A Vote for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I announced.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the guard said, shining the beam of his flashlight on Seth’s face.

  “This is Dr. Seth Hazlitt,” I said.

  “No one said anything about him,” the guard said. “They told me you’d be coming, but—”

  “Please call the house and tell them I have Dr. Hazlitt with me.”

  The guard did as I asked, and we were told we could pass. I paid the cabdriver, and Seth and I went to the front door. Christine Nebel opened it.

  “Hello, Christine,” I said. “Nice to see you again. This is Dr. Seth Hazlitt, a friend from home.”

  “Please come in.”

  Christine disappeared immediately, but I no longer needed a guide to the house’s first floor. I led Seth to the large room at the rear, whose windows overlooked the terrace and river. Jack Nebel was there with press secretary Sandy Teller, attorney Hal Duncan, and a man I didn’t recognize. They turned at our entrance.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Teller said, closing the gap between us and extending his hand.

  I introduced Seth. The man I didn’t know turned out to be the family’s Washington physician, Dr. Morris Young, a middle-aged gentleman with a burr haircut, large tortoiseshell glasses, and wearing a blue blazer, gray slacks, and a white shirt open at the neck.

  “How is Mrs. Nebel?” I asked.

  “She’s resting comfortably,” Dr. Young answered.

  I wanted to ask the details of what had happened, but doubted the doctor would give them to me.

  “Is Senator Nebel here?” I asked Teller.

  “On his way,” he replied. “Could I have a word with you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Of course.”

  We went outside to the terrace.

  “I’m sure you’d rather be someplace other than here again,” he said.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Was it you who dropped off the note at my hotel?”

  “Yes. The senator asked me to. He didn’t want me to do it by phone. Too many potential ears.”

  “I’d like to know what happened with Mrs. Nebel,” I said.

  “It’s not what people thought at first.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Somebody here panicked and told the senator Pat had attempted suicide. Not true.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. She accidentally took too many sleeping pills.”

  “ ‘Accidentally’?”

  “That’s right.”

  I read the small smile on his face; he was lying. An attempted suicide by the senator’s wife would only add to media speculation about his alleged affair with Nikki Farlow and his possible involvement in her murder. Teller was doing what he was paid to do; put the best possible spin on a bad situation.

  “May I see her?” I asked.

  “Doc Young says she shouldn’t have any visitors.”

  “Then why am I here?” I asked, not bothering to keep the pique out of my voice.

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Teller said. “The senator told me to deliver his note to the hotel. But since you are here, it gives us the opportunity to talk more about the press and how we’ll handle this.”

  “Mr. Teller,” I said firmly, “I have had quite enough of you telling me how we’ll handle the press. I am not interested in the press or any problems you and the senator might be having with it. I came here as Patricia Nebel’s friend, nothing more. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back inside.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, calm down, huh? I’m in a very tenuous position, with Nikki being murdered here at the house, the damn rumors about the senator and her, and now this. Senator Nebel is in a tight race for reelection. This sort of stuff can sink a candidate.”

  His voice trailed behind as I reentered the house, where Seth was off to one corner with Dr. Young. Duncan, the attorney, had left the room, but the two Nebel children, Jack and Christine, stood near the fireplace. I wasn’t sure where to go, but Jack spared me that decision by coming to me.

  “It’s good of you to be here,” he said. “I’m sure Mom will appreciate it.”

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “Okay. Dr. Young wanted her to go to the hospital, but people overrode him.”

  “What did your mother want to do?” I asked.

  “I don’t think it mattered to her. She was out of it.”

  “Who discovered that she’d taken the pills?”

  “I did,” Jack said. “It was an accident.”

  “Was it, Jack?”

  My challenge caused him to fidget, and to shift from one foot to the other.

  “I understand the political ramifications of a tragic suicide attempt,” I said, “but it seems to me—and I admit being politically naïve—that some simple honesty would go a long way.”

  He looked wounded.

  “Was it an accident, Jack,” I repeated, “or did your mom try to take her own life?”

  “Mom is—”

  “I’ve heard her described as ‘delicate’ and ‘fragile.’ I don’t believe she’s either of those things. At least, that isn’t the woman I’ve always known.”

  Christine, who’d come up behind Jack, joined us. “I heard you asking about Mom,” she said.

  “That’s right,” I said. “If she tried to take her life tonight, she needs more than a stomach pumping. She needs psychiatric care, even if what she did was nothing more than crying out for attention.”

  Brother and sister looked at each other before Christine spoke. “This isn’t a family home,” she said. “This is a political campaign headquarters. Nobody cares about what happens to people here, as long as my father’s political career is protected.” There was unmistakable bitterness, wrapped in sadness, in her quiet voice.

  “Christine—” Jack started to say.

  “No,” Christine said sharply. “Mrs. Fletcher is right. It’s time we had some simple honesty.”

  “Chris is upset,” Jack said, trying to explain away his sister’s comment.

  Christine’s eyes welled up, and tears followed. She walked away, past Seth and Dr. Young, who saw the state she was in, and went through the doors to the terrace. I followed, hoping Teller had left. He had. Christine went to the head of the stairs leading down to the dock, placed her hands on the railing, and sobbed. I placed a hand on her shoulder. “This has been such a difficult time for you and your family,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  She turned. Her face was blotchy and wet, but her eyes were angry. “My mother knows about everything,” she said.

  “What does she know, Christine?”

  “About my father and Nikki, about the money, about all of it.”

  “Christine, don’t fall victim to the rumors concerning your father and Nikki Farlow. It may not be what you or your mother think.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t believe that your father and Nikki Farlow were anything but professional colleagues.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve learned some things since I’ve been in Washington that lead me to believe that—to know that.”

  “Because he told you?”

  “He?”

  “My illustrious father, the United States senator. He’s a politician. Lying comes easily to him.”

  I realized I’d created a difficult situation for myself. I’d made a representation to Christine without being willing to back it up with the facts—that Nikki was not a woman who would be interested in an intimate relationship with a member of the opposite sex.

  “No,” I said, “your father hasn’t told me anything. I’m not at liberty to break a confidence, but I think you and your family have been pained by something that isn’t there.”

  She let that noncommittal comment pass and said, “Do you know what she did to Joe?”

  “Joe? Your fiancé?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Nikki. She didn’t l
ike Joe from the first time she met him, and poisoned my father about him. She was good at that, poisoning people, setting them against one another. My father was nothing but a pawn in her hands. She ran his life, and our lives, too.”

  “That’s a pretty harsh indictment of her,” I said. “I’m not challenging you, but I didn’t realize how vehemently you disliked her. Does Joe feel the same way?”

  “He hated her. You’ll have to excuse me. Joe is picking me up. I want to get out of this place. Thanks for being there for Mom. At least she has one good friend.”

  I turned to the river, its dark currents catching moon-beams and glittering in the otherwise black night. I’d wanted desperately to share with Christine Nebel why the rumors concerning her father and Nikki Farlow were baseless, and almost had. But I knew that doing so would betray a trust I felt with Nikki’s parents, and would address only one of the problems that seemed to be splitting the family apart. Christine’s vehement condemnation of her father as a politician was obviously based upon more than whether he was having an affair. She’d branded him a liar—and she’d mentioned money. What had she said? That her mother knew about the affair and the money. What was that all about?

  I thought back to the dinner party, when Christine’s fiancé, Joe Radisch, had snidely commented that a senator could make a lot more money than his salary. I turned and looked back at the house. I didn’t remember how much a United States senator was paid, but it couldn’t have been enough to pay for and support what certainly was a mansion and its staff, as well as a home back in Maine.

  Seth came through the French doors.

  “Pretty fancy place,” he commented, turning in a circle to take in the vast expanse of the back of the house.

  “Very,” I said. “How was your talk with Dr. Young?”

  “Nice fella, knows my friend over at NIH. World gets smaller the older I get.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too,” I said. “What did he have to say about Pat?”

  “He didn’t say much, but seems she took too many pills.”

  “Deliberately?”

  “Maybe, only the amount she took wouldn’t have killed her. Appears to me like a cry for help.”

  “I feel terrible, Seth. I knew she was upset, but never in my wildest dreams did I think she’d make an attempt on her life.”

  “Now, Jessica, don’t go guiltin’ yourself. Most people don’t recognize the signs. Sometimes there aren’t any.”

  “Poor thing,” I said, “feeling she had to go to that length to get somebody to listen to her.”

  “The senator stopped by while I was speaking with Dr. Young,” Seth said, “came bustling in and disappeared as fast as he arrived. Took off with the lawyer and that Teller fella.”

  “Have you seen the houseman, Jardine?”

  “Ayuh. He asked me and Dr. Young if we wanted a drink.” Seth chuckled. “A drink’s the last thing I want. Told him some coffee or tea would be nice.”

  “I’m going inside,” I said. “I want to speak with Pat Nebel. After all, that’s why we came here.”

  Jardine was pouring a cup of coffee for Dr. Young when we entered the room. I went to the doctor and asked whether it would be all right for me to see Pat Nebel.

  “I understand you’re a close friend,” he said.

  “A friend from back home,” I said. “Perhaps it might cheer her up to see me.”

  He thought for a moment. “Senator Nebel has asked that no one bother her, but in this case . . .” He nodded.

  “Thank you; I won’t stay long,” I said, walking away before he changed his mind.

  It occurred to me that while I’d seen much of the house, including her office, I didn’t know where the master bedroom was. I turned to find Jardine at my back.

  “I’ll take you,” he said, and led me upstairs, pausing outside a door off a long corridor.

  “She’s in there,” he said in hushed tones.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. I knocked and slowly opened the door.

  Pat was propped up on pillows in a king-size bed. The room was large, thickly carpeted, and expensively furnished in period pieces. Windows dominated the outside wall, offering a view of the river. A single lamp on a night table cast the only light in the room.

  She looked up, startled at first, but saw who it was, sat up straight, and waved me to her bedside.

  “Hello, Pat,” I said.

  “Hello to you, Jess,” she said, her voice strong. “They dragged you here again, I see.”

  “They didn’t have to drag me,” I said. “When I heard that—”

  “That I’d done something dumb like overdose on pills. How embarrassing.”

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about, Pat.” I pulled up a small upholstered chair from a dressing table.

  “Oh,” she said, placing her fingers against her lips. “I forgot. It’s supposed to have been an accident.”

  “That’s what they’re saying,” I said. “An accidental overdose.”

  “The spin machine in full gear,” she said. “Wouldn’t look good if Warren’s long-suffering wife tried to kill herself. It might give credence to the rumors about Nikki.”

  “Pat,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Warren wasn’t having an affair with Nikki.”

  She opened her eyes wide and turned to face me.

  “Trust me,” I said. “They were not having an affair.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It doesn’t matter how I know, Pat. What’s important is that you believe me.”

  “But the blackmail.” She reached for my hand, and her voice took on urgency. “I heard it, Jess. I heard it with my own ears.”

  “What exactly did you hear, Pat?”

  “I heard Warren discussing it with his attorney, Hal Duncan. They were trying to figure out how to handle it. I only listened in for a minute or two, but that’s why—”

  “That’s why you thought Warren might have murdered Nikki, to keep her quiet.”

  “Of course. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “Yes, it does. But maybe she was blackmailing Warren about something else, for a different reason.” Which I now knew was the case from having read Nikki’s letter that Detective Moody had shared with me.

  Her expression grew dark, and she turned from me.

  “What else could it be?” she asked.

  Nikki’s letter to the senator hadn’t mentioned anything about an affair, but also hadn’t been specific about what was behind her threat. Was it money? Joe Radisch’s comment at the party, and Christine’s mention of it downstairs, coupled with the lavish lifestyle the Nebels were enjoying—at least Warren was enjoying it—made that a distinct possibility.

  “Could it have something to do with money?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what it could be,” Pat said.

  “If you’d rather not discuss it, I—”

  “I really appreciate your being here, Jess, and if you’re right about Warren and Nikki, you’ve done me a very big favor. But I’m suddenly tired, very tired.Would you mind?”

  I stood. “Of course,” I said, returning my chair to the dressing table. “I’ll be downstairs for a while if you need me. Seth Hazlitt came with me tonight.”

  “Did he? How is he?”

  “Just fine. He said to say hello, and that he hopes you’re feeling better soon.”

  “Give him my best.”

  I backed away from the bed, went to the door, and opened it. Jardine was standing just outside in the hallway, and I had the feeling he’d been listening.

  I started toward the stairs, but he stopped me. “May I talk to you?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Not here,” he whispered. “I will be at the dock.”

  “Couldn’t we speak here?” I asked in equally hushed tones.

  He looked positively panicked. “No, ma’am, not here,” he said, looking downstairs over the railing. “I don’t want any trouble. The dock. I will go there now
.”

  He ran down the stairs, leaving me on the second floor to ponder what to do. On the one hand, I was determined to not miss this opportunity to hear what he had to say. It undoubtedly concerned Nikki’s murder. On the other hand, the thought of going down to the dock at night—the scene of the murder—to meet alone with a man who might well have had something to do with Nikki’s death was off-putting.

  I went down the stairs and caught up with Seth Hazlitt, who stood by himself staring out the window to the terrace.

  “Had your coffee?” I asked.

  “Ayuh. How is Mrs. Nebel?”

  “She seems fine, a little tired. Feel like some fresh air?”

  Once outside, I said, “Seth, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “What might that be, Jessica?”

  “I’m going down those stairs to the dock to meet someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Jardine, the houseman. What I want you to do, Seth, is to stand at the top of the stairs in case I need you. But don’t allow yourself to be seen from below. Okay?”

  “I do not like this, Jessica Fletcher. Here you go again, puttin’ yourself in some kind of dangerous situation.”

  “I have nothing to worry about as long as I know you’re here.”

  What I didn’t say was that I wondered what help Seth could possibly be in the event I actually did need him. He was not in what would pass for good physical shape. Still, just knowing he was there would put my mind somewhat at ease.

  “Will you?” I asked.

  “Ayuh,” he said, obviously not happy about it.

  We went to the head of the rickety steps and stopped.

  “Stand here,” I said, indicating a place where he would not be visible from the dock. “I’ll be right back.”

  As I started down, I looked up and silently thanked an almost full moon for providing a modicum of illumination for my descent. It also occurred to me as I went step by step, my hand firmly gripping the wooden handrail, one foot after the other, that Jardine might not even be there, might have had a change of heart.

  I continued until I’d reached the final landing before the dock itself. I squinted to see whether Jardine was there. I didn’t see him—but then I did, his silhouette against the pinpoints of light on the crest of ripples in the river.