Murder in the Smithsonian

by Margaret Truman

  Hanrahan went inside the museum, and on to Chloe’s office. She was on her way out when he got there.

  “It’ll only take a minute,” he told her.

  Back in her office, he said, “Miss McBean told me she gave you some documents or papers that related to the Harsa. I’d like to see them.”

  Chloe looked annoyed. “You know, Captain, we are all on the same side here. Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t feel that way.” She picked up an envelope from her desk and handed it to him, obviously trying to hold back a blast of her indignation. “I just went through them. They’re quite meaningless, sad to say, although it’s always nice to have anything connected with a display.”

  “Can I take these with me?”

  She gave him a look. “Certainly. May I also copy them first? It will only take a minute. I shan’t smuggle them out.” She told her secretary to make the copies. “Anything else, Captain?”

  “Well, I know you’re annoyed with me, Miss Prentwhistle, and maybe I even sympathize with how you feel. In my work you do and say things that don’t win popularity contests. Anyway, yes, there is something else…” And he proceeded to tell her about his confusion over the number of mannequins in the First Ladies’ Gown exhibition the night of Tunney’s murder.

  She laughed a genuinely hearty laugh. “I don’t wish to make light of your powers of observation, Captain, but I assure you that there have never been more than seven first ladies behind that glass since Margaret Brown Klapthor put the whole concept of the exhibition into motion.”

  Hanrahan smiled more pleasantly than he felt. “I guess you’re right, Miss Prentwhistle. It’s been driving me crazy, that’s all. I’m usually pretty good at counting heads.”

  The secretary returned with the photocopies for Hanrahan. He quickly compared them to the originals, handed them back to Chloe Prentwhistle and left the museum, feeling frustrated, vaguely angry, and a little foolish.

  Chapter 14

  “How are you this morning?” Hanrahan asked Heather. He’d called her at the hotel and from the sound of her voice had apparently awakened her.

  “Fine, thank you…” She yawned. “I don’t much care for your television but stay awake until ungodly hours watching it.”

  “Join the club,” Hanrahan said. “By the way, I hear you raised so much hell with Officer Shippee she’s about to ask to be relieved from her guard duty.”

  “It all seems so silly. Things have calmed down now. No sense spending your taxpayers’ money needlessly, and I honestly do feel uncomfortable with her being about—no reflection on the woman, of course.”

  “I’m sure. We’ll see though. This is really our business… well, anything I can do for you?”

  “I don’t think so. Chloe Prentwhistle has arranged a meeting with your Vice President Oxenhauer for me. I’ll be seeing him at two. I’m pretty excited about that.”

  “Good. I’d be interested in hearing what he has to say.”

  “To look for anything that contradicts what he said to you?”

  “That would mean I didn’t trust my country’s second highest elected official.”

  “Do you? I thought everybody was open to suspicion.”

  “Give me a call when you’re through.”

  “I will…”

  ***

  Joe Pearl, sitting in Hanrahan’s office, asked him, “How do you evaluate her, Mac?”

  “Evaluate? Joe… Joe… how you do go on.” Hanrahan propped his feet up on the desk. “If you’re asking what do I think of Heather McBean, I think she’s a nice, straightforward young woman. I think she’s been shocked by Tunney’s murder, that she has a mind of her own and is determined to hang around until the murder is solved… What did you come up with on Ford Saunders?”

  “Not exactly a plentitude. He’s thirty-nine years old, single, never married, worked in other museums before coming to Smithsonian four years ago. Why the special interest in him?”

  “Among other things, I don’t like him.”

  “I didn’t either when I interviewed him.”

  “What’d he have to say?”

  “That he’d gotten sick and left the party early.”

  “Left Tunney’s party early? You didn’t interview him at the museum the night of the murder?”

  “No. We picked up his name from the guest list, saw that he wasn’t there when Tunney was killed and called him the next day.”

  “Where’d he go that night?”

  Pearl consulted a typed sheet from a thick purple file folder. “He claims to have gone to a friend’s house in Georgetown, guy named Norman Huffaker.”

  “And?”

  “Huffaker confirms that Saunders showed up, said he wasn’t feeling well and spent the night in the guest room.”

  “How’d the timing work out?”

  “Fine for Saunders. Huffaker places him at his house about a half hour before Tunney was killed.”

  “What’s the story on this Huffaker?”

  Pearl leaned forward. “Mac, do you know you’ve got a hole in your right shoe?”

  Hanrahan looked at it, thought of the late, great Adlai Stevenson, who as a presidential candidate displayed such a homey touch as well. “I’ll get it fixed.” What the hell, he thought, I’m no Adlai Stevenson.

  “Yeah, you should. It’s almost all the way through.”

  “I said I’d get it fixed, Joe. What about Huffaker? You believe him?”

  “He seems okay, a little swishy but what’s new?”

  “You figure he and Saunders are lovers?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “Lovers lie for each other, have for centuries.”

  “If they’re lying they got their stories straight.”

  “Anything else about Saunders?”

  “Such as?”

  “Instincts, Joe. Gut feelings. What are yours about him?”

  “That he’s gay, bright and probably too scared to lie. There’s an interesting linkage between Saunders and some of the others, though. We picked it up by going through the personnel files at the museum.”

  Hanrahan burped, reached for the Tums bottle. “What linkage?” he asked as he dumped tablets in his hand, chose an orange one and put the rest back.

  “Saunders’s major reference for his job at the Smithsonian was Walter Jones.”

  “Jones? Oh, yeah, the art dealer and appraiser. So…?”

  “Somebody else who was at the party got her job with Jones as a reference too.”

  “Who?”

  He checked the file. “Janis Dewey. She works at the National Gallery of Art.”

  Hanrahan stared at him.

  “Mac, I always look for link-ups, the way I was taught. Jones is evidently tight with Chloe Prentwhistle.”

  “How tight?”

  “Well, I checked around. It seems Jones and Prentwhistle—hey, what a funny name—Jones and Prentwhistle have been going together for thirty years. What struck me was that Jones has no official connection with the Smithsonian but he apparently gets these people jobs there.”

  “A benefactor?”

  “If you say so… what’s next?”

  “What struck me was one of the curators at the party, a guy named Kazakis. He’s a gem curator at the National History Museum.”

  “I remember his name.”

  “He used to design jewelry too, and was a pretty good gem cutter. And he used Jones as a reference, too.”

  “Interesting.” Pearl stood.

  “Where are you going?” Hanrahan asked.

  “We’re running everyone who was at the party through the computer. You know, the usual inputs to see what else ties them together. How they interface—”

  “How they what? Jesus, I can’t stand that computer jargon. It gives me indigestion. Okay, let me know what comes up.”

  “Will do. By the way, Mac, you could use heels on those shoes too.”

  “Get out, Joe.”

  “Just trying to be helpful.”

  *** />
  At four that afternoon Hanrahan received a series of phone calls.

  The first was from his former wife Kathy, who asked that they get together for, as she put it, “a serious talk.”

  “You in trouble?” Hanrahan asked.

  “Of course not, but things have changed in my life recently that I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Please, Mac, it’s been long enough for the bitterness to have gone. All I want to do is have dinner, or lunch, and talk. Is that so terrible?”

  “Depends on what we talk about. All right, when do you want to get together?”

  “How about tonight? Feel like whipping up one of your gourmet meals?”

  “No.”

  “Name the restaurant.”

  “Café de Paris.”

  “Are you still going there?”

  “I am. It’s honest, the food is good, the prices are right. What time?”

  “Seven?”

  “See you there.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Mac,” she said, “please come with an open mind. Leave the anger for a few hours. Okay?”

  “I’ll do my best…”

  The second call was from Alfred Throckly. “You called, Captain?”

  “Yes. I wanted a list of the people who verified the authenticity of the Harsa.”

  “That list was submitted before we were allowed to come to headquarters to see the medal.”

  Hanrahan didn’t try to hide his annoyance. “Give it to me again, if you don’t mind.”

  “Just a moment.” He came back on the line. “Chloe Prentwhistle, Ford Saunders, Constantine Kazakis and, of course, myself.”

  “Anybody from outside the museum?”

  Throckly paused. “Yes, as a matter of fact there was. Mr. Walter Jones. It’s standard procedure to bring in outside experts.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Mr. Throckly, I’m glad you got the Harsa back. Thanks for returning my call.”

  The third call was from Heather. She sounded excited. “…he’s such a nice man, your vice president. I didn’t realize how close he and Lewis were. He actually filled up when he talked about him.”

  “I gathered they were good friends. Did he say anything about what had upset Dr. Tunney before leaving London?”

  “No. He told me that he and Lewis talked briefly and that they’d planned to meet the following morning. I wish they’d had a chance to talk. If they had, maybe, maybe…”

  And somebody, Hanrahan thought, obviously didn’t want the vice president to hear what Tunney had to say… “Don’t torture yourself, Heather…” It was the first time he’d called her that, and it came out so naturally neither of them seemed to notice.

  She smiled quickly. “I’m sorry, seems I’m always going teary on you. By the way, Vice President Oxenhauer pledged the power of his office to help get to the bottom of things… and when I returned to the hotel I had a really most pleasant surprise.”

  “Which was?”

  “Evelyn Killinworth.” She pronounced the first syllable of the first name “Eve.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “He. Dr. Evelyn Killinworth. I met him years ago when he was professor emeritus of Anglo-American history at Oxford. Evelyn and my uncle had struck up a friendship, as much of a one as Calum would ever allow. At any rate Evelyn left Oxford to take a professorship at Georgetown University and has been here ever since. I’d made a note to call him but never got around to it. Just as well; he’s been in California for a month as guest lecturer at Stanford University. Now he’s back, and actually was at the hotel waiting for me.

  “That’s nice,” Hanrahan said. For some reason the news of another male in the scene annoyed him.

  “You must meet him, he’s very charming and I’m certain he could help sort out things—”

  “Sure, well, I suppose I can use all the help I can get. Look, I have to go. Call me in the morning and maybe we can set up a meeting with this… how do you pronounce it—Evil-in?”

  “Dr. Evelyn Killinworth.”

  “Give me a call.”

  “I will. And thank you. I mean that…”

  ***

  Before leaving to meet his ex-wife, Hanrahan called Joe Pearl into his office, picked up a purple file folder from his desk, looked at it, winced. “Why are we using purple folders in the Tunney case?”

  Pearl smiled. “I guess they got a good deal on them in purchasing. Why? You don’t like purple?”

  “It’s not a matter of liking purple or not liking purple, Joe. It’s just weird, that’s all.”

  Pearl shrugged. “I kind of like it, Mac. The manila ones are boring. You know, the same. It’s nice to have some color in the files.”

  Joe Pearl, color coordinator, thought Hanrahan as he left the office.

  ***

  “You look good, Kathy.”

  “So do you, Mac. I like the beard.”

  “You see much of the kids?”

  “More than before. I think they’re forgiving me… How about you?”

  “Forgiving you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “I could never understand that about you, being a Catholic. Your religion is based on forgiveness.”

  “That’s religion. We’re real life.”

  “I know that, and what happened to us was real life too.”

  Hanrahan shifted in his chair and picked up a menu. He looked over it. “What are you having?”

  “The usual.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  “A fish broiled with garlic and a couscous salad.”

  Hanrahan told the waiter, “Broiled fish filet with garlic, two couscous salads and a shore dinner.”

  They shared a bottle of white wine. Hanrahan looked across the table at the woman he’d spent twenty-two years with, the woman who’d been mother to their three children. She looked no different than when they’d separated, all blue-eyed innocence, face shaped into a cameo defined by soft, natural black hair that reached the shoulders of her fuzzy, teal-blue sweater. She always looked so damn vulnerable. It was unfair. Hanrahan knew that underneath was a will of iron, a female survivor at all costs. Bet on it.

  “Mac,” she said, “I want to come back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s where I belong, with you.”

  “You didn’t feel that way a couple of years ago.”

  “I was wrong. I made a mistake… We do that, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Us human beings.”

  The waiter delivered their dinners. Kathy held up her wine glass. “To a new beginning?”

  Hanrahan left his glass on the table.

  She leaned closer. “Please, Mac, at least consider it.” She put her glass on the table, he lifted his.

  “Couldn’t we even explore it? I’m sorry, Mac—”

  “So am I. But that’s as far as it goes… Eat, before it gets cold.”

  Over crème brûlée and coffee Hanrahan asked, “Where’s the guy you took off with?”

  “Bill?”

  “Whatever.”

  “I don’t know. We realized it wasn’t working and decided to go our separate ways.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Everything.” She laughed. “It was wrong.”

  “Made you feel old?”

  “No, just foolish.”

  “Well, Kathy, I’ve got bad news, or good news, depending on your point of view. I’ve gotten over it. It took a while, wasn’t easy, but I did. Right now I’m fairly happy as a bachelor. I have a pretty good life. There’s no room in it—”

  “For me? Or for anyone?”

  “Not for you, maybe not for anyone. Who knows?” Only briefly did Heather flash in his head, but she was there for a moment. It surprised him, startled him. “Statistics say we men are getting married again right awa
y because we can’t cope with laundry and meals and stuff like that. I always handled routine things pretty good. As the months go by it’s easier being alone. Maybe that’s dangerous, but right now I’m what you could call contented… lonely at times, but content.”

  She touched his hand, he took it back.

  “Mac, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. You did what was right for you. Getting back together isn’t right for me. Real life. Nothing to do with forgiveness. Or guilt.”

  “But what if it did work? What if we found we could have all those good times again?”

  “That’s a possibility, until…”

  “Until what?”

  “Until the next bearded flower child comes along who turns you on. Kathy, let’s let it go.”

  “I have to, don’t I? I don’t have a choice.”

  “I guess you don’t. Look, I have an early day tomorrow…”

  He walked her to her car. He wanted to hold and kiss her. She seemed so alone, in need of him. He fought back the urge. The fact was that she didn’t need him for the reasons he needed to be needed.

  “Good night, Kathy. It was good seeing you again. Take care.”

  “You, too, Mac. Thanks for dinner. It was good.”

  “I’m glad. No kidding…”

  “I know… well, so long, Mac. We all sleep better knowing Hanrahan’s in charge.” She was smiling when she said it.

  Chapter 15

  They sat at a banquette on La Brasserie’s second floor, opting for air conditioning over the outdoor café. Most people had chosen to be outside; the tiny room was less than half full.

  Across from them was a wall tiled in orange. Behind their heads was French provincial blue and pink wallpaper. A small gas lamp on their table stood next to a slender vase containing a single red rose and a frond of leather-leaf fern. French accordion music was a background.

  Evelyn Killinworth shifted his six-foot, 300-pound body on cushions upholstered in flame-stitch fabric. He seemed too big for the room, like an oversized piece of furniture in a dollhouse. He’d acknowledged it when he and Heather were shown to their table. “They didn’t have me in mind when they designed the room,” he’d said pleasantly, “but they surely did when they created the menu.” He’d recommended the bourride, creamy seafood bisque under a top hat of flaky, buttery pastry that crumbled into the soup as they ate it. The salad, another of Killinworth’s suggestions, was salade Raymond, crunchy walnuts and blue cheese with endive and watercress. Heather fought against the notion of dessert, but Killinworth prevailed, saying that the crème caramel was very good, which, Heather had to admit, it was.