‘Which one?’ I asked, although, from Chandler’s bio on Wikipedia, I thought I already knew the answer to that.
‘The Women’s Democratic League.’
‘I’d like to meet her,’ I said.
At my comment, Jud rolled his eyes in a you’ll-be-sorry way.
‘Seriously,’ I said. Even though recent developments seemed to be pointing the finger of blame for Meredith’s murder squarely at James Hoffner, Dorothea Chandler, the wronged wife, wasn’t entirely off the hook, at least not in my mind.
Much later, at home, I looked up the Women’s Democratic League on the Internet, clicked on the pull-down menu labeled ‘Events.’ As luck would have it, a Talk & Tea was scheduled for the following day, featuring Susan Woythaler, a woman who’d been active in the women’s rights movement since the early years, a mover and shaker at the 1977 National Conference of Women in Houston, where she’d appeared on the dais with such pioneers as Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan. I made a few phone calls, setting everything else on my calendar – a mani-pedi and lunch with a friend – aside, and hastily made plans to attend.
TWENTY-TWO
Pat Nixon had her ‘good cloth Republican coat,’ but what did a good lady Democrat wear to a Talk & Tea these days? Using Hillary Clinton and Tipper Gore as my imaginary fashion consultants, I pawed through my closet, finally settling on a periwinkle-blue pants suit that hadn’t seen daylight since Bush defeated Kerry and a white silk, scoop-necked blouse. I fastened a single strand of pearls around my neck, and added matching ear studs. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in a pair of classic black Ferragamo pumps, I nodded in approval. I looked so Democratic that I’d even vote for myself.
I drove into the District and spent a good twenty minutes cruising the neighborhoods around Dupont Circle searching for a parking space. In spite of the exorbitant hourly rates, I was seriously considering Plan B – one of the hotel parking garages in the vicinity – when an SUV pulled out of a space adjacent to a driveway on Newport Place. I slipped into the spot, pulling as close as I dared to the car in front of me, and climbed out. From the sidewalk, I squinted at my rear bumper, calculated how far it extended into driveway territory and decided that a scant two inches didn’t put me at risk for a ticket. Satisfied, and praying that the meter minder didn’t carry a ruler in his or her pocket, I locked my doors and walked the three blocks to the Women’s Democratic League, located in an imposing red-brick mansion near the corner of 22nd and O Streets, NW, not far from Washington DC’s famed Embassy Row.
Built at the turn of the last century for a former Supreme Court justice whose taste ran to high Victorian, the mansion welcomed visitors into a spacious lobby which would have been as dark as the inside of a coffin had it not been for the light streaming in from a clerestory window on the landing of a grand, central staircase. The staircase itself was a work of art, constructed of dark oak. Poseidon and his twin, complete with tridents, formed the newel posts, and the spindles that supported the banisters were carved naiads, dancing up the stairway in orderly fashion like Radio City Rockettes.
A bronze plaque on the wall to my left indicated the ‘Cloak Room’ where I should hang my coat, and a poster on an easel near a massive Jacobean sideboard directed me to ‘Talk & Tea: Susan Woythaler, VP of Women Now! speaks on the Changing Face of Feminism. 10 a.m.’
Following the arrow on the poster, I found myself in a small anteroom where two women who looked enough alike to be mother and daughter sat behind a long table covered with a white cloth, tending to a spreadsheet and an alphabetical array of name tags. I straightened my spine, smiled broadly and approached the table. ‘Hi. I’m new to the area and just heard about the tea today. Is it too late to sign up?’
The older woman wore a hot-pink suit. Clipped to its lapel was a Lucite nametag that told me that her name was Jeannette Williams. ‘Of course not,’ she smiled back. ‘Welcome!’
‘How much is a ticket?’ I asked, resting my handbag on the table.
‘It’s twenty dollars for members and twenty-five for non-members.’
‘Well, I guess it’s worth it to hear what Susan Woythaler has to say!’
‘And there’s tea before and after, of course.’
‘Of course.’ I pried open my handbag and forked over three tens.
‘We hope you’ll like what you see and hear today, and that you’ll decide to join,’ the second woman, the one holding the spreadsheet, said. She handed me a pre-printed, three-by-five index card. ‘If you’ll fill out that card, we’ll put you on our mailing list.’
‘There’s the holiday party coming up in December, of course, and in three weeks, we’ll have our annual fashion show.’ Jeannette passed me a brochure along with my five dollars in change. ‘There’s an application form on the back.’
I didn’t think I could deal with another fashion show so close on the heels of the one that very nearly became the last one I’d ever attend on this side of the Pearly Gates, but I didn’t tell her that.
Jeannette pushed a paper name tag in my direction and handed me a felt-tip marking pen. ‘If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.’
I uncapped the pen, bent over the table and before I could stop myself printed ‘Lilith Chaloux’ on the name tag in big, black letters. ‘I’m sure I will,’ I said, stripping the backing off the tag and patting it, adhesive side down, to my lapel. Under my hand, I could feel my heart pumping like a jackhammer.
‘Feel free to look around, Lilith,’ Jeannette said after consulting my name tag. ‘Refreshments are just through there, in the ballroom.’
‘Thank you.’ I waved the index card, then tucked it into my handbag. ‘I’ll return this to you later, if that’s all right.’
Inside the former ballroom, which was set up with rows of folding chairs in preparation for Susan Woythaler’s lecture, I accepted a cup of coffee from a uniformed server manning an elaborate bronze samovar, stirred in some cream and sugar, then wandered around the downstairs rooms of the mansion, checking out the décor.
The brochure explained that the mansion had been donated to the club in 1961 by the granddaughter of the original owner, and that it was decorated with ‘period pieces.’ There seemed to be a war going on among the pieces, and it would have been hard for me to say which period was winning. A Federal dining-room table warred with a Duncan Phyfe buffet, which was flanked on either side by some fine Chippendale dining chairs. In a sitting room, Georgian end tables provided arm-side support for Arts and Crafts reclining loungers that were illuminated by standing lamps with Tiffany shades. In another corner of the same room, two women sat chatting on an Art Nouveau loveseat.
If the furnishings had anything at all in common, it was size. Enormous. A Victorian fainting couch in a sunny, chintz-decorated glassed-in porch was so large that I felt like the Incredible Shrinking Woman when I sat down on it to chat for a few minutes with a dynamic young woman named Helen Sue Loftiss, who was bubbling over with information about the club’s upcoming holiday arts and craft fair.
Eventually, Helen Sue’s presence was required elsewhere and I was left alone with visions of handcrafted sugar plums dancing in my head.
Attracted by gas logs twinkling in the grate, I wandered back into the dining room to inspect the massive marble fireplace mantel and surround, sumptuously decorated for the Thanksgiving holiday with fat, sage-colored candles and wicker cornucopia, overflowing with festive fruit and vegetables. Reflected in the gilt mirror over the mantel was one of the room’s enormous chandeliers, dripping with crystals. Identical chandeliers illuminated the ballroom. In almost every room, dark wood paneling extended all around up to shoulder height.
As I wandered from room to room, I looked around nervously, expecting to run into Dorothea Chandler at any moment. Did she know about her husband’s extramarital affair with Lilith Chaloux? When she saw my name tag, would she recognize the name? More importantly, would she take one look at my face and know that I was definitely not Lilit
h Chaloux? And if so, would she freak? I smiled to myself. If she did, this might turn out to be the most exciting Talk & Tea the Women’s Democratic League had ever seen.
I thought I might recognize Dorothea from the images I’d turned up on the Internet, but after twenty minutes of cruising the mansion, smiling casually, avoiding direct eye contact, and checking other women’s name tags as subtly as possible, I hadn’t run into her. It was getting close to the time scheduled for the lecture to start, and I was beginning to fear that Dorothea had bagged the meeting.
In my travels, I’d noticed that club officers wore Lucite badges like those of the two women at the registration table, so when the next officer crossed my bow, I flagged her down. ‘Hi. I’m looking for Dorothea Chandler. Have you seen her?’
‘You just passed her. Over by the coffee urn. In the blue suit.’
I turned, overcome by a sudden craving for a fourth cup of coffee. I waited in line behind Dorothea, standing so close that I was practically breathing down the woman’s neck. When she turned, there was no way she could miss me.
‘Oh!’ A bit of coffee sloshed into her saucer.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I apologized. ‘I zigged when I should have zagged.’
Dorothea smiled. ‘No problem.’ She glanced at my name tag and added smoothly, ‘Lilith.’
Her hazel eyes never wavered. She didn’t blink. Either she’d never heard of Lilith Chaloux or she was a damn fine actress.
Dorothea Chandler was built like an athlete, solid, straight up-and-down, like a tree. Her dark hair had been cut in a shaggy bob, the tips of her bangs fringed with copper, as if they’d been dipped in paint, a style Emily would describe as ‘upmarket punk.’
I held out my hand. ‘I’m new here, Dorothea.’
‘Please, call me Doro. Everybody does.’ She took my hand, and I noticed that she wore a wedding band identical to her husband’s, although smaller: a twisted rope of white, yellow and rose gold.
She smiled in a friendly way. ‘Where are you from, Lilith?’
‘Upstate New York,’ I told her.
‘What brings you to DC? Husband? A job?’
‘Both,’ I improvised. ‘Divorced the former and looking for the latter.’
‘Sorry about the divorce,’ Doro said.
‘I’m not. S.O.B. had been cheating on me for years. His mistress . . .’ I flapped my hand. ‘Sorry. T.M.I.’
Doro stared at me, quietly sipping her coffee. If I expected her to open up about her personal life to a total stranger while standing between the egg-salad sandwiches and the petit fours, I was mistaken.
‘What do you do, Lilith?’
I had to think fast. ‘I’m a nutritionist.’ Before she could start helping me network, I added, ‘I have three interviews lined up, so I’m pretty hopeful. And you?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Volunteer work, mostly.’
‘Ah.’ There was an awkward silence while I tried to think of something to say. ‘So, you don’t work outside the home?’
‘Not since before the children were born,’ she said. ‘We have two grown daughters.’
‘I wish . . . I wanted . . .’ My voice broke rather convincingly. I wasn’t very good at producing tears on demand, so I thought about the sad-eyed, abused and abandoned animals I saw on the Animal Planet channel when Animal Cops came on, and flapped my hand apologetically.
‘I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’
I shook my head and scrabbled in my purse for a tissue.
‘How long had you been married?’ she asked.
‘Fifteen years. You?’
‘Almost thirty-five years.’
‘Has your husband ever . . . you know?’
Her gaze was cool. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘You’re lucky. Bob’s mistress was his choir director. He was a minister, for Christ’s sake, a man of God. Pardon me while I laugh. Morality isn’t just a concept, it’s supposed to be his business.’
I dabbed at the corners of my eyes. ‘The only good thing about the situation is that I’ll never again have to sit through one of Bob’s excruciating sermons.’
For some reason, this cracked Doro up.
As I joined in the laugh fest, I wondered if she ever watched her husband’s broadcasts and, if so, what she thought about them. Did they ever discuss his programs? At dinnertime, did she offer advice about his choice of wardrobe? Pump him for gossip? Inquire about what his guests were really like? What if she went home tonight and told John over steak and potatoes about the troubled woman she met today, poor Lilith Chaloux, whose husband was cheating on her big time. Would Chandler spew wine all over the tablecloth? Choke on his steak?
Doro smiled sympathetically. ‘In the early years of our marriage, we moved around a lot. I know how hard it is to be the new kid on the block.’
I nodded, sniffling for effect and feeling like a bit of a shit. I had been fully prepared to dislike Doro for depriving Lilith, who I liked a lot, of the love of her life. Disliking Doro would have been a lot easier if she weren’t being so nice.
At a summons from one of her well-coifed minions, who had been hovering nearby like a bodyguard, Doro breezed away in a cloud of Shalini perfume – a gorgeous mélange of bitter orange, coriander and ylang ylang with undertones of sandalwood and vanilla. I’d been squirted with eau de Shalini at Bergdorf Goodman the previous summer and loved it, but when the saleslady told me it cost $900 for a two-ounce bottle, I knew I had to pass. Doro could afford luxuries like that. I wondered what would happen if something threatened that cash flow and suddenly she was reduced to buying Chantilly at WalMart like the rest of us?
Back in the ballroom for a coffee refill (my fifth!), I saw Doro at a distance, standing near the podium conferring with an attractive dark-haired woman wearing black slacks and a lavender brocade jacket, who I took to be our speaker du jour.
‘Lilith?’ somebody said.
I turned. It was Jeannette Williams, chugging toward me like a woman on a mission, holding a white carnation in one hand and a large, pearl-headed corsage pin in the other. ‘We like to present our newcomers with a little something special,’ she said as she pinned the flower to my lapel.
‘Thank you.’ I cringed inwardly, knowing it would mark me as Someone You Must Talk To and Make Feel Welcome, when all I wanted to do was fade into the woodwork.
The effect was almost immediate. Like moths to a flame, club members fluttered over.
‘Jeannette! Please introduce us!’
‘Ah! I saw you talking to Helen Sue earlier and thought you might be new!’
‘Lilith. What an unusual name. Is it French?’
I was the quarterback in the middle of the huddle, except everyone else was calling the plays.
‘No, yes, not French, but Biblical . . .’
Whirr, click, click, click. I turned my head and found myself face to face with a photographer as she aimed her Nikon D80 and its periscope-like flash attachment in our direction. My heart flip-flopped.
Whirr, click, click, click. At the first flash, the women with me slapped on their perma-grins, sucked it in, posed prettily, while I was caught, wide-eyed, temporarily blinded, like a deer in the headlights. The photographer had a sidekick, I noticed, a buzz-cut reporter with a notebook, steadily advancing. ‘Excuse me,’ I managed to blurt out, panic seizing my vocal cords. ‘I think I’d better visit the powder room before the lecture begins.’ Ducking, I hurried off before the reporter could sidle up to us, ask for our names and how to spell them.
I could see it all. A spread in the Washington Post Style Section: Pictured left to right, Lilith Chaloux and . . . and . . . oh shit, those women knew ‘my’ name!
I was doomed.
Several minutes later, I found refuge in the powder room. I plopped myself down in one of a pair of Louis XVI, striped silk-covered dining chairs in front of an enormous gilt mirror, foxed with age, where I was taking deep, steadying breaths. When the door to the powder room creaked open be
hind me, I knew it couldn’t be the reporter – unless the guy got off on crashing ladies’ restrooms in search of a story – so I ignored the newcomer and began rummaging through the dribs and drabs at the bottom of my handbag, an expedition to lay hands on the tube of lipstick and the stub of an eyeliner pencil I knew was in there somewhere, so I could repair the damage done to my make-up by my crocodile tears.
‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’
I nearly jumped out of my pantyhose. I looked up and into the mirror. Dorothea Chandler stood directly behind me. She wasn’t wearing her happy face.
‘I beg your pardon?’ In the mirror, my eyes looked enormous, innocent, even to me.
‘Is this some kind of sick joke? Just what are you playing at?’
I simply stared at Doro’s reflection, letting it do all the talking.
‘I don’t know who you are, but you are not Lilith Chaloux.’
I opened my mouth to claim that she must be mistaken, she must be thinking about some other Lilith Chaloux, but I knew from my searches of the Internet that the Lilith Chaloux of this world were thin on the ground. I was well and truly busted.
‘I owe you an explanation,’ I said, swiveling around to face her, rearranging my features into the reasonable facsimile of an apologetic smile. ‘Aliens occasionally take over my body, I’m afraid. I came here today because I wanted to talk to you. I should have just introduced myself and asked you right out, rather than playing at silly games.’
Her green eyes narrowed. ‘Asked me what?’
‘If you knew about Lilith Chaloux.’
‘My husband’s mistress? Of course I know about her. But all that ended more than twenty-five years ago.’
‘I realize that, but—’
Doro raised both hands, palms out, cutting me off. ‘Then what are you on about? Do you know who my husband is?’
Even though she managed to make it sound like a threat, I smiled, nodded. ‘John Chandler. Lynx News.’
‘John confessed ages ago,’ Doro said, folding her arms across the shelf of her bosom. ‘I forgave him. We moved on.’
A Quiet Death Page 16
