Murder in Moscow Read online

  The tour lasted almost an hour. Ms. Prawley was extremely knowledgeable, and shared her insight with us. I learned that George Washington was the only president who never lived there; that Andrew Jackson piped in the first running water, Rutherford Hayes introduced the first bathroom and telephone, and Herbert Hoover arranged for the house’s first air conditioning; that the house has 132 rooms; and that the coffee urn in the Green Room had been owned by John Adams, the French candlesticks flanking it used by James Madison.

  Eventually, we wound up in the Blue Room on what’s called the State Floor, often used by Presidents to receive honored guests. It’s where the Christmas tree is placed each year, and where portraits of Adams, Jefferson, Monroe, and Tyler proudly hang.

  “The President will be here shortly,” said Ms. Prawley. She turned to a young man who’d been in the room when we arrived. “This is Mr. Petrov,” she said. “He’ll translate for any of our Russian guests who wish him to.”

  A door opened, and we all turned, expecting the president of the United States. Instead, two men and a woman entered. One of the men was the fellow I kept seeing everywhere we went. Why is he in the White House? I mused.

  I didn’t have much time to ponder the question because the door opened again and President Singleton, accompanied by his wife, strode purposefully into the room. He was taller than I’d anticipated, and thinner. She was even prettier than she appeared on television, and exuded a genuine and gracious warmth.

  The president’s smile flashed easily as he moved along the informal line we’d formed, shaking hands as he went. The First Lady impressed the Russian members of the group with her ability to converse with them in Russian. I, too, was impressed.

  When they reached me, the president said, “This is a real pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. You’re shaking hands with a fan.”

  Did he mean it? I silently wondered. Other people have told me how much they enjoy my novels, but discussion quickly proves they haven’t read any of them. Was the president of the United States about to disappoint me, too?

  “I especially enjoyed Every Day a Little Death,” he said. “That police chief of the small town who was involved in a conspiracy. What was his name?”

  “Jenks,” I said. “Walter Jenks.”

  “Yes, Chief Jenks. I once knew a police chief involved in a conspiracy very similar to the one you created.”

  “Well, Mr. President, I assure you it was purely a creation. The only police chief I’ve ever known well is the sheriff of my hometown, Cabot Cove, Maine. And the only conspiracy he’s ever been involved in—I think—is to make sure he keeps getting invited to our Chamber of Commerce dinners.”

  Singleton laughed heartily. “Sounds like a positive conspiracy to me,” he said.

  He had read my book!

  “Lincoln enjoyed Edgar Allan Poe,” he said. “President Clinton preferred the Walter Mosley books. You might say this president leans toward Jessica Fletcher.”

  “My publisher will be thrilled to know that,” I said. I looked back along the line. “That’s him there. Vaughan Buckley of Buckley House.”

  “I’ll tell him. And you keep writing those wonderful novels.”

  Mrs. Singleton, who followed her husband, confirmed to me that he enjoyed ending his long and demanding days by reading murder mysteries, especially those I’d penned.

  “I didn’t realize you spoke Russian,” I said to her.

  “Just a little, Mrs. Fletcher. Comes in handy on occasions like this.” With that she was on to the next person in line.

  But then the president doubled back and said to . me, “I must admit I had trouble buying the motivation of the veterinarian for killing his wife in your last book. Why did he?”

  “I thought it came out in the final scene. I’d better re-read it.”

  “I will, too,” he said, again moving on.

  When President Singleton and the First Lady had personally greeted the last member of the group, an aide appeared at his side and whispered something in his ear.

  “Afraid I must bring this to an end,” Singleton said. “I know you’ve heard it many times since arriving here, but what you’re doing is of great importance to this country and to Russia’s new democracy. My wife and I are avid readers and firmly believe in a free and open press and publishing industry. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Washington and your trip to Moscow. And to the Russian contingent present, may I just say, spasibo.”

  The Russians laughed and responded to the president’s use of the Russian word for thank you with a few Russian terms of their own. Amazing, I thought, how taking the time to learn even one word of a foreign language impresses visitors.

  Vaughan Buckley came up to me. “The president is a real fan of yours, Jess.”

  “So he told me.”

  “If I didn’t think it was tacky, I’d try to generate some publicity with it.”

  “I don’t think the president would appreciate it,” I said.

  “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t. Still, nice to know you have fans in high places.”

  We were led from the Blue Room by Ms. Prawley and out to where our limousines waited. Again, the mysterious gentleman was present. He stood next to the blue Lincoln Town Car that had brought him and the other two men to the White House. As I stared at him, Vaughan asked, “What’s wrong?”

  His question snapped me out of my trance. “Wrong? Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Vaughan looked to where my attention had been concentrated. “That same man.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he bothering you, Jess? I can mention it to Mr. Roberts.”

  “Oh, no, please don’t. He’s not bothering me. Hasn’t said a word to me. Where are we off to next?”

  “Back to the hotel, I think. We have the afternoon to ourselves before dinner and the ballet at Kennedy Center.”

  “That sounds splendid,” I said. “I need a good, long walk on this lovely day, in this lovely city.”

  “Want company?”

  “Actually, I could use some time to myself, Vaughan. Understand?”

  “Of course.”

  Vladislav Staritova and his wife came to where we stood. “It would be our pleasure if you would join us for lunch,” Staritova said. “We can discuss plans for publishing you in Russia, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Vaughan looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I have ... other plans for lunch.”

  Vlady bowed slightly. “As you wish. Your president is an impressive man.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And Mrs. Singleton is so gracious,” said Mrs. Staritova.

  “A charming hostess,” said Vaughan.

  “See you at dinner,” I said to the Staritovas as I climbed into the back of the limousine with the Buckleys.

  “Lunch?” Olga asked.

  “Not hungry,” I replied.

  “Jess is looking for some solitary downtime,” Vaughan said.

  “A wise decision,” Olga said. “I think I’ll find a little of that myself. I have the feeling that this might be the last free time we have on the trip.”

  I went to my room in the Madison, kicked off my shoes, and started reading a new book, The Rosewood Casket, by an author I’d recently been enjoying, Sharyn McCrumb. But the sunshine and gentle breeze coming through the partially open window was too compelling.

  I put on comfortable walking shoes and set out for the stroll I’d promised myself. It was a beautiful day in Washington. I took deep breaths as I headed south on Fifteenth Street, the Washington Monument in the distance my beacon on the horizon. I reached Mc-Pherson Square, where I browsed the art in the Franz Bader gallery, the oldest art gallery in the city, then continued walking until Lafayette Park, the scene of many demonstrations because of its location across from the White House, was on my right. It looked inviting. I crossed the street and entered the park. The nice weather had coaxed hundreds of office workers from their offices to enjoy their lunch outdoors. Seeing them
eat made me realize I was hungry.

  I went to the park’s center and paused to admire the statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback as he reviewed the troops before the Battle of New Or-leans. I was in the process of deciding which direction would take me to a restaurant in which I could enjoy a simple lunch when someone said my name. I turned and was face-to-face with the man whose constant presence had piqued my interest.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. I’m afraid we haven’t met, although you obviously know who I am.”

  “I certainly do, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m Ward Wenington.” He extended his hand, which I took.

  “Just taking a walk?” he asked.

  “Yes, but seeing all these people enjoying lunch made me hungry.”

  “I haven’t had lunch, either. Mind if I join you?”

  “I—who are you, Mr. Wenington?”

  He laughed. He was a good-looking, middle-aged man, with a square, rugged face and close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. His suit was gray and fit his medium build nicely. “You mean who do I work for?”

  “That would be a good start.”

  “The government.”

  “I gathered that. The Commerce Department?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes. The White House?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes. Lunch? My treat.”

  “All right.”

  “The Hay-Adams is right over there.” He pointed.

  “Nothing that fancy,” I said. “I’m not dressed for it.”

  “Of course you are. The English Grill is pleasant and relatively informal. You can have something simple if you wish.”

  I almost decided not to go with him. I’d promised myself an afternoon alone. But I was too curious—had been since arriving in Washington—about who he was. And, he obviously wasn’t someone to have reservations about being with. After all, he was trustworthy enough to be in the White House in close proximity to the president of the United States.

  The oak-paneled lobby of the Hay-Adams was a minimuseum of Medici tapestries, Regency furniture, French Empire candelabras, and stunning Chinese gouaches. Wenington led me downstairs to the English Grill, a handsome room with a Tudor ceiling, wide plank floors, and bookcases holding volumes written about the two men for whom the hotel was named, John Hay, Teddy Roosevelt’s secretary of state, and Henry Adams, a great historian. They’d lived side by side; their houses were joined to form the hotel.

  The grill was relatively empty, and we took a quiet table in a corner. The menu was typical English pub; I ordered a diet soda and a salad. Wenington opted for a lager and beef pot pie. Once we’d ordered, he sat back, a satisfied smile on his face, and said, “So you’re going to Moscow, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  His comment took me by surprise. Of course I was going to Moscow. He knew that.

  I replied, “Are you part of the Commerce Department’s team that put this trip together?”

  “I played a role,” he said, sipping his lager.

  “Played a role,” I repeated. “Why are you always so evasive when I ask a question about what you do?”

  “Excited about the trip?” he asked.

  “You followed me to the park.”

  His grin was charmingly boyish. “Guilty,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Why did I follow you?”

  I laughed, “Yes. Why did you follow me? A fan of my novels?”

  “No. I mean, I’m sure I would be, but I don’t get to read much fiction.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What do you read?”

  “History. Current events.”

  “Because you’re with the government.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What branch of government?” I held up my hand. “I know; sometimes you work for the Commerce Department, sometimes for the White House, sometimes—”

  His hand went up. “I deserve the gibes, Mrs. Fletcher. No more gray answers.”

  “Good.”

  Our food arrived, and we started in on it.

  “You’ll be meeting with some pretty important people in Moscow, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I know. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Now that the Soviet Union is a thing of the past, people assume the country has become an overnight democracy.”

  “I don’t assume that,” I said. “It will take them many years to be able to shift from the old Communist regime to a free society.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know if you’re aware that the Communists are still very powerful in Russia. They constitute the majority of the legislature.”

  “I read that.”

  “They want their country back, are willing to do anything to achieve that goal.”

  “Is it possible that Russia could become a Communist country again?” I asked.

  Weninton nodded. “Very possible.”

  “Hmmmmm. This salad is good.”

  “So’s the pot pie. You know, Mrs. Fletcher, being part of a trade delegation like this offers many opportunities.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Sometimes there’s more to be accomplished than meets the eye.”

  “Oh?”

  “Having a distinguished group such as yours traveling in Russia means you’ll be meeting with many government higher-ups there.”

  “I’m looking forward to that.”

  “You’ll probably end up having private conversations with some of those people.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “What we ask of our distinguished citizens in that situation is that they remember those conversations, and keep us informed of what transpired.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, sitting back and holding up a hand. “I have the feeling I’m being recruited to ... would it be an overstatement to say recruited as a spy?”

  His laugh was pleasant, and slightly condescending. “The cold war is over, Mrs. Fletcher. No more real-life spies. John LeCarre keeps them in business, but—”

  “Mr. Wenington, I may not be the most politically astute person on earth, but I know the end of the cold war did not put an end to spying.”

  “Of course it didn’t. And no, I’m not asking you to be a spy. I’m only suggesting that when you return from Russia, you make yourself available for a debriefing. You know, what was said during those privileged conversations you had with Russian leaders. By the way, we do this routinely with many Americans traveling abroad.”

  “I’ll certainly consider it,” I said. I finished my salad. “Are you asking every American in the group to be debriefed?” I asked.

  “Me personally? No. But others will raise the issue with them.”

  We stood outside the hotel. The sunny skies had turned overcast. We shook hands.

  “Thank you for an unexpected and lovely lunch, Mr. Wenington.”

  “My pleasure. We’ll see each other again before you leave for Moscow.”

  “I have no doubt of that.”

  I watched him return to Lafayette Park before heading back to the Madison. As I walked there, I was aware that despite having sat with him at lunch, I still didn’t know who he worked for.

  That was unsettling enough. But what really bothered me was the need I now felt to continually look over my shoulder.

  I didn’t like that feeling one bit.

  Chapter Four

  I’d been to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts on three other occasions when visiting Washington, which didn’t diminish my enthusiasm for this visit. It’s a stunning facility, five performing arts facilities housed under its single sprawling roof—the 2,200-seat Opera House; the Concert Hall, home to the famed National Symphony Orchestra; the intimate Terrace Theater, only five hundred seats and a gift to our country from Japan; the Eisenhower Theater in which dramatic offerings are staged, including the Washington Opera; and Theater Lab Et Al, where experimental productions and children’
s shows are enjoyed.

  This night we were treated to an elaborate buffet in a private room on the second floor. Joining us were members of the Russian ballet troupe who would perform later in the evening. A festive atmosphere prevailed in the handsome room. Sam Roberts, our official host from Commerce, flitted from person to person, chatting, asking how we’d spent our free afternoon, and getting feedback from having met President Singleton and the First Lady. There was vodka and Champagne and caviar, of which my soon-to-be Russian publisher, Vlady Staritova, took full advantage.

  We settled into prime seats for the performance of Stravinsky’s Jeux de Cartes, which the program said was written in 1937, and meant The Card Party in English. I enjoy the ballet, although I’m not very well versed in it. The dancers were graceful and lovely, the music typically Stravinsky. But it did run long; by the time the troupe came out for its final bow, I. was happy to stand and arch my back against a dull ache that had set in.

  By now, various members of the publishing contingent had forged friendships. I was invited by two such groups to extend the night with them, but declined. I looked forward to getting into bed and picking up where I’d left off in Sharyn McCrumb’s new novel.

  Because Vaughan and Olga decided to join others for a little bar-hopping, I found myself alone in a limousine. The driver, a handsome, proper black man, asked me if we were going directly back to the hotel.

  “Yes,” I said.

  But before I got into the vehicle, I looked up into the black, star-studded sky. The clouds had blown away; it was what Seth Hazlitt would term a “fat night.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a half-hour drive,” I said, “before going to the Madison. Would you give me a minitour?”