Murder in the Smithsonian

by Margaret Truman

  “I’ve got four undercover people on two-hour shifts at the museum, and I talked to the Smithsonian’s insurance company. The Harsa would have been covered under the Smithsonian’s umbrella policy even though it hadn’t been added to the rider as a piece on display.”

  “Why hadn’t it?”

  “They hadn’t gotten around to it. Evidently things grind slowly at the Smithsonian. It probably would have been on display for a week before the listing went to the insurance company.”

  “I see. You said it would have been covered anyway. Why?”

  “Because it was on public display.”

  “Those are the only things covered?”

  “No, but display items’ coverage is much larger. The stuff in the back is valued at considerably less.”

  “So when the Harsa was in the back room, its insurance value was less than what it is right now?”

  “True.”

  “The insurance people must be damned happy it was returned.”

  “You bet they are, but according to the guy I spoke to they never argue with the Smithsonian over claims. Its track record is solid.”

  “For things on public display.”

  “Right.”

  “What about things stored backstage?”

  Pearl shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Check it out for me. See how many things have been reported stolen from the back rooms and paid for by the insurance company.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  Pearl started to leave the office. Hanrahan said, “Joe, put top priority on the Killinworth background check.”

  Before leaving the office, Hanrahan reviewed the Prentwhistle and Jones files. Jones’s address was different than that listed for Chloe Prentwhistle. A detective had interviewed Jones at the address listed for him.

  As Hanrahan drove toward the Rivercrest section of Northwest Washington and crossed the Potomac on the Chain Bridge his thoughts lingered on Killinworth’s relationship with Heather and on why Chloe Prentwhistle and Walter Jones would marry but keep it a secret. He’d have a chance to answer the latter question himself. He hoped Joe Pearl’s efforts would throw some light on Killinworth and Heather.

  ***

  Chloe Prentwhistle lived in a modern, redwood-and-glass home set into a hillside, affording a view of the river, American University and the MacArthur Reservoir. As he drove into a circular driveway Hanrahan estimated it must be worth two hundred thousand dollars. Once he was inside he upped that by one hundred thousand.

  Chloe greeted him at the door. She wore a madder-lake caftan and slippers with toes that curled up, and a pink bandana.

  “Come in, Captain Hanrahan,” she said pleasantly.

  “Thank you. Nice place you have here.”

  “It’s comfortable.” She led them through a large foyer that was more an art gallery. Massive pieces of Calder, Haber, and Brancusi sculptures were pin spotted from the ceiling, and Matisse, Picasso, Braque and Hogarth paintings were handsomely displayed against white walls.

  They went to a study at the east end of the house, where Walter Jones sat on a long, chocolate-colored corduroy couch. He was reading an art magazine, which he put down as Hanrahan entered the room.

  “You’ve met Walter Jones,” Chloe said.

  “Yes,” Hanrahan said. They shook hands.

  Hanrahan looked at Chloe, who was straightening a small Graham Sutherland engraving. “Appreciate being able to see you on short notice, Miss Prentwhistle.”

  She turned. Gray light coming through a window made her appear, for a split second, to be a statue herself, Hanrahan thought.

  “What can I do for you?” Chloe asked, and glanced at Jones. “Walter was just leaving…”

  “Yes, yes, I was…” Jones said. He crossed the room and kissed Chloe on the cheek. Hanrahan tried to look at them as man and wife. They were the same height, both thin, a matched pair of storks. Jones was immaculately dressed in beige slacks, brown herringbone sport jacket, blue oxford button-down shirt and brown knit tie. He’d allowed the hair on his temples to grow longish, which gave him the appearance of having horns. Judging from his mottled skin, alcohol was not exactly alien to his life-style.

  “You don’t have to leave on my account,” Hanrahan said.

  “I was planning to anyway, Captain. I just dropped by to catch up on a few things. Well, have a good chat. By the way, Captain, any progress in the case?”

  “Some. Small victories.”

  “Better than no victories.” He started for the door.

  “Mr. Jones—”

  Jones stopped, turned. “Yes?”

  “Before you go, I’ve something to ask both of you. I hope you won’t mind.” When neither of them spoke, Hanrahan went on, “I understand you’re married, and have been for years.”

  Chloe managed a smile. “Why should you ask, Captain?”

  “No need for concern. Last I heard, marriage was still considered an honorable institution.” If a damn near impossible one, he added to himself.

  Jones went to a portable rolling bar and poured himself whiskey from a glass decanter.

  Chloe seemed to have come to grips with the situation, carried a pleasant smile on her face, managed a nonchalant pose. “As you said, marriage is an honorable state, and, I assume, not yet against the law.”

  “I guess I’m just nosy by habit and profession. I wondered, though, why two people like yourselves would marry and not announce it, not live together as man and wife. I understand Mr. Jones has his own home.”

  “For tax purposes,” Jones said, “if you must know.” He’d returned the couch and was busy twisting fringe on an orange throw pillow.

  “Tax purposes? How does—?”

  “What business is it of yours, Captain, how we choose to structure our personal lives?” Chloe said. “I emphasize personal. Does it, for example, have a bearing on the Tunney case? If so, please tell us how. If not…”

  “You’re right,” Hanrahan said. “Like the press is always telling us, I’ve exceeded my bounds.”

  Her tone shifted. “That’s quite all right, Captain. Since it’s come up… Walter and I decided when we married to maintain distinctly separate identities for professional reasons.”

  “I don’t think I understand. Professional…?”

  From the couch Jones said, “You continue to exceed those bounds, Captain—”

  “Walter, aren’t you going to be late for your appointment?” Chloe said. And then to Hanrahan, “Walter and I have been in the same field for many years, Captain. Matter of fact, that’s how we happened to meet. I have a responsible position at the Smithsonian, Walter is considered the most accomplished and knowledgeable appraiser in Washington. I often call him in on museum matters. I choose to do so because of his expertise, not because we are man and wife. However, too many people are unable to separate those relationships. You know, the wife or relative is hired because she or he is highly qualified, but everyone else raises eyebrows and speculates otherwise. We prefer to avoid the situations. When we married we knew we faced complications. We could have avoided all of them by not marrying, but we’re not of the new generation that considers living together synonymous with the vow of marriage. All of which makes us rather hopelessly old-fashioned, perhaps anachronistic, but that’s the way we are, and I must say we’re proud of it.”

  “I trust you are now satisfied, Captain?” Jones said, his face tight with anger.

  “Walter, you really will be late for your meeting,” Chloe said.

  He stood, finished off his drink and went to the door. “I’ll talk to you later, Chloe.”

  ***

  After he was gone Chloe, seated on the couch, said, “You must excuse Walter, Captain. He’s been under great strain these past few weeks.”

  “Since… but may I ask why?”

  “Business, I’m afraid. And the Tunney situation has contributed to it. Walter was a great admirer, you might almost say a fan of Dr. Tunney’s scholarship. His
death has affected him.”

  Hanrahan nodded. “I can understand that. Well—”

  “Drink?” Chloe asked quickly.

  “A little early for me.”

  “You don’t mind if I do, do you? I’ve been up since dawn, which tends to push up the acceptable time for the first cocktail.”

  Hanrahan watched her walk to the bar and pour bourbon into a tall glass. She added a splash of soda, turned and held up the glass. “To a successful resolution of this dreadful business.”

  “I’ll sure drink to that,” Hanrahan said, holding up his hand as though it contained a glass.

  She joined him on the couch again. “So, Captain, what can I do to help in this difficult job of yours?” Her manner had changed now that Jones was gone.

  “You could tell me who killed Lewis Tunney?” he said with a straight face.

  For a moment she was taken aback, then relaxed and shook her head. “That’s your job, Captain. But believe me, if I find out you’ll be the first to know. Can I ask you to do the same? We make light to get through the gruesomeness of this, but I assume we do not take it lightly.”

  Hanrahan nodded. “I appreciate that, Miss Prentwhistle.

  “Well, I have to be going. Thanks for seeing me, and for being so frank with me. I understand it hasn’t been easy.”

  As they stood at the front door, Chloe said, “You’re an interesting man, Captain. I almost said attractive.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Still sure you won’t stay for lunch?”

  “Maybe another time.”

  ***

  As he drove back to MPD he thought that if he had stayed for lunch he possibly could have ended up in bed with her. Not that he would have. Beside not wanting to take unfair advantage—for all her facade she was clearly upset, vulnerable—he had a rule never to become involved with anyone connected with a case. That was rule number one. Two, he never messed with a married woman, no matter how unconventional she was or how much she pleaded marital miseries. Third, she wasn’t really his type, although it did occur to him that with her he would be the younger one. He thought of Kathy and her twenty-five-year-old lover—and then of Heather McBean, and then quickly of rule number one. Too bad…

  By the time he was back in his office he had decided that everything—the case, Kathy, Heather, Commissioner Johnson, Carlos Montenez, the press—was too damn much. He needed a break.

  That evening he spent three hours making a lasagne Bolognese with chicken livers and béchamel sauce from a recipe he’d picked up on a trip to New Orleans the year before. He did not eat until ten, but by the time he did, fortified by a couple of extra dry straight-up martinis, no lemon twist or olive or onion, he felt a little better about the world. He cleaned up, packaged a portion of the meal to deliver to an aged widow the next morning who was on his parish’s neediest list, had a cognac while watching a late-night talk show, then climbed into bed and promptly fell asleep. The only dream he could remember the next morning was one in which a life-sized Legion of Harsa medal occupied a king-sized bed. Surrounding it were Chloe Prentwhistle, Walter Jones, Heather McBean, Evelyn Killinworth and other unidentified persons. They were all naked. Instead of diamonds, the medal was studded with purple grapes, and everyone in the bed plucked them from their settings and fed them to one another. Hanrahan saw himself in the dream standing on the side and observing through metal mesh, which prevented him from joining in. He wore a loincloth. The last thing he remembered about the dream was that he had a full head of curly black hair, and that his thickening midsection was slender and tight. Dream on, you Irish idiot…

  “Bless you, Mac,” the aged widow said when he delivered the foil-wrapped meal the next day.

  “Enjoy,” he said.

  “Chicken livers?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t like chicken livers.”

  “You can pick them out,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  Chapter 18

  “Any developments?” Commissioner Calvin Johnson asked Hanrahan over lunch.

  “Yeah, matter of fact there is, Cal. I got a call the other day from an art dealer in San Francisco. Name is Detienne. I called him back this morning. He tells me that there’ve been inquiries about the Harsa medal.”

  “What sort of inquiries?”

  “People putting out the word that if it comes on the market, they’d be interested in buying it.”

  Johnson finished the dim sum on his plate, smacked his lips. Hanrahan had finished his meal long before. Calvin Johnson was the slowest eater Hanrahan had ever known. After sipping his tea, Johnson said, “Why would anybody look to buy that medal? It’s back in the museum, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I said. Detienne says the inquiries came up right after it was stolen, although one of them was brought to his attention the day he called me.”

  “Anybody we know?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. At least know of.”

  “Who?”

  “Jubel Watson.”

  “The congressman?”

  “None other, according to Detienne.”

  “A congressman interested in a medal connected with a murder? Jesus.”

  “That’s what I thought. He’s a big collector, it seems. How do you want to handle this, Cal?”

  “He’s a congressman. Any proof beyond what Detienne told you?”

  “No, but I can ask around. The question is, am I free to confront Watson about it?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right, I’ll call him this afternoon—”

  “Well… hold up a day or two. Let me evaluate the situation before we jump.”

  Hanrahan felt a sour lump in his stomach, although he could have predicted the commissioner’s reply. As they drove back to MPD from the Golden Palace he brought up the subject of vacation time due him.

  “Now now, Mac,” Johnson said, “not in the middle of this thing.”

  “The problem is, Cal, I promised my sister in New Orleans I’d come down for her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I hate to miss it. She’s my favorite.”

  “Not now, Mac.”

  “I’m committed. I won’t take a full week, just a couple of days. Besides, I need it. A few days away and I’ll be able to look at the Tunney thing a little clearer. I hope.”

  Johnson walked Hanrahan to his office. “Okay, go, but make it quick.”

  Afterward Hanrahan debated calling Heather to tell her he would be away, then decided against it. For some reason he felt annoyed with her…

  But the moment he was on the plane two days later he regretted the decision. “Childish,” he told himself. Am I jealous of that pompous old bird?

  He called her from his sister’s house. She told him she was happy that he managed to get away for a few days, then added, “I’m thinking of a trip myself.”

  “Where to?” he asked, hoping he sounded more indifferent than he felt.

  “London, then to Edinburgh. Evelyn has to go back on business, and it would be a good time for me to tidy up loose ends and talk with Mr. Paley about what progress he’s made.”

  “When would you go?”

  “No definite plans yet. I’m sure you’ll be back before I leave.”

  “Sure… well, if I’m not, have a good trip.”

  “It’s Captain Hanrahan,” he heard her say to someone in the background. And then he heard Killinworth’s booming voice say, “Give him my best.”

  Whatever that is, Hanrahan thought.

  Chapter 19

  Hanrahan returned to Washington the night of June 19, a Friday. There was a message on his desk from Heather McBean. He called her.

  “Nice trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome back.”

  “Thank you. Are you still going to London?”

  “Yes, on Sunday.”

  “He’s going with you?”

  “Evelyn? Yes. It was his idea.”

  “Oh? Look, when you get back, call me. Maybe t
hings will have broken by then… Is there some place I can call you if I need to while you’re away?”

  “We’re staying at the Chesterfield in London. It was Lord Chesterfield’s home and—”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll be in touch.”

  “After that we’ll be in Scotland. I suppose I’ll stay at the castle.”

  “Your uncle’s?”

  “Yes, It’s dank and cold, like a castle is supposed to be, but it was home to me for many years.”

  “Well, take care. How long will you be gone?”

  “Less than a week, I expect.”

  Hanrahan next placed a call to the offices of Congressman Jubel Watson and was told that Watson was out of town and would not return until the following Tuesday. Hanrahan wasn’t sure what he would have said to Watson had he been there, because of Commissioner Johnson’s hedge about time. Still, he felt it was okay to find out where the man was.

  He worked in his office on Saturday and Sunday. Joe Pearl worked Saturday too, and together they pored over every available scrap of information on the Tunney case, looking for some discrepancy, inconsistency, indiscretion, any damn thing that might trigger or at least open up a new avenue of investigation. There weren’t any, aside, that is, from what had already aroused Hanrahan’s interest. They went over that list:

  Evelyn Killinworth. Hanrahan didn’t like him, which of course hardly made the man a murderer, or crook. It didn’t disqualify him either.

  Prentwhistle and Jones secretly married. Was there more to it than the explanation he got?

  Jones getting jobs for Ford Saunders. A connection, but so far no significance.

  Ford Saunders. He left party early, was vouched for by possible homosexual lover Norman Huffaker. No crime there either. Unless somebody was lying.

  Harsa medal examined and validated by “insiders.” Hanrahan added the quotes after he’d listed the item.

  Hanrahan’s count of mannequins in First Ladies’ exhibition. Was he seeing things?

  Vice President Oxenhauer’s relationship with Tunney, and his being the driving force behind the Harsa-Cincinnati exhibit.

  The attack on Heather, followed by the search of her hotel room. Connected?

  What Tunney knew before leaving London that upset him, and how much of it he told Oxenhauer in spite of the veep’s denial.