The same driver who brought me to the house returned me to the Willard. I’d called George from the car, and we had arranged to meet for dinner at a favorite Washington spot of mine, the Foggy Bottom Café, a small, charming neighborhood restaurant in the River Inn, only a few blocks from the Kennedy Center.
The light was flashing on the telephone in my suite. I picked it up, pressed in the appropriate number for voice mail, and was told by a recorded voice that I had three messages.
The first was from a woman who identified herself as a reporter, Natalie Mumford. She said she wanted to speak with me concerning the death of Nikki Farlow, and left her number at the paper.
The second call was from George, who said he was tied up with some business and would be a half hour late meeting me at the restaurant.
The third was from Warren Nebel’s press secretary, Sandy Teller, who announced it was urgent that he speak with me. He left the numbers for both his direct line at the senator’s office and his cellular phone.
I returned the reporter’s call and she picked up on the first ring. I could hear the sounds of a busy newsroom in the background.
“Thanks so much for getting back to me, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “I’m working on the Nikki Farlow story and wondered if I could spend a few minutes with you.”
“With me?” I said. “Why would you want to speak with me?”
“I understand you were the one who discovered the body.”
“Quite by accident,” I said. “I don’t see why that would be of any interest to you as a reporter.”
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sure you can understand that when someone like Nikki Farlow is found murdered at the home of her boss, a United States senator, that’s news here in Washington—or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Murder?”
“Yes. The police are now calling it a homicide.”
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“We just learned of it. Any chance of stealing fifteen minutes with you?”
“I suppose so, although this is shaping up to be a very busy week.”
“I can be at your hotel in five minutes.”
“Tonight? No, I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’m about to leave to meet someone for dinner.”
“How about fifteen minutes at the restaurant? Buy you and your friend a drink.”
“I—”
“I promise no more than fifteen minutes. My watch has a timer.”
I laughed. “All right,” I said, “as long as you set that timer. But I must warn you, Ms. Mumford, I have nothing of interest to offer. I was simply a guest at the party along with many others.”
“I realize that, Mrs. Fletcher, but you were there. I wasn’t. I just want to get a sense of the mood at the house last night. You’re a best-selling writer of murder mysteries. I’m sure your insight will be helpful. If you prefer, whatever you tell me will be on background. You have my word.”
I’d learned over the years in dealing with the press that reporters often don’t keep their word when they’re after a story. They promise many things, but conveniently forget those promises when it serves their purpose. Her pledge to keep our conversation on background—not attributing anything I said to me by name—was comforting, provided she meant it, but I intended to stick to the facts and not offer any opinions. We agreed to meet at the Foggy Bottom Café, and she ended our conversation with, “I’m wearing a gray plaid skirt and blue blazer. Don’t bother telling me what you’re wearing, Mrs. Fletcher. I certainly know what you look like.”
I next called the number Sandy Teller had left. He wasn’t at the office, and I tried his cell phone.
“Good timing, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, sounding breathless. “I just got home. You’ve heard, I assume.”
I knew what he was referring to but said, “Heard what?”
“That the police are now saying that Nikki was murdered, that it wasn’t an accident.”
“Yes, I did hear something about that.”
“You’ll be hearing a lot more, Mrs. Fletcher. I can guarantee you that. The press is already all over it. It’ll be a media circus by tomorrow morning.”
“I suppose that’s inevitable,” I said, “considering it happened at the home of a United States senator.” I didn’t add that the rumors of an affair between the senator and the victim would undoubtedly heighten press interest.
“How was your afternoon with Mrs. Nebel?”
“Lovely. We spent some pleasant time together.”
“She’s obviously upset about what happened.”
“Understandably so.”
“What did she have to say about it?”
I thought it a strange question for him to be asking me. What Pat Nebel and I spoke about was, and would continue to be, a private conversation between friends. My silence evidently wasn’t lost on Teller, because he quickly said, “I don’t mean to pry into what you and Mrs. Nebel said to each other. I suppose that . . . well . . . I suppose what I’m saying is that . . . well, let me put it this way, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact that you and your friend from England were the ones who discovered the body, and that you’re a celebrity, will mean that the press will want to speak with you about Nikki’s death. The senator is in the midst of a campaign for reelection, the worst possible timing for something like this to happen.”
Even worse for Nikki Farlow, I thought.
“I’d like to suggest that we get together as soon as possible and coordinate how we handle the press.”
“Coordinate?” I said. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I don’t know how much experience you’ve had dealing with the press, Mrs. Fletcher, but I doubt you’ve seen them in a feeding frenzy. I’ve been doing this for years. It’s my job as Senator Nebel’s press secretary. The Washington press corps can be vicious, especially when a story involves a high-profile politician like the senator. It’s my responsibility to see that he’s protected from a media smear campaign. I’m sure you don’t want to see that happen either.”
I glanced at my watch, and realized I had to leave if I were to meet George on time. “Mr. Teller,” I said, “I’m running late for a dinner appointment. I understand what your role is, but—”
“Has anyone from the press contacted you?” he asked bluntly.
I hesitated before replying, “Yes.”
“Who?”
“A newspaper reporter.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Teller, I appreciate your concern about Senator Nebel’s political fortunes, but I don’t think I have an obligation to keep you informed about who contacts me, and whom I choose to speak with.”
“I thought you were a friend of the family.”
“I am. At least, Pat Nebel and I are friends. I don’t know the senator very well.”
“All I’m asking for, Mrs. Fletcher, is a chance to meet with you and outline what we’re doing when it comes to dealing with the press on this matter. I’m not calling on my own. The senator asked me to contact you.”
“All right. I’ll meet with you,” I said, anxious to get off the phone. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning? Eight?”
“Where?”
“I’ll come to the hotel. Breakfast is on me.”
“Very well; I’ll see you then.”
George was already at the Foggy Bottom Café when I walked in. Standing with him at the bar was a stunningly attractive woman wearing a gray plaid skirt and blue blazer.
“Ah, Jessica,” he said, taking my hand and kissing me on the cheek. “This is—”
I smiled. “I know who this is,” I said. “You must be Ms. Mumford.”
She shook my hand and said, “Just my luck to end up meeting the person you’re having dinner with. And someone from Scotland Yard as well.”
“Drink, Jessica?” George asked. I saw that he’d already been served his favorite, a single-malt Scotch, and that the reporter had a glass of red wine.
“No, thanks,” I said, thinking that I
wanted to keep up my guard when talking to a reporter, and that an alcoholic beverage wouldn’t help achieve that purpose. “But I am hungry. Shall we take a table?”
Once we were comfortably seated, George and I next to each other, Ms. Mumford across from us, I said, “I really would appreciate it if we could do this quickly. I haven’t seen my friend here in a long time, and we have a lot of catching up to do.”
A knowing smile played around her lips and she said, winking at me, “If I were meeting such a handsome inspector from Scotland Yard, I’d want to find as much time alone with him as possible, too.”
I ignored the comment and said, “You told me on the phone that the police now consider the death at Senator Nebel’s house last night to be murder. From whom did you hear that?”
“The detective in charge of the case,” Mumford said.
“Detective Moody?”
“Yes. He’s the one who told me you’d discovered the body.”
“Not me alone,” I said. “George and I were together.”
“Of course. Look, I’ll level with you, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t know if you’re aware that rumors have been circulating around this city that Senator Nebel was carrying on a long-term affair with the deceased.”
I said nothing, not wanting to confirm or deny what she’d said.
She continued: “When a member of Congress is accused of having an affair with someone who works for him, and that someone ends up missing—remember Gary Condit?—or is found dead at the foot of a set of stairs at that elected official’s house, what was once just an indiscretion becomes a big story. You were at that dinner party, Mrs. Fletcher. I wasn’t. What I’m trying to do is get your impressions of the people who were there, and what you think might have happened to Nikki Farlow. You not only have a reputation as a wonderful writer of murder mysteries, but you seem to have ended up in the middle of real-life murders more than once. So tell me, what’s your take on what happened last night?”
George said, “I’m sure you’re aware, Ms. Mumford, that having someone of Mrs. Fletcher’s stature helping you with your story adds a certain—how shall I say it?—panache?”
“Sure it does,” she agreed. She looked at me. “Do you think Farlow was murdered?”
I looked at George before answering. “What I think doesn’t really matter, Ms. Mumford. If it was a murder, it’s strictly a police matter.”
“True,” she said, “but someone who was there last night tells me that Detective Moody spent quite a bit of time with you and Inspector Sutherland. Why was that?”
George answered: “Because we were the ones who discovered the body.”
“I also understand that Mrs. Nebel wasn’t there,” Mumford said.
“She wasn’t feeling well,” I said.
“Strange, isn’t it, that his wife, who’s heading up this Literacy Week, wouldn’t be at a dinner party celebrating it?”
“Not at all,” I said, looking at my watch. “I think we’ve spent our fifteen minutes together, Ms. Mumford. To be honest with you, I really have nothing to offer. A woman died an unfortunate death last night, and Inspector Sutherland and I happened to be there. Mrs. Nebel is an old friend of mine from back home in Cabot Cove, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be discussing personal things about her family, particularly allegations of an affair between her husband and the victim. I wish I had more to offer but I simply don’t.”
She sat back, smiled, and nodded. “I get the hint,” she said. “And I really appreciate the opportunity to talk to you like this. Mind if I keep in touch?”
“No, of course not.”
She’d been taking notes. She folded her long, slim reporter’s notebook, capped her pen, and stood. Then, as a practiced afterthought, she asked, “Any talk at the party about congressional funny money?”
George and I stared at her blankly.
“Thanks again,” she said. “We’ll be in touch. Oh, by the way, don’t be surprised if people in this town start speculating that Senator Nebel might have been the one who killed his paramour. If nothing else, his political enemies will make sure that possibility is floated.”
“How unfortunate,” I said.
She shrugged. “Welcome to Washington, D.C.”
Chapter Eight
Once Natalie Mumford left the restaurant, George and I deliberately avoided discussing the events of the previous night.
He’d certainly been busy since the last time I’d seen him. He’d been appointed by the Yard as its coordinator on terrorism, necessitating his meeting with others involved in antiterrorism activities from around the world. Like every other thinking, concerned citizen, I’d given a lot of thought, and had been concerned about, the wanton destruction terrorists had heaped upon the world, especially in New York City and Washington, and what the future might hold. But I knew only what I’d read in papers and magazines, or seen on television. George’s inside knowledge of the world’s war on terrorism went far beyond what’s been recounted in the popular press, and I hung on every word.
By the time we stepped outside the restaurant on to 25th Street NW, the unsettled weather had given way to a cloudless, starlit sky, and we decided to take a postprandial walk to the Kennedy Center, where a show had just let out and people came streaming from one of many theaters in the complex. We entered the building, named after the slain president, and took the elevator to the terrace, built over a highway, from which the view of the river and Georgetown beyond was spectacular.
“It’s a lovely city,” George said as we stood at a railing and took in the sights.
“I’ve always liked Washington,” I said. “The buildings are beautiful, especially at night. It’s a Southern city really, more slow-paced than New York or Chicago.”
“But not as slow-paced as your Cabot Cove,” he said, chuckling and lighting his pipe.
“That’s right,” I said. “I love the hustle-bustle of big cities, but always enjoy getting back home to my small town. Of course, Cabot Cove is growing, too, people from big cities looking for a more peaceful way of life.”
“What did you think of Ms. Mumford?” he asked.
“What did you think of her?” I asked.
“Attractive woman.”
“I noticed you noticed,” I said playfully.
“Was my appreciation that obvious? I thought she was pleasant enough. Journalists can be so bloody meddlesome, but I appreciate the job they have to do.”
“I feel the same way. But I felt I didn’t need to inform her of everything I know. Pat Nebel says she thinks her husband might have killed Nikki Farlow.”
My offhand comment caused him to cough. He removed the pipe from his mouth and said, “That’s startling. Usually a wife stands behind her man.”
“In most cases, yes. She claims to have overheard a conversation between her husband and his lawyer that indicated, at least to her, that Nikki was blackmailing Warren over an affair they’d been having.”
“Leave it to you, Jessica, to come up with information like that. I assume the police aren’t aware of Mrs. Nebel’s suspicions.”
“I hope not, at least for the senator’s sake. He’s received death threats, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Will you share what Mrs. Nebel told you with the police?”
“I suppose I should.”
“Death threats, you say? Since last night?”
I shook my head. “No, no. A while ago. I read it in our local paper before I left home. They have to do with his vote on locating the nuclear power plant near Cabot Cove.”
He resumed puffing on his pipe and looked out over the river. A brisk, welcome breeze came up and ruffled my hair. It felt good.
“I wonder if Ms. Farlow’s death—murder, it now seems to be—had anything to do with that power plant and the senator’s stand on it,” he mused.
“I hadn’t considered that, although I don’t see the connection.”
“What is the senator’s stand on that issue?”
“Ironically, he seems to represent the sole undecided vote. At least that’s how I understand it. It’s hard to fathom, not only for me, but for a lot of my neighbors, too. I remember when he was running for his second term. The issue was floating around even then, and he made speeches against locating the plant there. ‘It will be built here over my dead body,’ is what he said. But he’s made speeches since in which he’s pointed to the jobs the plant would create, and the boost to the Cabot Cove economy in general. I suppose I understand his conflict, and I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, having to make such a decision.”
“That’s a powerful position to be in.”
“What is?”
“Holding the crucial vote. I imagine he’s on the receiving end of considerable persuasion.”
I thought back to the conversation we’d had at the dinner party with Joe Radisch, Christine Nebel’s fiancé. He’d made a snide comment about the senator’s lavish lifestyle, insinuating that Nebel might be the recipient of illegal contributions. And the reporter, Ms. Mumford, had asked about “funny money.”
“Do you know what Ms. Farlow’s position was on the power plant, Jessica?”
“No, I don’t, although I have to assume it mirrored the senator’s view. It would be awkward if his top aide didn’t agree with his views.”
“Quite so,” George said. “Feel like a nightcap?”
“If it will extend the evening,” I said, taking his arm as we headed for the elevator.
A turbaned cabdriver drove us to the Willard, where we’d decided to end our night together. We walked into the Round Robin Bar off the lobby, a handsome room with a green hunt-club décor and a huge, circular mahogany bar manned by two bartenders in starched white jackets and black bow ties. We found a table for two in a secluded corner; the other tables were occupied by prosperous-looking men and women, adding credence to the hotel’s reputation for attracting Washington’s movers and shakers.
“What’s on your agenda tomorrow?” he asked once we’d been served.
A Vote for Murder Page 9
