“No,” I said. “We met quite a few, but there are some we weren’t introduced to.”
“Do me a favor and tell everybody to cool it until I get there. You get a roomful of movers and shakers like this, they tend to get nasty.”
“We’ll do our best,” I said, catching a sly smile from George out of the corner of my eye. As we slowly ascended the stairs, the second trip for me, George said, “Remind me, Jessica, to keep my thoughts to myself around Detective Moody.”
“Even if your thoughts make sense?” I asked, my legs getting heavy again as we neared the top.
“Perhaps. The detective is right, of course. Unless the medical examiner says otherwise, you can’t really question his accident finding.”
“But?”
“But if it was a fatal accident, it’s one of the stranger ones I’ve come across in my career.”
Chapter Four
I wasn’t sure what to expect when we arrived back up at the house. I had visions of the serving people continuing to pour drinks, in some cases for people who simply wanted them, in others to mollify guests’ anger at being detained. I was right on both counts.
The Ohio congressman I’d seen on C-SPAN, whose name had eventually come to me—James Barzelouski—was ranting to the uniformed officer about being held “captive” as George and I walked through the French doors. “I’m a U.S. congressman, dammit!” he shouted at the young cop, who showed admirable restraint, gently but firmly reminding the congressman that there had been a tragic death, and that he was under orders that no one leave until Detective Moody had had a chance to speak with everyone.
George and I spotted two vacant forest-green leather wing chairs near where the bar continued to function, and took them. I did a fast mental count of people in the room: thirty-four, which according to my rough calculation meant that a half dozen people or so were missing, including Senator Nebel.
The female member of Congress at the party, who represented a district in California, came to where we sat and surprised me by perching on the arm of my chair. “Can you believe it?” she said. She was an attractive short woman with close-cropped coal-black hair and dancing green eyes.
“We haven’t met,” I said, and made the introductions. Her name was Gail Marshall-Miner.
“I’ve read a number of your books,” she said. “And enjoyed them very much.”
“Thank you.”
We all looked to where Ohio Congressman Barzelouski continued to berate the officer.
“Someone ought to tell Barzelouski there’s no camera on him,” she said. “He’s always making speeches.”
“I’m sure he understands the necessity of staying here,” I said.
“That oaf doesn’t understand anything,” she replied. “He gives Congress a bad name. He’s only interested in hearing himself talk or getting attention in the media. Most people in Congress are hardworking and dedicated to the public good. But a few bombastic idiots spoil our reputation and defame the whole house.”
I found it odd that the topic of conversation that interested her at the moment was her perception of the United States Congress. The only thing on my mind was the death that had occurred that evening. George sensed what I was thinking, because he changed the subject by asking, “Did you know Ms. Farlow well?”
Ms. Marshall-Miner smiled and replied, “No, I didn’t. I don’t have much contact with Senator Nebel’s office.”
But you were one of two members of the House invited to his party, I thought. Why?
As though she read my thoughts, she added, “We’re personal friends.”
“Does he throw parties like this very often?” George asked.
“Warren?” Ms. Marshall-Miner laughed. “He loves to entertain. It’s a shame his wife doesn’t.”
“She’s not feeling well, I was told,” I said.
“Not unusual,” the pretty elected official on the arm of my chair said. “Patricia is . . . How shall I put it? She’s delicate. Excuse me. I see they’re still serving drinks.”
We watched her go to the bar, where she ignored the bartender, took a bottle of whiskey, poured some into a tumbler, added a few ice cubes, and crossed the room to where others had gathered in anticipation of Detective Moody’s arrival. He walked in less than a minute later. Barzelouski sidled up to him and proclaimed loudly, “I’m a United States congressman. I have other official appointments this evening, and I’ll be damned if I’ll have some tinhorn cop tell me I can’t keep them.”
The room grew quiet as everyone strained to hear what the detective’s response would be. Moody, whose height and physical presence were more pronounced in the room’s bright lights, stared at the congressman for what seemed an eternity. Finally he said in a low, well-modulated voice, “I suggest you get out of my face, sir. This isn’t Congress, and you are not in charge—of anything! Sit down!”
I wanted to applaud, as I was certain others would have done, too, if it hadn’t been inappropriate under the circumstances.
“What’s your name?” Barzelouski asked, his voice less robust than before.
Moody smiled, pulled a card from the breast pocket of his shirt, and handed it to Barzelouski. “You can take that chair over there,” he said, pointing to one against a wall. The congressman paused as though deciding what to do and say next. He answered those questions by saying nothing, and strutting to where Moody had instructed him to go, where he sulked.
“Can I please have your attention?” Moody asked.
“Is she really dead?” a woman asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
The woman cried, and was comforted by a man I assumed was her husband.
“I won’t keep you longer than necessary,” Moody told us. “As you know, there’s been an unfortunate death down at the dock, a woman who’d been with you at the party. The assumption at this point is that she’s the victim of an accident.”
“ ‘Assumption’?” Richard Carraway said. “What else could it be?”
Moody ignored the comment. He said, “I need to have your names, addresses, and phone numbers before you leave. If you’re visiting Washington, I’d appreciate knowing where you’re staying, and where you’ll be going once you leave. I don’t know if I’ll need to contact any of you again, but that might be necessary—depending upon the outcome of our investigation.”
Barzelouski jumped up and said, “Fine. I’m Ohio Congressman James Barzelouski. Here’s my card.” He tossed it at the feet of Detective Moody and turned toward the door.
“Please detain the congressman,” Moody instructed the uniformed officers.
“Get out of my way,” Barzelouski snarled at the officer who stepped in his path. The officer was considerably taller and bulkier than the congressman, and stood his ground.
Moody turned his back on them. “Please give the information I requested to the officers,” he said. “You’re then free to go.”
People lined up, many with business cards in their hands. George and I stayed where we were. Because we were visitors to Washington, we felt it appropriate to wait until the city’s residents had provided what Moody wanted, and were allowed to leave.
The process took ten minutes. Once the room had cleared out, Moody came to where we sat. “I know you two are visitors,” he said. “Where are you staying?”
“The Willard,” I said.
“I’m at the Westin Hotel,” George said. “I believe it’s in the area known as Foggy Bottom.”
“Yup, that’s where it is,” Moody said, noting our responses in a small pad. “Nice places. You live good.”
We said nothing.
“Mind staying around a little bit?”
“For what reason?” George asked.
“Well, since it was you who discovered the body, and because you’re a famous mystery writer, and you’re a Scotland Yard detective, maybe I can learn something. You’re never too old to learn.”
“We’ll be happy to help in any way we can,” I said.
&
nbsp; “May we go out to the terrace?” George asked, his pipe cradled in his hand. “I’d like to smoke where I won’t disturb anyone.”
“Go right ahead. I’ll find you when I need you.”
We excused ourselves from the detective and went to the terrace, where George lit his pipe and took a few satisfied puffs, looking up into the night sky. A breeze ruffled my hair and George moved to my other side to keep the blue smoke from his pipe from drifting in my direction. As we stood there, the medical technicians brought Nikki Farlow’s body up from the dock. It wasn’t easy for them to navigate the narrow, winding stairs, but they eventually reached the top and passed close to us, disappearing out of view around the corner of the house.
“How sad,” I said, “to see an attractive, intelligent woman’s life end so suddenly and harshly.”
“Had you gotten to know her, Jessica?” George asked.
“No, not at all. I’d had correspondence with her concerning the trip to Washington, and we’d spoken on the phone a few times. We rode together in the limousine here and she told me a little bit about herself. The senator had evidently met her in Chicago during a fund-raising trip and hired her to be his chief of staff. She seemed preoccupied with the details of the evening and the week coming up, so we didn’t talk very long.”
“You seemed interested in that boat down at the dock. Are you thinking it might have had something to do with her death?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I found it strange that it wasn’t tied up properly, and that the engine was left in the water. Whoever had taken it out was either an inexperienced sailor, or was in a very big hurry when he or she brought it back.”
“Any ideas who that might have been?”
“Someone involved with the household, I would imagine. Then again, I’m assuming the boat belongs to the house. Perhaps it doesn’t. It’s possible whoever docked there had nothing to do with Senator Nebel or the party. I’ll ask at some point.”
George drew on his pipe, his face set in deep thought.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
He removed the pipe from his lips, sighed deeply, and said, “I wish the detective hadn’t so quickly come to the conclusion that this was an accident. I’d feel better if it were being treated as a crime scene until proved otherwise. That’s the way we would have handled this in England—assume a crime has been committed until the facts put you in another direction.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, “but absent any evidence of a crime having taken place, I suppose his protocol dictates that he make the decision he did. Still, he seems to be leaving his options open. After all, he made sure to get the names of everyone who is here, and had some of his people examine the scene as carefully as if he suspected a crime.”
A sudden gust of wind blew a speck into my eye. “Ouch,” I said.
“What is it?”
“My eye,” I said, clapping a hand over it. “There’s something in it.”
George pulled a fresh handkerchief from his pocket, tucking it into my hand. He leaned close and placed fingertips next to my closed eye. “Maybe we should go back into the house,” he said, “and take care of that.”
I blinked rapidly and opened my eye, dabbing tears away with his handkerchief. “It feels better now.” George’s face was close to mine. We looked into each other’s eyes. “We probably should go back anyway,” I whispered.
“In a minute,” he murmured.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” The voice came from the direction of the French doors. George and I jumped apart.
“You didn’t,” George said, clearing his throat. “Mrs. Fletcher had a mote in her eye.”
Although most of the exterior lights on that side of the house had been turned off, I could see that the woman was Patricia Nebel, the senator’s wife. Dressed in a faded pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, she stood and looked left and right, as though unsure what to do or where to go next. I led George to her. “Pat?” I said.
She jerked; my voice had startled her.
“Jessica?”
“Yes. And this is my friend George Sutherland, visiting from London. He’s with Scotland Yard.”
She offered her hand; it felt cold and clammy, and her grip was weak.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Jessica,” she said. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you ever since Warren said you’d agreed to come for the week.”
“It’s such a worthwhile endeavor, Pat, and was a lovely evening until—”
“Until this unfortunate thing happened with Nikki,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself as though a blast of cold had engulfed her. “I couldn’t believe it when Warren told me what happened.”
“It must have been a particularly nasty shock for you,” George said, “considering you’re feeling under the weather.”
“Yes, it was,” she said. She was a small woman with soft features, which now reflected her mental state. She looked drawn, exhausted. Large black circles defined the area beneath each eye, and there was a slight but discernible tremor in her lips. Were I describing her in a book and had to sum up what I saw in one word, it would have been frightened.
She walked away from us, went to the head of the stairs, and looked down, her hands grasping the railing. We came up behind her.
“It happened down there?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “At the very bottom of the stairs. She evidently lost her footing and fell.”
“I suppose she’d been drinking again,” Patricia said.
George and I glanced at each other before I said, “I know she was served a glass of something at the party, but I didn’t see her drink it.”
Patricia’s laugh was rueful. “Oh, Nikki enjoyed her liquor.”
George offered, “The autopsy and toxological exam will determine how much she’d had to drink.”
“I don’t know what this will do to the rest of the week,” she said, her voice heavy with despair.
“Hopefully,” I said, “things can go forward as planned. Are you feeling up to continuing, Pat?”
“I think I’d better be,” she said, offering a thin smile. “It’s such a worthwhile program, promoting literacy in America. Don’t you agree?”
“Oh, yes, I certainly do,” I said. “You look cold. Would you like to go back inside?”
“And face all those people?” she said.
“I think most of them are gone by now,” I said.
“I know that the detective, whatever his name is, wants to speak with me, but I’d just as soon do it in private.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said George, tamping down the ashes in the bowl of his pipe and placing it in his jacket pocket.
As we entered the room in which the cocktail portion of the evening had taken place, Detective Moody was in the process of allowing others to leave after having gathered information from them. The only ones left in the room were the Nebels’ son, Jack, and daughter, Christine, her fiancé, Joe Radisch, and members of the catering team, who were cleaning up. I was surprised that Senator Nebel wasn’t there.
Moody came to where we stood just inside the French doors and said to Patricia, “Feel up to a few minutes with me, Mrs. Nebel?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.
Jack Nebel jumped up from a chair and said, “Mother isn’t feeling well. Can’t this wait?”
“It could,” Moody said, “but sometimes it’s better to get these things over with right away.”
“I agree,” Patricia said. “Would you mind coming into another room with me?”
“No, ma’am, not at all,” Moody said, and they went through a door leading to another portion of the house.
They’d been gone for only a minute when Senator Nebel made an appearance in the room. He was accompanied by two men, one an older gentleman wearing what might be termed a dark gray power suit, the other, younger man dressed in slacks, a blue button-down shirt, and a pale blue sport ja
cket.
“Where’s that detective?” the senator asked.
“He’s gone off to speak with your wife,” I replied.
“I told him Mom wasn’t feeling well, but he insisted,” Jack said angrily.
“Hello, Jack,” the older man in the suit said.
“Hi, Mr. Duncan,” Jack replied. He said to the younger man, “How are you, Sandy?”
“Okay. I came as soon as I heard.”
I suppose the look on my face and George’s indicated we were wondering who these newcomers were, and the senator responded, “This is Hal Duncan, my attorney. Sandy Teller is my press aide. I called them as soon as I learned what happened.”
I introduced us, wondering why the senator felt the need to immediately call in legal and public-relations help. But, I silently reminded myself, the world of a United States senator was undoubtedly different from the world most of us experience. Having someone die at a senator’s home—and a close, trusted aide, to boot—would surely pique the interest of local media. That would explain the need to have someone familiar with handling the press at your side. As for Mr. Duncan, the attorney, I could only speculate that Nebel was concerned at being drawn into the case, perhaps even as a suspect, should the ruling of an accidental fall prove false.
Nebel instructed Duncan and Teller to go to his study, where he’d meet them in a few minutes. He said to me, “May I have a word with you privately?”
I looked at George, whose raised eyebrows indicated he was as interested in why the senator wanted to speak to me as I was.
“Of course,” I said.
I followed him through doors to a kitchen that at first glance appeared to be bigger than my entire house back in Cabot Cove. Kitchen help was busy cleaning up under the direction of the household cook, Carmela Martinez, with the East Indian houseman, whose name I didn’t know, lending a helping hand.
“Please leave us for a few minutes,” Nebel told them.
As they left, two observations came and went. The first was that Mrs. Martinez was considerably younger than I envisioned she would be. For some reason I expected an older woman. The second observation had to do with the houseman. Don’t ask me why, but I noticed that although he wore the same uniform, he’d changed shoes since the cocktail party.
A Vote for Murder Page 5
