A Vote for Murder Read online

  When they were gone, Nebel leaned against a massive granite-topped island, his hands gripping the edge, leaned forward, and said, “I’m about to ask you a very big favor, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “It’s Jessica,” I said.

  “Yes, I know. You and Pat are friends. Unfortunately, I never got to spend time with you back home, but Pat thinks so highly of you. She’s loved her time with you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” I said.“You mentioned a favor?”

  “I don’t know whether I’m entitled to ask you for one. I don’t even know if you voted for me. But not only do I know a great deal about you through your books and the publicity surrounding them, but Pat tells me how sensitive and caring you are.”

  “That’s quite a compliment,” I said.

  “What I’m asking you to do is to help Patricia get through this week.”

  “Oh? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Pat is fragile, Jessica. You might have noticed that. She puts up a good front for my sake, being the wife of a United States senator, and I’ve always known how difficult it is for her to do that. Believe me, I appreciate it more than she or anyone could know. This week is vitally important to her. She’s poured her heart and soul into it, and I intend to do everything I can to ensure that despite the tragedy here tonight, things go forward as planned, and that the week is as much of a success as she and I envisioned.”

  “That’s admirable,” I said, “but I still don’t understand how I can help.”

  “Be with her, that’s all. She needs a friend like you at a time like this. Support her. I’ll do what I can, but this is an insanely busy week in the Senate. She’ll need somebody at her side, someone who understands what she’s doing, and why she’s doing it. I think you’re the perfect person. Will you help me?”

  I didn’t feel I had a choice, and said, “Of course.”

  He pushed himself off the island, took one of my hands in both of his, smiled, and said, “Thank you, thank you. If I can ever do anything for you, and I mean anything, all you have to do is call my private line. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” I expected to be handed that private number, but wasn’t.

  I returned to where George was engaged in conversation with Jack and Christine Nebel, and her fiancé, Joe. We bade them good night and went to where a limousine waited to take us back into downtown Washington. The driver opened the door for us when Detective Moody came from the house. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he called, “I didn’t want to miss you before you left.” He handed me his business card. “If you or the inspector should remember having seen anything, please give me a call. I’d like to stay in touch while you’re in Washington.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “We’ll call if we have anything that might interest you.”

  “Good,” he said, stepping back as we entered the limo and settled in the rear seat. As we pulled away, I looked back at him and thought that he wanted us to stay in touch with him whether we remembered anything specific or not. I decided I’d do just that.

  During the drive, I told George of my kitchen conversation with the senator.

  “I’d be flattered,” he said.

  “Oh, I am,” I said, “and I intend to do whatever I can to help his wife get through the week. Still, I wonder at the necessity of it.”

  “Take it at face value, Jessica, and do your usual outstanding job, no matter what you’re called upon to do.”

  I fell silent.

  “What’s going through your mind at this moment?” he asked.

  “That conversation we overheard.”

  “The person we heard was angry. No question about that.”

  “It was the East Indian houseman, I’m sure.”

  “Speaking with whom?”

  “I saw the senator’s son, Jack, walking away from the area. I wonder . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “There was a footprint where they were standing. It appeared that someone had stepped in mud or something dark. I saw the same thing near the top of the stairs.”

  “You might mention that to the detective next time you speak with him. What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

  “Frankly, I’m not sure. I have it in a folder back at the hotel. What about you?”

  “A morning meeting, but free after that. In fact, free for most of the rest of the week. The conference planners scheduled just enough official business for participating organizations to justify sending people from all over the world, and then frees them up to play golf and do whatever else pleases them. So I’m available to help you in any way I can.”

  I placed my hand on his and squeezed. “I appreciate that, George. I’ll just wait to hear from the senator or his people about what they would like me to do with Mrs. Nebel. And I’ll let you know where I’ll be.”

  “In the meantime, get a good night’s rest. You said you were fagged back at Senator Nebel’s house—before we came upon the unfortunate Ms. Farlow.”

  “I know, and the shock of that certainly woke me up, but it’s now worn off.”

  He kissed me lightly on the cheek as we pulled up in front of the Willard, handed me a slip of paper on which he’d written the phone number of his hotel, and encouraged me to stay in touch. “If you’re free tomorrow evening, we can have dinner.”

  “I don’t know what the schedule calls for, but I intend to make time for us to have more than one dinner while we’re in Washington.”

  “Sleep tight, my dear.”

  The driver opened the door and I started to get out. George touched my shoulder. I turned and said, “Yes?”

  “While you’re protecting Mrs. Nebel’s fragile nature, just remember one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s entirely possible that Ms. Farlow was not the victim of her own clumsiness. If so, it also means that someone with whom we spent time tonight saw to it that she didn’t live to come back up those stairs.”

  I know he didn’t mean to plant that grim thought in my mind. Actually the thought had been there all along. But any hope of falling asleep quickly in my suite went by the wayside, and it wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning that I finally dozed off.

  Chapter Five

  Despite my lack of sleep, I awoke surprisingly refreshed. I stayed in bed a few extra minutes after receiving my wake-up call, propped on one elbow and peering out the window into a gray morning. An occasional raindrop hit the windowpane; I was glad I’d thought to pack rain gear along with my extra pair of comfortable walking shoes.

  I called room service and ordered tea, an English muffin, and tomato juice, and turned on the TV. The local CNN outlet was in a commercial break. When the anchor came back on the screen, a photo of Nikki Farlow appeared to the right of her head.

  “In what appears to have been a tragic accident, Nikki Farlow, Maine Senator Warren Nebel’s chief of staff, was found dead last night at the foot of stairs leading down to the senator’s dock on the Potomac, presumably from a fall.” The television image switched to a view of the dock, obviously taken from a boat on the water. The camera panned up the winding staircase to the bluff on top where the Nebel terrace began. The angle made the stairs look especially precarious. In a voice-over, the anchor continued: “Ms. Farlow, thirty-nine, had been attending a dinner party at the senator’s McLean, Virginia, estate with others involved in a literacy campaign championed by the senator’s wife, Patricia. Ms. Farlow had worked for Senator Nebel for the past two years, and had a reputation as an especially capable legislative aide. Detective Joe Moody of the Fairfax County police, who was in charge of the scene at the senator’s sprawling home, told reporters this morning that while Ms. Farlow’s death is considered an unfortunate accident, there is an ongoing investigation into circumstances surrounding her fall and the condition of the staircase. No charges have been made at this time.” The image next to the anchor’s head now showed a campaign photo of Warren Nebel. “Senator Nebel issued a statement, praising his aide as a ‘brilliant administrator whose
savvy political observations and tireless efforts on legislation will be sorely missed,’ and said he extended his most heartfelt sympathies to her family and friends. In the wake of Ms. Farlow’s death, there have been suggestions that there was more between Senator Nebel and his chief of staff than a professional relationship. CNN was unable to confirm those allegations. There has been no further statement from the senator’s office.”

  Her mention of a possible romantic link between the senator and the deceased was dismaying at best, and personally distasteful. There was no need to bring that up, and I now understood Nebel having summoned his press aide to the house shortly after the discovery of the body. Was there any truth to the rumor? Speculation about his extracurricular activities in Washington had floated around Cabot Cove, but nothing concrete had ever surfaced, nor had the name Nikki Farlow been attached to those rumors. One thing was certain: Along with the glory and power of elected office came a parallel scrutiny of your personal life, real and imagined.

  The morning newspaper had been delivered along with breakfast, and I scanned it for coverage of Ms. Farlow’s death. It was on page four, a short item that stuck to the who, what, why, where, and when of the story, no mention of possible romantic ties between the senator and Nikki.

  My suite in the Willard, besides being lavishly decorated in Newport cottage style with white-painted furniture accented with blue lines, plush carpeting, a wall filled with stunning prints, and a glorious view of Washington through windows that actually opened, was also fully equipped as an office away from home. After eating breakfast and showering, I sat at the large desk and went over that day’s itinerary. I was faced with a second breakfast at eight-thirty at the Library of Congress, hosted by the Librarian of Congress, Dr. Lester. That would be followed by a tour of the library, and a luncheon in the Senate dining room on Capitol Hill. The afternoon was taken up with another tour, this one of Congress, and then meetings with members of that body involved with the literacy program. Finally, we were to attend a dinner that night at a restaurant on the city’s waterfront.

  Whew!

  I took heart that the note next to the evening’s scheduled dinner read, Optional. Hopefully George’s evening would be flexible and we could hook up for a quiet dinner for two.

  I’d hoped to walk to the Library of Congress that morning, but the rain, coupled with the library’s distance from the hotel, made me think twice about it. I

  went to the lobby, where I indulged myself a few minutes to soak in the stunning restoration of this historic beaux arts hotel’s public spaces. Its history went back more than 150 years, its rooms, suites, and bars and restaurants stomping grounds for world leaders, generals, poets, office seekers, inventors, and presidents of the United States. After being shuttered for eighteen years, it was restored to its original glory and reopened in 1986 to the delight of Washingtonians, many of whom consider it as important a monument as the Washington and Lincoln memorials.

  The friendly doorman hailed a taxi for me, and I soon found myself going through an elaborate security system at the main entrance to the library’s newest building, the Madison, one of three housing the LC’s huge collection of the world’s wisdom. My bag was thoroughly searched, and the jewelry I’d chosen for the day set off the machine. But the guards were friendly, and I was soon waved through. Dr. Lester had mentioned at the party that the security apparatus was as much for keeping bad people with bad things out of the buildings as it was for keeping others from leaving with books not belonging to them. I would find upon leaving that scrutiny of me would be as stringent as when I entered.

  I was directed to the first-floor Office of Public Affairs, where we’d been told to congregate, and joined the writers Marsha Jane Grane, Karl von Miller, Bill Littlefield, and others involved with the schedule. Niceties were exchanged, but talk soon turned to the events of the previous night.

  “It certainly was a dramatic ending to an otherwise pleasant evening,” von Miller said.

  “I’m sure the ‘drama’ of it wasn’t lost on you, Jessica,” Marsha Jane Grane said.

  “I can do without drama of that sort,” I said.

  “So typically Washington,” Littlefield said. “Did you catch CNN this morning? Looks like the senator might have had an interest in Ms. Farlow beyond their official duties.”

  The public affairs specialist, Eleanor Atherton, a lively middle-aged woman with a bright smile, loudly cleared her throat before saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, might I suggest that we all would be better served if we refrain from discussing what happened last night at the senator’s house? It will undoubtedly be a delicate subject around here for the next few days.”

  “ ‘Next few days’?” Ms. Grane said, incredulous. “Do rumors evaporate that fast in Washington?”

  “There’ll be a new and better one to take its place before we know it,” von Miller offered.

  “I’m afraid you’re probably right,” the PR woman said, shaking her head. “But in the meantime you know the saying, ‘The walls have ears.’ We wouldn’t want a casual comment to end up in the press.”

  My colleagues and I glanced over our shoulders and around the room to see if anyone was listening at the door. Ms. Atherton continued: “On a happier note, it’s time now for our breakfast with Dr. Lester. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, the food and Dr. Lester’s remarks. He’s delighted you’re here.”

  We were led to an upper floor and ushered into Dr. Lester’s spacious office, where the Librarian of Congress awaited our arrival. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases dominated two walls; a large rotating globe stood in front of one of them. There was a television set, a small, round conference table, and two distinct seating areas, three blue leather chairs with wooden arms on the opposite side of the desk, the other a group of tan leather furniture. Sliding glass doors led to a terrace, but the inclement weather precluded enjoying views of the city from that vantage point.

  He made a point of greeting each of us personally before suggesting we go to a conference room in which the conference table had been replaced by smaller tables covered with white tablecloths, and set with silverware and dishes bearing the library’s official seal. I’d expected to meet Patricia Nebel there that morning, but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead her daughter, Christine, stood just inside the door and assumed her mother’s role as hostess. Each table seated six people; Dr. Lester, Christine, Karl von Miller, Eleanor Atherton, and a woman introduced as Lester’s congressional liaison joined me at my table.

  “How is your mother feeling?” I asked Christine.

  “Not very well,” she replied.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Will she be up to joining us later in the day?”

  “I really don’t know,” she said, turning to Lester and expressing her mother’s regret at not being able to attend the breakfast.

  “With all the work that wonderful woman has done to launch the literacy initiative,” Lester said, “I think she’s entitled to some time off.” He took in the table and asked, “Don’t you agree?”

  We unanimously did.

  Although we’d been admonished to not bring up the accident at Senator Nebel’s home the previous evening, Dr. Lester obviously hadn’t received that advice. “I had to leave early, but I heard what happened last night at your house, Christine,” he said. “Dreadful. Truly tragic. My condolences to your family.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher discovered the body,” von Miller said between bites of fruit salad.

  “It must have been shocking,” Lester said.

  “Perhaps for most,” said von Miller, “but Mrs. Fletcher has a long and distinguished career writing about murder. Perhaps not as much of a shock to her as for us mere mortals.”

  Everyone looked at me for a response. I shook my head and said, “Writing about murder and coming upon a victim are quite different. Of course,” I added, “you’re assuming that Miss Farlow was a victim of murder. As far as the police are concerned, it was an unfortunate accident.”

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bsp; “Do you agree with them?” Lester’s congressional liaison asked. She was a middle-aged woman with a pretty oval face, whose intense expression indicated that she was vitally interested in everything you thought and said.

  “I have no reason to disagree,” I replied, attacking my fruit salad.

  Von Miller, who seemed pleased that the prohibition on bringing up Nikki Farlow’s death had been lifted by Dr. Lester, asked Christine, “Have you talked to your father about the accident, Christine?” His emphasis on the word accident made it clear he believed it was anything but an accident.

  Nebel’s daughter looked for a moment as though she might begin to cry. With her eyes fixed on the table, she said, “I haven’t spoken with him about it. Obviously he’s extremely upset. Nikki was one of his closest aides.”

  Ms. Atherton smoothly and quickly changed the subject by suggesting to her boss, the Librarian of Congress, that he might give everyone at the table a hint at what that morning’s tour would encompass. Lester, delighted to pick up the conversational baton, went through a long and detailed explanation of the areas we’d be taken to within the vast LC complex. He was a man clearly in love with his job as overseer of the world’s largest repository of information, and spoke with great animation about the various divisions of the library and their importance as a resource for researchers. “We have material in almost five hundred languages,” he proudly said, “and we have offices in Rio, Cairo, New Delhi, and numerous other countries throughout the world, including acquisition offices in Moscow and Tokyo. You probably know that the library was founded by Thomas Jefferson more than one hundred and fifty years ago. It’s critically important that our work continue for the sake of mankind and its continuing quest for knowledge, and an understanding not only of where we came from, but also of what possibilities exist for the future.” He smiled and added, “Of course, that takes money. The term librarian is a misnomer for me, I’m afraid. I spend most of my time not with historic books but going over the library’s financial books with Congress. With four thousand employees to pay, the upkeep on the three buildings, and trying to catalog electronically more than a million items in the back rooms that haven’t even been examined yet, it takes a lot of money.”