“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said through a broad smile. “Inspector.”
“Good evening,” we replied.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Very much.”
“Care to join us?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I’m still hoping to get some time with you,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “the week seems to be getting busier every hour.”
He glanced back at his table, where drink orders were being taken, leaned closer to me, and said, “If you meet with me and allow me to make my case, Mrs. Fletcher, you might find it to your benefit.”
“Maybe I would,” I said, ignoring the insinuation that there might be a
tangible
benefit to me. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’d like to hear what you have to say about locating the plant near Cabot Cove. I’ll call you when I’m free.”
“Wonderful,” he said, laying his business card on the table. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” He bade us a good night and returned to his guests.
“I must say you’re a constant source of surprises,” George said. “I never thought you’d indulge him like that.”
“Sometimes I surprise myself,” I said. “But now that I’ve decided to see what I can do to get to the bottom of Nikki Farlow’s murder, I’ll need to talk to as many people who were at the party as possible.”
“As many
suspects
as possible,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“I hate to judge people based upon so little contact, but I must admit I don’t particularly like Mr. Grusin, the lobbyist,” George said, motioning for our check.
I watched Grusin laughing loudly at something Congresswoman Marshall-Miner had said, and started laughing myself.
“What’s funny?” George asked, placing his credit card on the bill.
“I read that Ulysses S. Grant coined the term
lobbyist
here at the Willard because of the people hanging around the lobby hoping to corner influential politicians. I wonder if he had someone like Mr. Grusin in mind.”
“Perhaps he did. After all, Grusin came over here to corner an influential person named J. B. Fletcher.”
“Well,” I said, “he succeeded, didn’t he? This was a lovely evening, George. I’m glad we had a chance to spend some time together.”
“Let’s not make it the last time. I’m at liberty, and at your beck and call.” He wrote something on the back of his business card and handed it to me. “My cell number. Call me whenever you have a free moment and I’ll be there.”
We regretfully parted in Peacock Alley, the block-long, palm-lined promenade in the heart of the hotel’s grand and harmonious lobby, where famous clientele of old had strutted their stuff. When he wasn’t writing in his suite, Mark Twain was reported to have strolled its length each day, resplendent in his signature white linen suit with matching hair and mustache, and then to have done it again in case anyone missed him the first time.
“Sleep tight, Mrs. Fletcher. And remember that you don’t have to single-handedly solve the murder of Miss Nikki Farlow.”
“And you remember that although you’re a big, strong Scotland Yard inspector, it doesn’t make you immortal. The crime rate in Washington, I’m told, is far above the national average.”
“Jessica, I—”
“Just don’t let anything happen to you, George. Good night.”
He leaned down and kissed me gently on the lips. “Good night.”
I stood for a moment, watching him leave the hotel. He turned just before the door and smiled.
I smiled back.
Chapter Nine
Sandy Teller called me the next morning from a house phone.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good morning. Are you here in the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
He was waiting at the entrance to the hotel’s Willard Room restaurant. We shook hands and went to where a maître d’ stood ready to seat people.
“Good morning, Mr. Teller,” the maître d’ said. “How nice to see you again.”
“Thank you,” Teller replied, his attention not on the maître d’ but on the room itself, which was already partially filled with customers.
“I have a nice table by the window for you,” the maître d’ said.
Teller turned to me. “Mind a change in plans, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“We’ll have breakfast someplace else. Too many media types in there this morning.”
Without explaining anything to the maître d’, he took my elbow, guided me across the lobby to the front entrance, and hailed a taxi that waited in line with other cabs.
“Sorry for the sudden change,” he said, “but I don’t need a bunch of reporters asking questions off the record.” He told the driver to take us to the Dirksen Senate office building. “We’ll have something there. Hope that’s okay with you.”
“I suppose it will have to be,” I said, finding it strange that we couldn’t have breakfast in a public place. But since my only other option was to insist the cabdriver stop and let me off, I acquiesced.
After being checked through security, including a metal detector, we went to Senator Nebel’s office suite, where his staff was already busy at work despite the early hour. I spotted Nikki Farlow’s assistant, Richard Carraway, in a cubicle at the far end of the large outer office. He wiggled his fingers at me in a gesture of welcome, which I returned.
“Grab a seat here,” Teller said, indicating a table with two vacant chairs. “I’ll order up breakfast. Continental okay with you?”
“That will be fine,” I said. “Please make it tea instead of coffee. And tomato juice.”
“Sure thing,” he said, disappearing into what I assumed was his own office and shutting the door behind him.
After ten minutes had passed, I became annoyed at the circumstances I’d found myself in, and was about to get up to leave when Carraway came from his cubicle and joined me at the table.
“How are you holding up, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.
“Holding up? I’m ‘holding up’ quite nicely, thank you, although I don’t know the reason why I’m sitting here this morning.” I gathered up my handbag. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell Mr. Teller that I’ve left.”
I’d no sooner said that than the door to Teller’s office opened and he motioned for me. For a moment I considered ignoring him and simply walking out of the office. But my curiosity demanded an explanation of his behavior, and I followed him into his office, a cluttered space with every inch of his desk covered with mounds of paper, newspapers, and magazines.
“Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, removing a pile of materials from a chair and inviting me to sit. “I thought I’d better get in here and handle the most pressing media calls before sitting down with you.”
A young woman opened the door and delivered breakfast.
“Ah, nourishment has arrived,” Teller said, moving another pile of papers on the front of his desk to accommodate the tray. He took an empty cup and a carafe of coffee and resumed his seat behind the desk.
I didn’t have much of an appetite, but dutifully broke off a piece of croissant and took a sip of tomato juice.
Teller held up a sheaf of pink message slips. “See these?” he said. “All calls from the media about what happened to Nikki, and this is just the beginning. They’re vultures, reporters, and they won’t stop until they get the story
they
want, whether it represents the truth or not.”
“I hope I never become that cynical,” I said. “I’ve always considered the press to be the real check and balance on our government, although I am well aware of their excesses.”
“I wish I could share your sanguine view of the media,” he said, tossing the message slips on the desk like a poker player throwing in his hand. “Have you spoken with Mrs. Nebel this morning?”
“No, I haven’t. But let me ask you something, Mr. Teller. I agreed to have breakfast with you this morning primarily because you said Senator Nebel had asked for us to meet. Instead of having breakfast at the hotel, as planned, you whisked me away in a taxi and sat me down at a table while you went off to do whatever it is you do for the senator. Frankly, I have no idea why I’m here.”
Teller, deeply tanned and with pale blue eyes, nodded in agreement. Or wanted me to think he agreed. He said, “Let me level with you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I wish you would.”
“As you know, the senator is in a tight race for another term in the Senate. He’s being attacked from all sides over a variety of issues. That’s bad enough. But now his top aide is found dead at his home after a dinner party, and the rumormongers here in Washington are dredging up baseless allegations that he and Nikki had been getting it on. Having an affair. An office romance. Do you know what that can do to his reelection chances?”
“Obviously it won’t help. But that doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Teller. What does it have to do with me?”
“It has to do with you, Mrs. Fletcher, because you’re a friend of the senator’s wife—and that means you’ve probably been privy to things she’s been saying about the rumors concerning the senator and Nikki.”
“Even if I had been, I certainly wouldn’t share them with anyone else.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you wouldn’t, except that the press can be pretty good at getting people to say things they don’t want to say. You said you’d been contacted by somebody from the
Post
. Natalie Mumford?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That, Mr. Teller, is none of your business.”
He laughed. “You’re right, but I’ll find out anyway when I read what she writes. And if you’ve messed up,” he said, “I’m the one who will have to clean up after you.” He swiveled in his chair and looked out a small window, then returned his attention to me. “Because you’re Pat Nebel’s friend, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sure you’re aware that she’s not the most—how can I put this gently? —she’s not the most stable of people.”
“Stable?” I said, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said defensively. “Pat is a terrific person, and I personally am very fond of her.”
How nice,
I thought.
“But she’s never tried to hide the fact that she dislikes politics, considers it a dirty business. That’s posed a lot of problems for the senator over the years he’s been in Washington. What he needs most at a time like this is the unflinching backing of his wife, someone to stand at his side and dismiss these rumors about an affair with Nikki for what they are, nothing but malicious gossip by his enemies.”
“I’m sure she does stand by him,” I said, not entirely meaning it, based upon the conversation I’d had with her the previous day.
“You mark my words, Mrs. Fletcher; it’s only a matter of time before the senator is accused of killing Nikki because of their alleged affair. It doesn’t matter that it’s a lie. Once a rumor starts spreading in Washington, it develops legs. It becomes the truth even when it isn’t.” He pointed at the empty china cup in front of me. “You haven’t had your tea,” he said.
“I’m not in the mood, and I really think I ought to be going. I’m here in Washington for the literacy program and would like to catch up with the others.”
Teller stood, came around the desk, and leaned back against it. “I’m trying to convince the senator to issue a public statement about Nikki’s death, take the offense and head things off at the pass. I’m hoping he’ll go along with it, and I want Mrs. Nebel right there at his side. I’d like you there, too.”
I, too, stood. “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” I said.
The door opened and Nebel stuck his head in.
“Jessica, how wonderful to see you. I knew you and Sandy were breaking bread together this morning, but didn’t know it would be here at the office.” To Teller: “The least you could do for our distinguished guest from Cabot Cove is to take her to a decent restaurant, Sandy.”
“Breakfast was fine,” I said, “but I’m just leaving.”
“Give me a few minutes before you go?” Nebel asked.
I sighed and nodded.
In his private office, he struck a pose at the window and looked out over Washington, saying without looking at me, “These are challenging days for our country. So much is at stake here and abroad, and it’s going to take clear thinking and a commitment to our democratic ideals to see us move forward.”
He turned and said to me, “I understand you’re against the power plant in Cabot Cove.”
“I don’t know where you got that information, Senator, but I do have serious reservations about it.”
“That vote is coming up soon in the Senate, and it represents perhaps one of the most important votes I’ll ever cast in that body. I have an obligation to my constituents in Maine, and the polls tell me the majority of them are against the plant. On the other hand, as a senator, I am also expected to make decisions that will benefit the greatest number of people—despite the polls. That plant could prevent another serious blackout up and down the East Coast, to say nothing of providing jobs in our state and pumping money into the economy. You’re one of the most well-known people in Maine, Jessica. Hell, in the world, for that matter. It’s important that I have your support no matter which direction I go.”
“I’m sorry, Senator, but I don’t involve myself in politics. I’m sure you’ll do whatever you feel is best.”
And suffer the consequences at the ballot box,
I thought.
He instantly changed the subject. “Pat said you had a nice talk,” he said. “I really appreciate your spending time with her this week.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Pat is going to need you more than ever, Jessica.”
I started to say something, but he continued.
“My political opponents will use Nikki’s tragic death to smear me, to claim she and I were having an affair. Hell, I won’t be surprised if they start accusing me of having killed her. You’ve heard that the police are now considering it a murder?”