”

  Heather lost her battle with the tears she’d been holding back. Chloe put her arm around her, and for a moment Heather allowed herself the comfort of the older woman’s embrace. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, “and thank you for being so understanding—”

  “I can’t imagine anything worse than what you’re going through…”

  “I’ve been denying the reality of it but I’ve got to face that it did happen. I’m left without him, he’s gone… now I must at least find out why he was killed. I have to know. Somehow I feel it’s all that’s left for me… to make some sense of this terrible loss…”

  Chloe played with a gold chain that dangled over a chocolate-colored turtleneck she wore beneath a tan pants suit. The pants drooped in the rear, and Heather couldn’t help notice that there was a sizable stain on one of the front pockets. Chloe’s hair was mousey brown, short and streaked with gray. She was close to six feet tall and in spite of her proportions managed to carry herself with a certain dignity. In any case, her black eyes seemed to shine with intelligence, and there was a sense of strength that some might find reassuring, or impressive, or both.

  “What can you tell me?” Heather asked after a moment’s silence.

  “About last night? Very little, I’m afraid. It just… happened.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk to Lewis before…?”

  “Yes, yes, I did. We chatted for a few minutes but he seemed distracted. I suppose it was his late arrival and wanting to collect his thoughts before he spoke.”

  “He seemed distracted before he left London too.”
r />   “Oh? Do you know why?”

  “No. I asked about it but all he’d say was that there was a problem he intended to straighten out in Washington and that he’d tell me about it when he came back. Do you have any idea what the problem was, Ms. Prentwhistle?”

  She shook her head. “I wish I could help. And please, call me Chloe.”

  Heather nodded, forced a smile, then narrowed her eyes. “He must have been killed because of the problem he mentioned, whatever it was…”

  “Not necessarily. The police are working on the theory that he accidentally came on thieves stealing the Harsa medal…”

  “Oh, yes, the medal. I wanted to talk about that with you. I don’t understand why it took so long to go on display after my uncle donated it to you.”

  “You should understand, working as you do in this field… Are you still with the British Museum in London?”

  “No. After Uncle Calum died I took a leave of absence to live at the castle and settle his estate. It was a bigger and more complex job than I’d bargained for. I’ve been there ever since. If things go as planned it will become a museum of sorts, open to the public. I’m still negotiating with Edinburgh officials.”

  “Did your uncle discuss his donation of the Harsa with you?”

  Heather shook her head. “May I have some more tea? It’s really good… You know, I never fully understood what went on between my uncle and the Smithsonian. His letters to you were so angry…”

  Chloe smiled as she took Heather’s cup. “Yes, they were, and I was on the receiving end. We were all delighted to have his donation of the Harsa but, as you know, we couldn’t consider displaying it until we conducted an intensive investigation to authenticate it.”

  Heather nodded. “My uncle was an irascible gentleman, as everyone in the field knows, but beneath that gruff facade was a very sweet and loving person. He raised me, you know, after my mother and father died in an auto accident.”

  “There’ve always been so many stories about Calum McBean. I suppose there’s never been a more ardent collector, at least not in my experience. I wish I’d had the chance to meet him,” Chloe said.

  “Very few had that opportunity. He was a true recluse.”

  “I know. That was such a bizarre year he spent before he died, disappearing like that, then reappearing. Everyone assumed he was dead.”

  “I knew he wasn’t.” Heather returned to the wall of photographs and looked at a picture of Chloe with William Oxenhauer. “Your vice president,” she said. “Lewis and he were old friends. Lewis looked forward to seeing him when he came to Washington. I wonder if they had a chance to talk…”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Do you think he would see me?”

  “The vice president? I’ve no idea. Why don’t you call him?”

  “I will.”

  “Better yet… I’ll call. How long do you plan to stay in Washington?”

  “Until I know for certain why it happened, and who did it.” She knew she was about to cry again, forced herself not to.

  Chloe came up behind and put an arm over her shoulder. “Where are you staying, Heather?”

  “At the Madison.”

  “Good. Why don’t you call me later today. If I’ve gotten through to the vice president I’ll let you know. At any rate, let’s keep in touch.”

  “Thank you. Oh, before I forget, I came across some additional Harsa papers in my uncle’s files.”

  Chloe raised her heavy eyebrows. “Really? What are they?”

  “Copies of other letters, notes taken during his year’s disappearance, nothing terribly important.”

  “I’d love to see them. Ever since your uncle donated the Harsa to the Smithsonian five years ago it’s become… well, like a part of my life.” She smiled and shook her head. “Frankly, I never planned for a major exhibit, but the vice president pressed for it and…”

  “I’ll make copies and bring them to you.”

  “I’ll be happy to make the copies. Just leave them with me and I’ll have the originals sent to the hotel.”

  Heather picked up her purse, which was the size of an attaché case, started to open it, stopped and said, “I think I’d like to keep them with me. I haven’t had a chance to read them carefully, and maybe doing that will divert me for a few hours. I’ll come back tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Whatever you say, Heather. Are you sure you’re feeling well enough to leave? Would you like some lunch, or a late breakfast?”

  “I’ll get something a little later. Thanks so much for your interest and concern. I thought of several people to contact here but you kept topping the list. I suppose your long-time correspondence with my uncle had a lot to do with that.”

  “I’m sure,” Chloe said. But her face, as she turned, showed a tightness she hoped she had managed to keep out of her voice.

  Chapter 6

  “I certainly appreciate what you’ve told me, Mr. Vice President.”

  “Let me make a further point, Captain. If this links to the murder of Lewis Tunney, that’s one thing, but if it doesn’t it could be used to reflect on one of this nation’s finest institutions. I trust you know how important the Smithsonian is to me.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “I don’t want to hear of it in rumors, speculation, or read it in the gossip columns. I’m putting a great deal of trust in MPD’s discretion.”

  “Well, sir, this is a murder investigation. I understand your concern, but it isn’t exactly the sort of information under the circumstances to withhold.”

  Oxenhauer was clearly annoyed. Hanrahan understood, but wanted to say, and didn’t, that Oxenhauer might be the V.P., but someone had just got killed. And that someone was, supposedly, his close friend. Or at least had been…

  “Captain, the timing of this is extremely unfortunate.”

  “Like they say, there’s never a good time to die, sir. Especially if it’s murder… Sorry, sir, I’m a little testy this morning—”

  “Don’t apologize. You have a right to be. But what I’m saying is that we’re a month away from this country’s most important national celebration, the Fourth of July. For the first time the Smithsonian is taking center stage, where it deserves to be. Any hint of scandal about it before the Fourth would be more than unfortunate. Especially if it proved out to be false.

  “What I’m getting at, Captain Hanrahan, is that unless there’s a compelling, an overriding reason for what I’ve told you to be made public, it shouldn’t be. Can you promise me that?”

  “I think so, sir. I’ll sure try, but if—”

  “Yes, I understand. All right, keep me informed of your progress. I’ve lost a close and trusted friend.”

  Hanrahan nodded. Chums forever… “Is Mrs. Oxenhauer feeling better?”

  “She’s coming to grips with it, I think. We all have to do that. Well, thanks for stopping by, and again, sorry about canceling out yesterday. It couldn’t be avoided.”

  ***

  Back at MPD, Hanrahan was about to go to a meeting of detectives assigned to the Tunney case when the desk sergeant called. “Captain, there’s a woman here to see you. She says it’s about the Tunney murder.”

  Hanrahan rolled his eyes up and reached for a Tums. It was about to start, the procession of crazies offering useless information and theories to match. The city was crawling with them, the lonely and slightly unbalanced, no one to talk to, nobody to give them a sense of importance. They called phone-in radio talk shows to report their latest encounters with men from Mars, or their personal miseries with uncaring relatives, stone-hearted social agencies, ex-spouses, and so forth.

  Recently, a demented young man claiming to be a nephew of James Smithson—the Smithsonian was named for him—had been leaving notes in Smithsonian museums threatening to blow them up if he didn’t receive his “rightful recognition.” So far no bombs had gone off, but it had become a nagging pain in the neck for Hanrahan.

  Hanrahan now
told the desk sergeant, whose name was Arey and who had a reputation for confusing phone messages, “Get her number and tell her we’ll call her back.”

  “She says she came all the way from Scotland, Captain. She says she’s the deceased’s fiancée.”

  “Tunney’s fiancée?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Heather McBean.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  “Hello,” Heather said.

  “Hello. I’m Captain Hanrahan. You were Dr. Tunney’s fiancée?”

  “Yes.”

  “You just arrived from Scotland?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know anything that you think might help us?”

  “Do you know anything that might help me, Captain? I was engaged to be married to Lewis Tunney. He’s been murdered in your city, in a leading museum, in a cold-blooded brutal fashion. The wedding is off, Captain, but I intend to stay here until I get some answers that…”

  Hanrahan had to smile to himself. She sure was Scottish. The anger and the brogue were thick. He told Sergeant Arey to have someone escort Heather McBean to his office, hung up and called Joe Pearl, telling him to put the meeting off an hour.

  “Why? Everybody’s here.”

  “I’m not there, and I won’t be for an hour.”

  “Okay, Mac, whatever you say.”

  ***

  Heather sat in the chair Hanrahan offered and crossed what Hanrahan noted were shapely legs, well muscled like a ballet dancer’s, or a woman who lived in a hilly city like San Francisco.

  “Is Edinburgh hilly?” he asked. It was the only city in Scotland that he could think of offhand.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “No special reason. I’ve never been there.”

  “No, it isn’t especially hilly. Windy, though. It’s in the Gulf Stream.” She smiled, and so did he. Hanrahan, she thought. No doubt about being Irish. Black Irish her uncle would have said, black hair, fair skin and green eyes in nonstop motion.