A Vote for Murder Page 12

  The senator’s personal secretary, who manned a desk just outside his private office, greeted me. “Good morning Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “Back so soon?”

  “Good morning,” I said. “This is Inspector George Sutherland, of Scotland Yard.”

  “Good morning to you, sir.”

  “Is the senator available?” I asked.

  She nodded toward the closed door. “He’s in there with investigators from the Capitol Police, and detectives from the Metropolitan Police Department.”

  “Do you expect he’ll be with them long?” I asked.

  “Hard to say. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  She buzzed his office and announced we were waiting to see him. She hung up the phone and said, “He said he didn’t think he’d be much longer. Have a seat.”

  George and I sat in orange plastic chairs near her desk and continued to take in the activity around us. George seemed especially interested in Carraway, probably because I’d told him during the cab ride that the Senate aide gave me the impression during dinner that he was not particularly fond of his boss, Nikki Farlow. Not that that meant he’d murdered her. Lots of people dislike their bosses but don’t go to the extent of killing them. Still, when someone has been murdered, certain groups of people become prime suspects, beginning with spouses or lovers, followed closely by those who’ve expressed or were known to have a particular dislike for the victim.

  Based upon my brief encounter with people at the dinner party, I’d tried to come up with my own shortlist of those who might have had a motive to kill Nikki. Besides Carraway, there was the senator himself. If he’d been having an affair with her—and was being blackmailed to keep the affair quiet—his anger, coupled with the threat she posed to his reelection bid, might be sufficient to have prompted him to take drastic action.

  Too, as much as I hated to admit it, the hurt that Nebel’s alleged affair had inflicted upon his wife, Patricia, could well have brought her to the brink of wanting to see Nikki dead.

  Of course, anyone present at the Nebel house the night Nikki died had to be considered a suspect, unless she’d been killed by someone with no apparent connection to the senator and his guests. I doubted that was the case. The dock was virtually unreachable unless you used the long set of wooden stairs leading from the house, and I hadn’t seen anyone who didn’t look as though they belonged at the party.

  I was deep in those thoughts when the door to Nebel’s office opened and he stuck his head out. “Jessica, so sorry to keep you waiting. I wasn’t expecting you. I’m afraid I’m going to be in this meeting for a while longer.” He motioned for Carraway to come to where we sat. “Richard, I’ve kept Mrs. Fletcher and her friend waiting too long. Do me a favor and take these good folks for something to eat, coffee, whatever.”

  “No, Senator,” I said. “We really don’t need to—”

  Nebel closed the door in midsentence, leaving Carraway and us to decide what to do. It didn’t take me long to make a decision. This was a good opportunity to spend time with the aide, hopefully to learn more about just how deep his negative feelings about Nikki Farlow ran.

  “I’d love a cup of tea,” I said.

  Carraway, who was as pale and nervous as I’d remembered him from the dinner, asked whether we wanted him to have tea or coffee sent up.

  “No,” I said pleasantly, standing and smiling. “I feel as though we’re in the way here. Besides, I could use a walk.”

  “We’ll have to go the cafeteria downstairs,” Carraway said. “Staffers don’t have privileges in the dining room.”

  “Sounds good to me,” George said.

  The cafeteria was immense, brightly lit, and served a wide variety of foods, including hot dishes, a long salad bar, and a deli section where uniformed workers prepared sandwiches, hamburgers, and hot dogs. I placed my cup of tea and a bowl of rice pudding on the tray, alongside George’s coffee and slice of key lime pie. Carraway settled for an orange juice.

  Once we were at a Formica table, I said, “I’m sure everyone is still upset about what happened this morning.”

  Carraway managed a grim laugh. “That’s an understatement,” he said, dabbing at perspiration on his brow and cheeks with a napkin. “That crazy old man could have killed somebody. You really know him from back home?”

  “Yes, I do. Oscar Brophy has always been a bit of a mystery in Cabot Cove, an eccentric who lives by himself. He may not have seemed it, but he’s an intelligent man, very well-read. I can’t justify his actions. The controversy surrounding the nuclear plant obviously caused him to go off the deep end.”

  “It’s a good thing you were there,” Carraway said, “to talk him out of it. He might have shot everybody.”

  “I’m just glad no one was hurt,” I said, tasting my rice pudding.

  “Any further developments on Ms. Farlow’s death?” George asked.

  “Do you mean have they found who killed her?” Carraway asked, guffawing. “The answer is no, and I bet they never do.”

  His reply caused George and me to sit up a little straighter. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  He downed his orange juice in one continuous gulp before answering. “The Fairfax police don’t know what they’re doing. You don’t see a whole lot of murders in Fairfax County. Besides, lots of people wanted Nikki dead.”

  “Is that so?” George said. “Why would many people want to harm a lovely young woman like that?”

  “Nikki was not your nicest person,” Carraway said. “You know, one of those overly ambitious women who don’t care who they step on to get ahead. She’s made lots of enemies since coming to Washington to join Nebel’s staff, and you can count me among them.”

  George started to say something but Carraway cut him off. “Yeah, I know, that makes me a prime suspect. Frankly, I don’t care whether I am or not. All I know is that Nikki had it coming, but I didn’t do it.”

  George asked, “Have the police questioned you yet, Mr. Carraway?”

  “Tonight,” he replied. “Detective Moody, or one of his cops, is coming to my apartment.”

  “Have others in the office been questioned?” I asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t care about them.” His eyebrows went up and he came forward onto his elbows. “Oh, I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “If I talk this way to the police, they’ll probably lock me up, case closed. Not only did I not like Nikki; I benefit from her death. Senator Nebel is giving me her job, at least until he decides to hire somebody else. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about that, either. I hate to rush you, but I really have to get back upstairs. All hell has broken loose around the office, reporters calling, cops in and out, and all this on top of the vote coming up on the Maine power plant.”

  His mention of the pending Senate vote on the Cabot Cove nuclear facility prompted George to ask, “What role did Ms. Farlow play in the debate over locating the plant in Maine?”

  Another shrug from Carraway. “She had the senator’s ear, that’s for sure.”

  George pressed: “Whose side was she on?”

  Carraway pushed back his chair, indicating that our little get-together was over. He said, “Nikki had strong convictions about a lot of legislation that came through our office. The problem was, her convictions were based upon who had the most money to spread around. Ready to go? I really can’t be away any longer.”

  Quite an accusation, I thought. Could he back it up, or was it simply a nasty charge from someone whose dislike of her seemed to border on hatred?

  The authorities with whom Nebel was meeting were on the way out as we arrived back at the suite, and the senator introduced us.

  “A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher,” one of the MPD detectives said. “I’ve been meaning to contact you about what happened here this morning. We understand the assailant is a friend of yours.”

  “Not exactly a friend,” I corrected, “but I did know him back home in Cabot Cove, Maine. I’ll be happy to talk to you any tim
e you wish.”

  “How about now?”

  I looked at George, who nodded his approval. “Okay,” I said.

  The detective turned to Nebel: “Got a private office we could use, Senator?”

  “Of course,” Nebel replied, leading us to a cramped room at the rear of the outer office. It was a brief meeting: The detective asked me about Oscar’s background, and I told him what I knew, stressing that I doubted whether Oscar really intended to kill the senator, or anyone else, for that matter. Before the meeting broke up, he informed me that I probably would be called as a witness—which I’d already anticipated—and I assured him I would make myself available whenever I was needed.

  As I stood to leave, he said, “By the way, Mrs. Fletcher, Mr. Brophy’s gun was empty. No ammunition in it.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” I said.

  “A sharp defense attorney will make good use of it at his trial.”

  When I returned, George was seated in the senator’s office. I poked my head in. “George, I think we’d better be going,” I said, realizing we needed to leave enough time to get to the Nebel house in McLean.

  “Going to my house, are you?” Nebel said.

  “Yes. Detective Moody from the Fairfax police is meeting us there. He said he intended to inform you.”

  “He did,” Nebel said. “The problem is that Pat will be there.”

  “Really?” I said. “I saw her early this morning at a meeting at the Library of Congress.”

  “I know,” he said, “but she wasn’t feeling well and went home. Actually, I’m glad you’ll be there. She needs all the support she can get.”

  We all turned at the sound of Nebel’s secretary telling someone that the senator was busy. That didn’t stop Congresswoman Gail Marshall-Miner from entering the office. “Oh, sorry,” she said at seeing us. To Nebel: “Warren, I have to talk to you.”

  “We were just leaving,” I said.

  She ignored us and sat in a chair, shapely legs crossed beneath a short tan skirt.

  “I believe you met Mrs. Fletcher and Inspector Sutherland at the house the other night,” Nebel said.

  “Yes,” the congresswoman said. “Warren, I—”

  “It was nice seeing you again,” I said to Marshall-Miner as we left the office. I didn’t say to George what I was thinking—that Nebel and Marshall-Miner seemed to have a relationship beyond mutual political interests. Women seem to have a better-honed sense of such things than men.

  But as we headed up the hall, George said casually, “Looks like the senator and the congresslady are quite cozy.” So much for my theory.

  We’d almost reached the elevators when Sandy Teller, Nebel’s press secretary, came running after us.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I think I’ve convinced Senator Nebel to hold a press conference to head off the allegations that are flying around town,” he said. “I’m counting on you to be with him.”

  “I really don’t think that would be appropriate,” I said.

  “The senator is counting on you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Teller said, his tone more a command than a request.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” I said. “Right now, Inspector Sutherland and I are late for an appointment.”

  “Where are you going?” Teller asked.

  “Lunch,” George lied, taking my elbow and hustling me away. “Cheeky chap,” he said as we rode down in the elevator.

  “Self-important, that’s for sure,” I said.

  “There doesn’t seem to be a shortage of that in Washington,” George said.

  “They’re all under tremendous pressure,” I said. “The senator has found himself in the proverbial kettle of fish.”

  George chuckled as he said, “Why do I have the feeling we’re about to join those fish?”

  Chapter Twelve

  An encampment of media vehicles, including two TV remote trucks, greeted us as our cab approached the house. They’d been corralled into an area to the side of the access road by a private security guard and uniformed Fairfax County officers. Before being allowed to proceed to the house, we were stopped to verify our identities. While handing an officer my passport (since I don’t possess a driver’s license, I always carry my passport for identification purposes), I spotted the reporter Natalie Mumford. She waved at me, called my name, and tried to approach the taxi, but an officer kept her from doing it and we drove away.

  Jardine, the houseman, responded to my knocking and escorted us to the large room overlooking the terrace and river, where Detective Moody stood by the window. Standing next to him was the tall, slender, patrician Hal Duncan, Nebel’s attorney. They turned at our arrival.

  “Lovely day,” Duncan said after greetings had been exchanged.

  “A tad too warm for my taste,” George said.

  “Enjoying your stay in Washington?” Moody asked us.

  Duncan laughed. “After what happened this morning to Mrs. Fletcher with that madman, I’m sure she has ambivalent feelings about our city.”

  “It hasn’t been boring,” I said.

  “I would imagine,” said Moody. “First a murder here, and then—”

  “An alleged murder,” Duncan corrected.

  Moody, who wore a yellow Windbreaker over a blue button-down shirt and chinos, said, “The counselor here is with us to make sure no one says anything he doesn’t want to hear.” His sarcasm wasn’t lost on anyone, including Duncan.

  “I hardly think that’s necessary,” I said to the lawyer.

  “Just a formality,” Duncan said through practiced lockjaw and what was intended to be a reassuring smile. “After all, Ms. Farlow’s unfortunate death occurred here at my client’s home, who happens to be a United States senator. I think it’s appropriate for me to be present when the police question people about it.”

  “Am I being questioned?” I asked Moody.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Have you spoken again with Mrs. Nebel?” I asked.

  “Is she here?” Moody asked.

  “Upstairs resting,” Duncan said.

  George had drifted away from us and stood in front of the massive fireplace. I wondered what he was thinking, whether he’d had second thoughts about becoming involved through me in a murder investigation. I wouldn’t have blamed him; at that moment I was suffering a serious case of second thoughts myself.

  I was also resentful of Mr. Duncan’s presence, and his stated reason for being there. I had every right to speak with Detective Moody without an attorney present, especially one with whom I had no relationship.

  “Detective Moody,” I said, “Inspector Sutherland and I came here this afternoon to speak with you. I’m not interested in having Mr. Duncan present.”

  Duncan scrutinized me for a second, a frown on his brow, before saying with a smile, “I’ll be happy to absent myself, Mrs. Fletcher, while you and the good detective have your little talk. But I’ll be here in the house in the event you’d like my involvement. I know you’re not looking for legal advice, but you might keep in mind that you and your inspector friend were at the dinner party—along with all the other suspects.”

  “Suspects?” George said, incredulous.

  Duncan left the room without bothering to elaborate.

  “Feel like some fresh air?” Moody asked, his tone blurring the difference between a simple question and an editorial comment about Duncan’s presence in the room. “I’d like to go with you down to the dock.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “No need for you to come, Inspector,” Moody said.

  I answered for George: “I’d like him with us, Detective.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I insist.”

  We went through the doors to the terrace and headed for the wooden staircase. I stopped.

  “Something wrong, Jessica?” George asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, retracing my steps and reentering the house, George and Moody following. I stood in the middle of the room and stared at the fi
replace, my eyes focused on the elaborate set of antique brass fireplace tools.

  “That’s one big fireplace,” Moody said. “Probably doesn’t get much use. We don’t get too much fireplace weather in Virginia.”

  “But we do in Maine,” I said, approaching the tools and bending over to get a closer look. I ran my fingers over the shiny finish on each handle, straightened, and silently counted the tools. By this time, George and Moody had come to my side.

  “There’s one missing,” I said flatly.

  “Pardon?” said Moody.

  “There’s a tool missing,” I repeated.

  “A fireplace tool?” George asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Look. This wrought-iron stand has a slot for each tool. One of the slots is empty.” I faced him and said, “Obviously, if Ms. Farlow was murdered, the killer hit her with something. The gash in the back of her head could have been caused by a fireplace tool.”

  George moved closer to the tool stand. “The logical one would be a poker,” he said. “But that’s here.” He picked up the poker and held it out for us.

  “Logical,” I said, “but not necessarily the only tool that could have been used.” I did another count of the tools in the stand—a small broom, a shovel for taking ashes out of the fireplace, a brush used to clean the walls and grate, and the poker that George had replaced in the stand.

  “I’m no fireplace expert,” Moody said, “but it looks to me like those are all the tools anybody would need.”

  We turned at the sound of a door opening. Jardine, the houseman, entered the room carrying a vase of colorful fresh flowers. He set it on a table and was poised to leave when I said, “Jardine, do you have a minute?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “These fireplace tools,” I said. “Do you clean them often?”

  His expression said he was concerned I’d found a tool he’d failed to clean properly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  “I was wondering whether a tool is missing,” I said.

  He approached the fireplace and scrutinized the tool rack. “No, ma’am,” he said, “I don’t think so.” His lips twitched, and he ran his tongue over them. His eyes went from person to person.