Murder in the Smithsonian (13 page)

“That’s nice,” Hanrahan said. For some reason the news of another male in the scene annoyed him.

“You must meet him, he’s very charming and I’m certain he could help sort out things—”

“Sure, well, I suppose I can use all the help I can get. Look, I have to go. Call me in the morning and maybe we can set up a meeting with this… how do you pronounce it—
Evil-in
?”

“Dr. Evelyn Killinworth.”

“Give me a call.”

“I will. And thank you. I mean that…”

***

Before leaving to meet his ex-wife, Hanrahan called Joe Pearl into his office, picked up a purple file folder from his desk, looked at it, winced. “Why are we using purple folders in the Tunney case?”

Pearl smiled. “I guess they got a good deal on them in purchasing. Why? You don’t like purple?”

“It’s not a matter of liking purple or not liking purple, Joe. It’s just weird, that’s all.”

Pearl shrugged. “I kind of like it, Mac. The manila
ones are boring. You know, the same. It’s nice to have some color in the files.”

Joe Pearl, color coordinator, thought Hanrahan as he left the office.

***

“You look good, Kathy.”

“So do you, Mac. I like the beard.”

“You see much of the kids?”

“More than before. I think they’re forgiving me… How about you?”

“Forgiving you?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I could never understand that about you, being a Catholic. Your religion is based on forgiveness.”

“That’s religion. We’re real life.”

“I know that, and what happened to us was real life too.”

Hanrahan shifted in his chair and picked up a menu. He looked over it. “What are you having?”

“The usual.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“A fish broiled with garlic and a couscous salad.”

Hanrahan told the waiter, “Broiled fish filet with garlic, two couscous salads and a shore dinner.”

They shared a bottle of white wine. Hanrahan looked across the table at the woman he’d spent twenty-two years with, the woman who’d been mother to their three children. She looked no different than when they’d separated, all blue-eyed innocence, face shaped into a cameo defined by soft, natural black hair that reached the shoulders of her fuzzy, teal-blue sweater. She always looked so damn vulnerable. It was unfair. Hanrahan
knew that underneath was a will of iron, a female survivor at all costs. Bet on it.

“Mac,” she said, “I want to come back.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s where I belong, with you.”

“You didn’t feel that way a couple of years ago.”

“I was wrong. I made a mistake… We do that, you know.”

“Who?”

“Us human beings.”

The waiter delivered their dinners. Kathy held up her wine glass. “To a new beginning?”

Hanrahan left his glass on the table.

She leaned closer. “Please, Mac, at least consider it.” She put her glass on the table, he lifted his.

“Couldn’t we even explore it? I’m sorry, Mac—”

“So am I. But that’s as far as it goes… Eat, before it gets cold.”

Over crème brûlée and coffee Hanrahan asked, “Where’s the guy you took off with?”

“Bill?”

“Whatever.”

“I don’t know. We realized it wasn’t working and decided to go our separate ways.”

“What went wrong?”

“Everything.” She laughed. “
It
was wrong.”

“Made you feel old?”

“No, just foolish.”

“Well, Kathy, I’ve got bad news, or good news, depending on your point of view. I’ve gotten over it. It took a while, wasn’t easy, but I did. Right now I’m fairly happy as a bachelor. I have a pretty good life. There’s no room in it—”

“For me? Or for anyone?”

“Not for you, maybe not for anyone. Who knows?” Only briefly did Heather flash in his head, but she
was
there for a moment. It surprised him, startled him. “Statistics say we men are getting married again right away because we can’t cope with laundry and meals and stuff like that. I always handled routine things pretty good. As the months go by it’s easier being alone. Maybe that’s dangerous, but right now I’m what you could call contented… lonely at times, but content.”

She touched his hand, he took it back.

“Mac, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. You did what was right for you. Getting back together isn’t right for me. Real life. Nothing to do with forgiveness. Or guilt.”

“But what if it
did
work? What if we found we could have all those good times again?”

“That’s a possibility, until…”

“Until what?”

“Until the next bearded flower child comes along who turns you on. Kathy, let’s let it
go
.”

“I have to, don’t I? I don’t have a choice.”

“I guess you don’t. Look, I have an early day tomorrow…”

He walked her to her car. He wanted to hold and kiss her. She seemed so alone, in need of him. He fought back the urge. The fact was that she didn’t need him for the reasons he needed to be needed.

“Good night, Kathy. It was good seeing you again. Take care.”

“You, too, Mac. Thanks for dinner. It was good.”

“I’m glad. No kidding…”

“I know… well, so long, Mac. We all sleep better knowing Hanrahan’s in charge.” She was smiling when she said it.

They sat at a banquette on La Brasserie’s second floor, opting for air conditioning over the outdoor café. Most people had chosen to be outside; the tiny room was less than half full.

Across from them was a wall tiled in orange. Behind their heads was French provincial blue and pink wallpaper. A small gas lamp on their table stood next to a slender vase containing a single red rose and a frond of leather-leaf fern. French accordion music was a background.

Evelyn Killinworth shifted his six-foot, 300-pound body on cushions upholstered in flame-stitch fabric. He seemed too big for the room, like an oversized piece of furniture in a dollhouse. He’d acknowledged it when he and Heather were shown to their table. “They didn’t have me in mind when they designed the room,” he’d said pleasantly, “but they surely did when they created the menu.” He’d recommended the bourride, creamy seafood bisque under a top hat of flaky, buttery pastry that crumbled into the soup as they ate it. The salad, another of Killinworth’s suggestions, was salade Raymond, crunchy walnuts and blue cheese with endive and watercress. Heather fought against the notion of
dessert, but Killinworth prevailed, saying that the crème caramel was very good, which, Heather had to admit, it was.

“You’re uncomfortable,” she said as coffee was served and he shifted, as he had several times before, to accommodate his bulk.

“The price one pays for gastronomic indulgence.” He laughed, causing his immense jowls to quake. His cheeks were unnaturally pink; a tattoo artist might have created them with needlepoint. The hair remaining on his head was stringy, inadequate for the dimensions of what was there to cover. His mouth was small and round, and he worked it even when not chewing. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer over light gray slacks, a custom-made white cotton shirt and red silk tie.

“I’m glad you’re back from California,” Heather said. “I’d thought so many times of trying to reach you but this has been such a dreadful week and…” Tears flowed in spite of herself, as they had earlier.

He took her hand, patted it. “You have every right to cry. ‘Heavy the sorrow that bows the head, when love is alive and hope is dead.’” He delivered the words in deep, near-stentorian tones.

Heather dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “That’s lovely. Shakespeare?”

“Gilbert,
H.M.S. Pinafore.
You cry all you want, dear. Get rid of it, let it drain from you.”

“It’s so good to see an old friend.”

“Of course.” He placed his arm around her, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

When she pulled away, Killinworth took out a long, thick black cigar. “Do you mind?”

“No. Actually I like the aroma.”

He lit it, being careful not to allow the flame to touch the tobacco, blew smoke into the air, grunted with
pleasure, turned to her. “Any notion who killed Lewis, Heather?”

The directness of the question took her aback. She raised her dark eyebrows, shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“I assume you’ve spoken with the police.”

“Yes. There’s a Captain Hanrahan who’s in charge of the case and who’s been very good to me. As a matter of fact, I’d like you to meet him.”

“Fine. People at the museum? Have you spoken to Chloe Prentwhistle?”

“Yes. She’s nice, a little odd but very decent.”

He drew on his cigar and released its blue smoke.

“Do
you
know anything that might help?” Heather asked him.

“No, not any more than I could factually disprove the absurd theory that your Uncle Calum took his own life.”

A tiny smile came to her lips. “That’s right, you always shared my view that he hadn’t killed himself. I believe that’s the last time we talked.”

“Exactly so. Now, let’s get back to Lewis’s death. I know it’s difficult for you constantly to be reminded of it, but we must get to the bottom of things.”

“You sound determined.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course I am, but I assumed your interest would be… well, more as a friend than a colleague.”

“Why?”

“Maybe because I need a friend at this point more than I need a partner.”

“I am your friend, Heather, but I hope that doesn’t exclude me from caring about seeing Lewis’s killer brought to justice. I think I can be of help. I know many of the people in the field. I understand them.
Lewis, I’m sure, was murdered by someone involved with his career and interests.”

“Oh…?”

“Why would you think otherwise?”

“I don’t know… I suppose it’s easier accepting the act of a demented person, a thief caught in the act, an irrational human being who acted on impulse rather than someone who’d thought it out ahead of time.”

“Heather, what’s important right now is for you to tell me everything you’ve learned, from any source, for any reason. I’m going to take notes… I’m afraid note-taking is a way of life with me. Please, proceed. Share your information with me and we can begin working together. You know, Heather McBean, your Uncle Calum always said that if you want to accomplish anything in this world, you must do it yourself.”

She nodded, managed a smile. “I recently quoted him to that effect myself. All right, this is what’s happened to date…”

***

After she’d filled him in on the details, he put away his notepad and said, “You must leave the hotel.”

“Why?”

“After what you’ve told me, Heather, I’d say your own life is in jeopardy. Captain Hanrahan apparently thought so too. Whoever killed Lewis will be uncomfortable with you on the scene.”

“But—”

“I insist. When I came to America I bought a quite handsome house in Georgetown. You’re familiar with that portion of this city?”

“Yes, I’ve—”

“I live in the bottom half. Until leaving for California I rented the upstairs to a professor of linguistics at Catholic University. Frankly I think he was in the employ of the government, possibly the CIA, but that’s
neither here nor there. He was a delightful chap, very popular with the ladies if my ears served me right. At any rate, he’s gone, Arizona or Utah—I’m afraid they all tend to be the same to me—and the apartment is furnished, clean and vacant. I insist you stay there for the duration of your stay in America.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it would be taking advantage of a friendship and—”

“And your sense of propriety makes you uncomfortable sharing a house with a man? Nonsense. In the first place, I am like a father to you. In the second place, I stopped pursuing the opposite sex years ago, more’s the pity, but there it is. In the third place, I have a splendid Victorian housekeeper who blushes at Walt Disney cartoons and who will see to your every need. No further discussion. Here.” He handed her a key. “You’ll come and go as you please. I shall never intrude on your sanctity unless summoned. Please, do this for me, and for Calum. He’d be horrified at the thought of you staying alone in a hotel. They’re not safe, as you’ve found out, even the best of them. And they cost money, something that was very dear to his Scottish heart.”

Heather looked at the key, then at Killinworth. “All right. Thank you.”

“Splendid. We shall go to the Madison immediately, transport you and your belongings in my automobile and have you tucked in within the hour.”

“I don’t know what to say, Evelyn.”

“Say nothing. You are a stranger in a strange city. I am your friend, the closest thing you have to family in this grand experiment known as the United States of America. Come, my dear.”

***

When Mac Hanrahan called Heather at the Madison the next morning he was told that she’d checked out.

“Where’d she go?”

“We don’t know, sir.”

She called him later that afternoon, told him about accepting Killinworth’s offer. “You must meet him, Captain.”

“Yeah, I’d like to meet him. Very much.”

They made a date for lunch the next day.

“…And so, Captain, I’d say it’s impossible, at least from a professional’s point of view.”

“I appreciate your expert opinion, Mr. Kazakis,” Hanrahan said. He had stopped at the Museum of Natural History on his way to lunch with Heather and Evelyn Killinworth. He and Constantine Kazakis had spent a half hour talking about the Harsa. Mostly Hanrahan wanted to know whether it would be possible to create a good copy of the Harsa.

“You see, Captain,” Kazakis said, “it isn’t a matter of duplicating the craftsmanship. That’s easy, if you know what you’re doing. The problem is in the stones. When the Harsa was designed and assembled, jewels were cut in a distinctly different fashion from the way they are today. The difference would not be discernible to a layman… but it would be to me.”

“And you’re certain the medal that’s been returned to the Museum of American History is, in fact, the original Harsa.”

“No question about it.”