A Vote for Murder Page 15

  Chapter Fifteen

  Walter Grusin enthusiastically greeted me in the lobby.

  “Sorry I took so long,” I said. “The phone rang as I was walking out the door.”

  “Not a problem,” he said. “Like Italian food?”

  “Very much.”

  “Great. My particular favorite in Washington is i Ricchi, on Nineteenth. It’s Tuscan. They make the best bread in town.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  He’d parked his car directly in front of the hotel. After a tip to the doorman for keeping his eye on it, we drove to the restaurant, where Grusin was greeted warmly by name and led to a relatively quiet table in the busy, bustling establishment, decorated with terracotta tiles, cream-colored archways, and large floral frescoes.

  “The usual, Mr. Grusin?” the maître d’ asked.

  “Please. Jessica?”

  “A glass of white wine. Chardonnay?”

  “A lady after my own heart,” Grusin said. “I drink chardonnay during the week, martinis on the weekend, unless I’m out during the week with clients or politicians. When in Rome . . .”

  I remembered back to the ill-fated Nebel dinner party, when I’d noticed Grusin order a chardonnay at the bar.

  “I had the impression that alcohol wasn’t alien to most of the guests at the party,” I said lightly.

  He laughed heartily. “Lots of drinking goes on in Washington, Jessica. You don’t mind if I call you Jessica, do you? Politics and booze seem to go together. Of course, there are newcomers who bring with them their love affair with bottled water, tofu, and sprouts. But the old-liners stick to their bourbon and gin.”

  Our wine was served, and Grusin held out his glass. “To a pleasant evening, Jessica Fletcher. I was beginning to believe you when you said you wouldn’t have time for me.”

  “I spoke too soon,” I said. “But I decided that since the nuclear power plant might well end up in my backyard, it made sense to learn all I can about it. You seem to be the primary source.”

  “That’s flattering,” he said, “and I hope I can put your fears about the plant to rest.”

  I took in the others in i Ricchi. It was obviously an expensive restaurant, popular with the expense-account crowd—lobbyists and politicians—this lobbyist and a writer of murder mysteries. I suppose I should have felt important, being wined and dined like a politician, but I didn’t. I was there under false pretenses, pretending to be interested in learning about Sterling Power and the nuclear plant it intended to build in Cabot Cove. The truth was, I was there because I wanted to pump my host about what he knew about Nikki Farlow and her murder. As that thought moved in and out of my mind, it struck me that I might be having dinner with her murderer—unlikely, of course, but possible.

  “So,” he said, “tell me all about Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Maybe we should look at a menu before I do that,” I said. “To be honest, I’m famished.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.” He motioned to a waiter who’d been hovering nearby.

  Orders placed—skewered shrimp for me, a house specialty pasta for him, and soup for both of us—I tried to get him to talk about himself, but he kept shifting the conversation back to me. I wasn’t sure whether he did that because he was truly interested, or was practicing a learned conversational gambit. Either way, I decided to go along with him for a while and talked of my early years as a teacher, how I got started as a writer of crime novels, and other aspects of my life that I found interesting, but doubted whether many other people would. I was grateful when our meals arrived, interrupting my monologue. Grusin was right; the homemade bread was heavenly.

  A few times during dinner, men and women stopped by to say hello to my host. At one point after two of them had left, I said, “You’re a popular fellow.”

  “I hope so,” he said with a pleasant, easy laugh. “An unpopular lobbyist is like a blind boxer, doomed to fail. Ready for a lecture on why the Sterling Power Company’s plan to build a nuclear plant near Cabot Cove makes sense?”

  “I’m all ears,” I said.

  Although I was certain his minilecture had been given to others many times before, he presented it as though it were spontaneous, customizing it to make it personal to me. It was a compelling, well-shaped argument in favor of the power plant, and I listened with intense interest.

  “Any questions?” he asked when he was finished.

  “I’m sure I’ll have many,” I said, “but none at this moment. What I’m thinking is how difficult it must be for a politician like Senator Nebel to make important decisions that impact so many people.”

  “I agree,” Grusin said. “People have negative views of us lobbyists, but we serve an important purpose. We help get the facts to elected officials to help them make difficult decisions.”

  Self-serving facts, I silently added.

  “Do you work with Senate staff much?” I asked.

  “Depends. Most senators and House members designate someone to be the point man on a given issue, like the power plant.”

  “Was Nikki Farlow the point man—the point woman—on the power plant project?” I asked.

  “No,” Grusin said. “Carraway is.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “You look surprised,” he said.

  “Oh, no. It’s just that I assumed a senator’s chief of staff would be intimately involved in something so important.”

  He shook his head. “Nikki ran things for Nebel, but that didn’t include many legislative matters. She was more an administrator.”

  “So sad,” I said.

  “Her death? Yeah, it sure was. They say it was murder. You buy that?”

  “I see no reason not to.”

  “Seems like an accident to me.”

  “What do you base that on?” I asked. “Did you know her well?”

  “Barely knew her at all. My dealings were almost exclusively with Carraway.” He looked around the restaurant, leaned close to my ear, and said, “If Nikki was murdered, I’d vote for Carraway.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He’s a strange duck. I know one thing: He didn’t carry any grief for her.”

  I nodded. “I gathered the same thing from the few conversations I’ve had with him. Did you see anything the night of the party that was suspicious?”

  “Suspicious? No. I was having too good a time to look for anything like that.”

  “Someone took the Nebel family boat during the party, probably during dinner. Did you hear it at all?”

  “No again. You sound like you’re investigating the murder—if that’s what it was—along with the police.”

  I laughed. “No, just the natural curiosity of a mystery writer. Mind if I display that curiosity with you again?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Senator Nebel invited two members of the House of Representatives to his party, the congresswoman from California, Ms. Marshall-Miner, and the Ohio congressman, Mr. Barzelouski.”

  “Barzelouski!” Grusin said with a chuckle. “The madman of the House of Representatives.”

  “He does seem volatile. I’ve seen him speak on occasion on C-SPAN. A fiery orator. I admit to being a neophyte when it comes to politics, but was wondering why certain politicians end up friends. I mean, why would someone like Congressman Barzelouski be invited to Senator Nebel’s home for a dinner party celebrating a national literacy drive?”

  “Purely politics,” Grusin replied. “As off-the-wall as he can be, Barzelouski chairs the House Energy Committee. I’ll level with you: I urged Nebel to invite him.”

  “I suppose my next question is why?”

  “Again, purely politics. Barzelouski supports putting the power plant in Cabot Cove, and I thought it was a good opportunity to get him together with Nebel outside Congress. I convinced Barzelouski to champion the literacy program in the House, which endeared him to Nebel.”

  Obviously the man sitting across from me at the table was good at choreographing relationships to suit his o
wn purposes.

  “What about Ms. Marshall-Miner?” I asked.

  His response was a low rumble of a laugh, dripping with meaning. He waved for the waiter, who brought dessert menus.

  “Not for me,” I said. “Coffee would be nice.”

  While waiting for our coffees, Grusin added a few additional facts to his presentation of why locating the power plant in Cabot Cove would be good for the area’s economy, and generate plenty of jobs. I was impressed with his knowledge of where I live, the median income of residents, the pattern of economic growth over the past ten years, the educational level of the town’s citizens, and the array and number of jobs the plant would produce. We drank our coffee, and a check was presented to Grusin, a house account that he signed with a flourish.

  “Mind another question?” I asked.

  “About the power plant?”

  “No, about Nikki Farlow.”

  “Sure you’re not working undercover for the Fairfax police?”

  “You have my word.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “I wondered why an attractive, bright, and capable woman like Ms. Farlow never married.” Of course, I already knew the answer, but wanted to see what he knew about her sexual orientation.

  “Never found the right guy, I suppose,” he said. “I really wouldn’t know. Ready to call it a night?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was a nice surprise, having dinner with you,” he said as we prepared to leave. “I hope my little spiel didn’t bore you, and I hope even more that I can count on your support.”

  “Bored?” I said. “Hardly. I found it fascinating. My support? I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Well,” he said, “if you do decide the plant is a good thing for Cabot Cove—and all of Maine, for that matter—I’d appreciate your sharing with Senator Nebel how you feel.”

  “All right.”

  “And maybe you’ll pass along those feelings to the good folks back home who haven’t made up their minds.”

  We got into his car and he drove me to the Willard. I’d forgotten during the evening that Seth would be waiting for me, and while his unexpected arrival had earlier bothered me, I now looked forward to seeing an old and dear friend.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I told Grusin as the doorman opened my door.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” he said.

  I was about to step from the car when I turned and said, “When I asked why Congresswoman Marshall-Miner had been invited to Senator Nebel’s party, your only response was to laugh.”

  “Was it?” he said. “Well, let’s just say that when it comes to Congresswoman Marshall-Miner and Senator Nebel, the less said the better. Thanks for lending an ear tonight, Jessica. Love to do it again sometime.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Seth was sitting in the Willard’s lobby reading a newspaper when I walked in. He struggled to get out of the large, comfortable chair, his arthritis in evidence, and I reached him before he stood. I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  “You are here,” I said.

  “Ayuh, I certainly am, Jessica. Pleasant evening?”

  “Yes, pleasant enough, and interesting, although I’m not sure why.”

  He pushed himself to his feet and said, “Nightcap? The bar is right elegant.”

  “I know. I was there last night.”

  “Seems like you’ve been doin’ your share of ramming since you got here to D.C.,” he said as we headed for the Round Robin Bar.

  I laughed at his use of the Maine colloquialism for being out on the town. “Yes, I have been”—I slipped in the Maine phrase for being busy—“all drove up.”

  I took his arm as we entered the bar and were directed to one of only a few available tables. Seth, who was a moderate drinker—although he has always enjoyed his Manhattans and ward eights—had recently developed a taste for imported beers, and ordered one. I was thirsty and asked for a sparkling water with a wedge of lemon.

  “So,” he said, settling back, his hands on his corpulent stomach, “tell me about Oscar Brophy, and this lady who was murdered, the senator’s assistant.”

  “I’m sure you know as much as I do about Oscar from reading the papers. I’ve been told I might have to come back to testify at his trial. Other than that, I’ve heard nothing. Oh, by the way, he didn’t have any bullets in the gun.”

  “Glad to hear that. I assume he’s got a lawyer.”

  “He’ll undoubtedly be appointed one.”

  “I’ll want to speak with whoever that might be.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think I’m violating the doctor-patient privilege, speakin’ with you, Jessica. I know it’ll stay right here in this room.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve been treatin’ Oscar for over a year now for his depression. Severe depression. Every time he came to my office, he’d go off on a rant about the senator and the power plant. Truth is, I should have recognized he was about to go off the deep end and had become even more quee-uh than anybody realized. Might be that an insanity defense is in order for poor old Oscar.”

  “You should offer that information to whoever represents him. But don’t blame yourself, Seth. No one could have foreseen Oscar doing something this drastic. I wonder how he managed to get into that Senate office building carrying a gun. Security seems pretty tight there.”

  “Sounds like somebody fell down on the job. Now, Jessica, what about this Nikki lady?”

  I knew I could count on Seth’s discretion, and told him everything I knew—which wasn’t that much—and everything I was thinking, which took considerably more time. He listened passively, taking small sips of beer, and occasionally muttering his understanding of what I said. When I was finished with my recounting of events since arriving in Washington, he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, muffled a discreet burp behind it, and said, “Want my advice?”

  “You know your advice is always welcome, Seth.”

  “My advice, Jessica Fletcher, is to spend what time you have left here promoting the literacy program, and leave solving this Nikki lady’s murder to the proper authorities. From what you’ve told me, it seems entirely possible that our junior senator from Maine might be a murderer. I don’t think you want to be the one to expose him.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that,” I said.

  “Why would that be?”

  “It shouldn’t matter who the murderer is, Seth. If it was Warren Nebel, senator or no senator, he should be brought to justice.”

  “That’s right,” said Seth, “but it doesn’t have to be you who does it. Leave it to the police.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. I’d heard this lecture from my dear friend before, but it ran contrary to what I’d already decided, which was to do what I could to help identify Nikki Farlow’s murderer.

  “Another drink, Jessica?”

  I heard Seth, but my mind was on something else.

  “Jessica? Another glass of water?” he repeated

  “What? Oh, sorry, Seth. I was someplace else.”

  “Where might that be?”

  “I was thinking of my dinner tonight with the lobbyist Walter Grusin. Something bothers me about our conversation, but I can’t pinpoint it.”

  “It’ll come to you, Jessica, probably in the middle of the night. Dreadful thing, that terrorist attack in London. You say your friend the inspector is up to his ears in it?”

  “Yes. Which reminds me, I want to call him. Mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  I hesitated pulling my cell phone from my purse. I’d developed a true aversion to people who use their portable telephones in public places, including bars and restaurants, and on trains and buses. I checked our immediate vicinity, decided that my voice wouldn’t disturb others, and made the call.

  It took a few moments before George answered.

  “I’m here at the Willard with Seth Hazlitt,” I said. “You remember him.”

  “T
he good doctor from Cabot Cove. Of course I remember him. Say hello for me.”

  “I will.”

  George filled me in on the latest from London, ending by saying that it looked as though he might have to return home at any moment. I understood, of course, but that didn’t ease my disappointment.

  “If you’re here in the morning, George, perhaps we could have breakfast.”

  “A splendid idea,” he said.

  We chose a time to meet in the hotel’s dining room, and ended the conversation.

  I covered a yawn with my hand and announced it was time for bed. Seth paid the bill, and we went to the lobby. As we waited for an elevator, one of the hotel’s assistant managers, who’d personally greeted me when I’d checked in, hurried in our direction.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “I was on my way to your room to deliver this.” He handed me a small, sealed envelope. “We just received it. The person who dropped it off said it was urgent that you get it right away.”

  “Thank you,” I said, opening the flap.

  “What is it, Jessica?” Seth asked.

  “A note from Senator Nebel. His wife attempted suicide tonight.”

  “Gorry,” Seth said, using an all-purpose Maine interjection.

  “I’ve been asked to go to the house.”

  “For what purpose?” Seth asked.

  “I’ve been spending time with Pat since arriving in Washington. The senator asked me to. She’s not well, Seth.”

  “Anything I can do?” he asked.

  “Yes. Will you come with me?”

  “Ayuh,” he said without hesitation.

  We climbed into a waiting taxi, and were on our way to the stately home of Senator and Mrs. Warren Nebel, the site of a lavish dinner party—and a murder.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Washington press corps had established a seemingly permanent camp outside the grounds of the Nebel house. A contingent of reporters and technicians sat in director’s chairs along the side of the narrow road leading to the property, lights run by generators providing illumination. A uniformed security guard stopped our cab.