A Vote for Murder Page 4

  “The walk back up all those stairs will test us both,” he said.

  “And I’m sure we’re up to the test.”

  We looked for the senator on our way across the terrace toward the stairs. He was nowhere to be seen. The senator’s aide Richard Carraway, who worked for Nikki Farlow, crossed unsteadily in front of us, a half-consumed drink in his hand, sweat glistening on his round face. George deftly stepped aside to avoid being bumped. “Sorry,” Carraway said, continuing on his way.

  “I hope he has a designated driver to take him home,” I commented.

  We stopped to compliment the pianist, who asked if we had any requests.

  “Anything by Cole Porter,” I said. He immediately launched into “I Love Paris,” the catchy rhythm injecting added spring to our steps as we approached the stairs. We stopped short of them as Jack Nebel, perspiring heavily and out of breath, ascended the final few steps. He stopped when he saw us, looked as though he were about to say something, but quickly walked away. His sister, Christine, who stood with her fiancé, Joe Radisch, called out to him, but he ignored her and continued in the direction of the house.

  The stairs down to the water were narrow, rickety-looking wooden steps that zigzagged from the terrace—thirty or so steps in one direction to a landing, then thirty or more in a different direction to another landing. We stood at the top and looked down.

  “They don’t look terribly secure,” George said.

  “What?” I said.

  “I was saying that—”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. My attention had been diverted by what appeared to be another partial shoe print of the same dark substance I’d noticed behind the potted trees. This one was close to the beginning of the staircase. Someone is tracking mud all over the terrace, I thought.

  “Coming?” George asked, extending his hand.

  “Yes.”

  We started down, pausing at each landing to take in the river and surrounding countryside from the varying perspectives the platforms offered. Our way was dimly outlined by solar lamps attached to the edge of every dozen steps, luckily augmented by the glow from the fat moon above.

  “He’s winking at us,” George said.

  “Who?”

  “The man in the moon.”

  “Oh, him,” I said, laughing. I looked back toward the terrace and the house. The pianist was still playing Cole Porter tunes, and I thought how wonderful it was to be so musically gifted to be able to play, at the drop of a request, wonderful music from composers like Cole Porter and others whose music had brightened Broad-way for so many years. My eyes then went to the upper story of the house. Only one window was illuminated, and a woman stood alone silhouetted by the light. She seemed to be peering down at the terrace. Was it Patricia Nebel? I wondered. The picture of her standing there by herself, while festivities played out below her, was profoundly sad. Being the wife of a high-profile United States senator—and being the son or daughter of one—couldn’t be easy, and took an especially strong person to deal with the inherent stresses it must create.

  We slowly continued our descent, and I realized for the first time that George had been right; climbing back up would be a challenge. The stairs were very steep, and I kept my gaze on the next step down even though George steadied my balance. We reached the last landing before the dock, and were now close enough to hear the river’s flow. I walked to the edge of the final set of steps, paused, and gripped George’s hand tightly.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Look!”

  He leaned forward to see what had stopped me. The unmistakable form of a body, shrouded in shadows, was sprawled on the dock, just below the final step. While darkness concealed most of the body, a gray pant leg and black shoe angled across that final step were defined by the light of an adjacent solar lamp.

  I followed George down as he went to one knee and felt for a pulse in the neck. He looked up at me, shook his head, and said, “Dead, Jessica. Very dead!”

  Chapter Three

  “We’d better let someone up there know,” George said.

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  I started up the steps two at a time, but soon slowed as an ache developed in my legs. By the time I reached the top, I felt as though I were walking on two leaden pipes. The pianist was packing his sheet music into a briefcase, and the staff was in the process of clearing tables and putting away the ice-cream buffet and bar.

  I saw through the windows that the guests had retreated inside. I searched for Senator Nebel but didn’t see him. Richard Carraway stood near the door leading from the terrace. I went to him and said, “There’s been an accident.”

  His watery eyes said he didn’t understand.

  “I’m afraid someone has died, falling down the stairs to the dock,” I said.

  A bolt of understanding crossed his face. “Accident? Somebody’s dead?”

  “Yes. Who’s in charge?”

  Carraway looked over his shoulder into the room where the East Indian was again serving drinks. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll see if I can find the senator.” He walked away before I could say more.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.” It was Karl von Miller, the writer of young-adult novels. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “You look pale. Feeling all right?”

  “Yes, something is wrong. Someone has fallen down the stairs.” I pointed to the ones leading to the dock.

  “Oh, my. Seriously hurt?”

  “I’m afraid so. In fact—”

  Carraway returned with the security guard. “What’s this about somebody falling?” the guard asked.

  I explained.

  He crossed the terrace and paused at the head of the steps. I came up behind him, and looked back to see Carraway and a dozen others approaching.

  “Down there,” I said. “Inspector Sutherland is with the victim.”

  “Who?”

  “What’s happened?” a male voice shouted.

  I suffered a moment of shock seeing Senator Nebel cross the terrace in our direction. My first thought seeing the gray pant leg on the stairs was that it might have belonged to him.

  I told Nebel what George and I had discovered.

  “Get down there,” Nebel barked at the guard, who headed down the stairway, the senator and me on his heels.

  “Who is it?” Nebel said to George when we reached the dock.

  George, who’d been standing over the body as though shielding it from the embarrassment of being seen in that state, stepped back, allowing the solar lamp to cast muted light on one side of the victim’s face.

  “Good God,” Nebel exclaimed. “Nikki!”

  Others had followed us down, and a buzz erupted at the crowd’s hearing her name: “It’s Nikki?” “She fell?” “Nikki’s dead?”

  The guard pulled a two-way radio from his belt and said into it, “We have an accident victim at the senator’s house. Call nine-one-one. Get some medical help here—and the police.”

  The senator removed his suit jacket and held it out to George. “Cover her up, for God’s sake.”

  George didn’t take the jacket. “Not until the authorities arrive and examine the scene,” he said firmly.

  “ ‘The scene’?” Nebel said. “She obviously fell down the stairs. It’s an accident. You make it sound as though it’s something else.”

  “Please, Senator,” George said, “it’s best to not disturb anything.”

  “This isn’t London,” Nebel growled. “This is Washington, and this is my home.”

  George ignored the comments and positioned himself so that he kept anyone else from getting close to Nikki’s prone body. The security guard, obviously agreeing with George’s assessment, stepped next to him, another body to shield the deceased from prying eyes.

  I walked away from the crowd, giving myself a better, wider view of the scene. I now saw that Nikki had landed on her back. One leg rested against the first step; her arms were splayed. It struck me tha
t if she’d fallen while coming down the stairs, she was likely to have landed on her face or side. But that was pure conjecture on my part.

  Other questions raced through my mind as I waited for officials to arrive. Why had she left the party and come down the stairs at this time of night? I wasn’t thinking of anything untoward, simply wondering what would have motivated her. After all, George and I had decided to do the same thing. I thought back to our descent, and realized taking a misstep would have been easy in relative darkness on the spindly stairs.

  I tried to see what her head might have struck during her fall. There didn’t appear to be anything protruding from the stairs or from the dock. There was the handrail, of course, and the edges of the steps themselves. She would have had to strike one of those with considerable force to have died from the blow.

  But why had she fallen? Was there a loose board that tripped her? Had she been taking medication that dulled her senses? Had she had too much to drink and stumbled down the stairs to her death? I walked to the railing, gripped the top, and gave it a shake. It was loose. Could a weight thrown against it push it out of its foundation? Had Nikki grabbed for the railing? Were there splinters in her hands?

  I was deep into those silent questions when the sound of sirens came from the house. Shortly we were joined by two emergency medical technicians, two uniformed officers, and a tall, heavyset black man wearing chino pants, a short-sleeved maroon shirt with WASHINGTON REDSKINS emblazoned on its front, and sneakers. I returned to the knot of people as he introduced himself as Detective Moody of the Fairfax County police, McLean District Station. He instructed the officers to shine light on the scene, which they did with large halogen flashlights. Now Nikki Farlow’s face was clearly visible. Her eyes were open wide; so was her mouth, which sagged to one side. A halo of blood surrounded her head.

  Moody crouched close to her, examining her face without touching it. He looked up and asked, “Did anyone see this happen?”

  There was no response.

  He stood slowly, as though the movement caused pain in his legs. “Who discovered the body?” he asked.

  “We did,” I offered.

  “We? You and . . . ?”

  “Me and Inspector Sutherland,” I said, standing next to George.

  “Inspector?” Moody said.

  George said, “I’m with Scotland Yard.”

  Moody looked at me.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “Inspector Sutherland and I were guests at Senator Nebel’s party. We decided to take a walk down here to the river and—”

  “Where is the senator?” Moody asked.

  We all looked around, but he was no longer there.

  “Must have gone back to the house,” Richard Carraway said. “Might I suggest that someone remove Nikki? Seeing her lying there dead like this is upsetting for everyone.”

  “That’s her name?” Moody asked. “Nikki?”

  “Nikki Farlow,” I offered when no one else did. “She’s . . . she was Senator Nebel’s chief of staff.”

  “That’s right,” Carraway said.

  Senator Nebel came bounding down the stairs, followed by his son, Jack. He pushed through those who’d gathered at the scene and announced himself to Detective Moody.

  “I recognize you, sir,” Moody said, accepting Nebel’s outstretched hand, a smile crossing his deeply creviced ebony face. “She worked for you?” he asked, nodding toward the body.

  “Yes, my top aide. Invaluable to me.”

  Moody turned to an officer and requested that he call for a crime-scene investigator, and an evidence technician.

  “Crime-scene investigator?” Nebel said, his voice heavy with incredulity. “What crime? The poor thing must have lost her footing and fallen. It’s almost happened to me a few times. These stairs are treacherous. I’ve been meaning to have them replaced since I bought this place. Now I’ll never forgive myself for not doing it.”

  “I’m sorry, Senator, but this is an unexplained death. I have my rules to follow. You’re probably right that the lady slipped, fell, and died as a result. But I’m sure you can also understand my need to follow the law, you being a United States senator.”

  “Looks like I don’t have a choice,” said Nebel.

  “Afraid you don’t, sir,” Moody said. He addressed the others: “I suggest you all go on back up to the house. But please don’t leave. I’d like to have the chance to speak with each of you. Won’t take long. Just routine.”

  He instructed one of the uniformed officers to accompany everyone to the house, adding after the others were out of earshot, “And make sure nobody leaves.”

  He said to me, “I’d like you and the inspector to stay a few minutes.”

  When the others were gone, Detective Moody crouched again next to Nikki’s body. “No sign of bruising or lacerations on her face,” he said to no one in particular. “Must have hit the back of her head. We’ll check that out.”

  “She landed on her back,” I said.

  Moody stood. “Looks like she did, ma’am. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher is a well-known writer of mystery novels,” George said.

  “Right,” said Moody. “I read about you coming to D.C. for some event at the Library of Congress.”

  “A literacy drive,” I said.

  “Worthwhile thing,” he said. “Wish my kids read more. Not that they don’t—read, of course. Just wish they read more. You say you two decided to come down here to the dock? See anybody else do that during the party?”

  We shook our heads. I said, “But we really weren’t paying attention at the time. Jack Nebel was—”

  Moody looked at me and squinted, his expression inviting me to say more.

  “That’s the senator’s son,” I said. “When George and I were about to walk down here, he was just coming up the stairs.”

  The detective grunted.

  The remaining uniformed officer had walked away from us and stood at the dock’s edge, looking out over the river.

  A crime-scene investigator and evidence technician arrived. “What have we got?” Moody was asked.

  “Apparent accident,” he replied. “But you’d better get the scene on the record.”

  The CSI motioned for the EMTs to come from where they’d been sitting on pilings a dozen feet from the body. “Give us a few minutes,” he said, taking a camera from a shoulder bag and quickly shooting a series of shots of the body from various angles, and wider photos of the dock area and bottom of the stairs. The evidence tech, a young woman with red hair piled high on her head, and with silver fingernails the length of small knives, used a flashlight to search the area surrounding the deceased.

  I realized I’d forgotten that George was there. He’d said nothing, content to have lighted his pipe and to quietly puff away a respectful distance from the deceased. He stood next to the Aquasport fishing boat tied to the dock. I joined him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” I looked over the side of the boat and saw that there was a thin layer of water surrounding the center console; someone’s shoes had left footprints in it.

  “Oh, my,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Whoever last took this boat out was terribly careless tying it up.” I pointed to one of two lines wrapped around cleats on the dock. “They didn’t even knot it. It wouldn’t take much to have it slip away.”

  “Good thing you spotted it,” he said.

  “I’ve tied up my share of boats in Cabot Cove,” I said.

  “It appears that you have,” he said.

  I saw that whoever had last used the Aquasport also hadn’t bothered to tip the boat’s single outboard engine up out of the water. I moved to the transom at the stern, grabbed the gunwale with one hand to steady myself, and stretched as far as I could with the other to allow my fingertips to touch the engine.

  �
�What are you doing?” George asked in a whisper.

  “It’s warm,” I said in an equally quiet voice. “It’s been used recently.”

  Our attention returned to where the evidence technicians were completing their examination of the scene.

  “Anything?” Moody asked the female tech.

  “Nada,” she replied. “Zip.”

  “You finished?” Moody asked the CSI.

  “Yup.”

  Moody said to the EMTs, “Turn her over, please.”

  We watched as an EMT slowly, gently turned Nikki’s body over, careful to position her so that her face would not come in contact with a pool of blood that had formed. His colleague placed a white towel beneath her cheek.

  “Nasty-looking,” Moody said, referring to a four-inch laceration on the back of her head, running from the midline up into the hair on her scalp.

  George leaned closer and said, “Hmm.”

  I turned to him.

  “It’s vertical,” he said in a voice so low I could barely hear him.

  Moody heard him and said, “The laceration?”

  “Yes,” said George. “Hard to see how her fall would have resulted in a vertical wound.”

  Moody shrugged. “You never can tell how somebody’s going to fall.”

  “True,” said George, “but still . . .” He circumvented the body and closely examined the edges of the bottom three stairs, lightly running fingertips over them.

  “I hate to disturb you, Inspector,” Moody said, “but do you mind telling me what you’re doing?” When George started to respond, the detective added, “I know you’re some sort of an inspector in England, but if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon you not intrude.”

  “Of course,” George said, straightening and smiling. “It’s just that the edges of the steps are rounded, worn, not sharp. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, I noticed that, too,” Moody said defensively. “I also noticed there’s no blood on those edges.” He stared down at the victim before turning to his officers. “Let’s wrap this up,” Moody commanded. “Get the body to the ME’s office. Until—and unless—the ME says otherwise, I’m calling this an unfortunate accident.” He said to us, “Go on up to the house. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You know everybody at the party?”