A Vote for Murder (11 page)

I followed her into the recesses of the house to a small, tastefully furnished room at the opposite end. I would have assumed it was a guest room, but a desk, computer, and file cabinets said otherwise.

“My home office,” she said lightly. “Warren and I have his-and-hers offices. Why I need an office here is beyond me. I spend so little time in Washington that it seems a waste to have a room devoted to me.”

“But, as a senator’s wife, I’m sure you have lots of responsibilities,” I offered, not sure I was right, but saying what I thought was appropriate.

“More tea?” was her response.

“Thank you, no.”

We sat next to each other on a floral love seat. A few moments of silence seemed longer than that. Finally she said, “Jardine said you were down at the dock.”

“Yes, I was.”

“How could you? I mean, what would cause you to go back to where that dreadful accident occurred?”

“Your son asked me the same question,” I said. “I don’t know, Pat, just my curiosity genes coming to the fore.”

“It
was
an accident, wasn’t it?” she asked, searching my eyes for insight.

“That’s what the police say, although the detective did leave his options open. They’ll be doing tests on Ms. Farlow to see whether alcohol or drugs might have played a role in her death.”

“You’re being evasive, Jess,” she said, smiling to soften the accusation.

“I suppose I am,” I replied. I patted her arm. “But let’s talk about more pleasant things. I assume you’re ready to take part in the Literacy Week activities, judging from the way you look.”

“I decided I’d better, considering it was my idea. I know Warren is up to his neck with Senate business, and I hate to stick Christine or others with my responsibilities. How has it been going so far?”

“Just fine,” I replied. “We had a lovely breakfast at the Library of Congress and a tour, and then enjoyed lunch in the Senate dining room. They declared it Maine Day in our honor, which I thought was rather nice. The lobster salad was divine.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Warren called and said you’d be coming here this afternoon, I assume to keep an eye on me. I hate to see your enjoyment of the day interrupted for such a silly reason.”

“Not silly at all,” I said. “Warren is concerned about you and thought we both might enjoy getting together for an afternoon. I think he suggested we engage in ‘girl talk.’ ” We both laughed. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Her brow furrowed and her lips tightened as she looked away from me. When she turned in my direction, she said, “You’ve heard the rumors about Warren and Nikki, I’m sure.”

If this represented girl talk, I could easily have done without it. I acknowledged I’d seen a report on television hinting at it.

“It’s true,” she said flatly.

Now the silence was on my end.

“If you’d rather not talk about it, I’ll—”

“No, Pat, go ahead. That’s what friends are for—and I am your friend.”

“They’d been having an affair for the past year.”

“Has Warren acknowledged it?” I asked.

“Oh, no. When I confronted him with it he became very angry. He has quite a temper, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. I suppose politicians are good at keeping tempers in check, at least as far as the voting public is concerned.”

“Exactly. He accused me of being paranoid, of seeing women in his life who aren’t there. Maybe it’s my fault, not being the sort of wife a United States senator deserves. I don’t like politics, Jess, and have tried to stay away from it. Maybe if I’d spent more time with Warren here in Washington, such things wouldn’t happen.”

“Nonsense,” I said, thinking that he’d once been caught in the midst of an affair with an aide back in Maine. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for Warren’s behavior.”

“You’re right, of course, and I try not to. The problem is . . .”

I cocked my head and waited for her to continue.

“The problem is, Jess, that Nikki turned out not to be the most honorable of mistresses—if there is such a thing.”

“What do you mean?”

She replied without hesitating: “Nikki has been blackmailing Warren about their affair.”

I sat back and rearranged myself on the love seat. Being told about Warren’s infidelities by his wife was bad enough, but this added an entire new dimension to the picture.

“How do you know this, Pat?”

“I’m not a snoop, Jess, and I’ve never deliberately pried into Warren’s life outside the home. But I ended up privy to a conversation between Warren and his attorney, Hal Duncan.”

“I met him briefly last night,” I said.

“They were talking about how to handle the situation with Nikki. She was threatening that she would ruin his run for a third term.”

“Are you sure you interpreted the conversation correctly?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, I know what I heard. They stopped the conversation the moment they saw me. They acted so guilty.”

I asked, “Did Nikki give Warren an ultimatum in terms of when the money had to be paid?”

“Not that I’m aware of, although if she wanted to ruin his political career, she’d have to do it pretty quick.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking at the moment, that if Nikki Farlow’s death had been an act of murder, the husband of the woman sitting next to me, Senator Warren Nebel, certainly had a motive to kill. But I didn’t have to say it, because Patricia did.

“I think Warren killed Nikki,” she said.

An hour later Pat Nebel walked me to the front door of her home. It had been a wrenching time for me, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy for her to talk openly about the state of her marriage. I’d listened patiently as she talked of the trials and tribulations of being the wife of a United States senator, and there were times when I wondered whether I should suggest a change in subject. But she seemed anxious to confide in me, and I felt an obligation to be a good and sensitive listener. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Senator Nebel would have been so anxious for me to spend time with his wife if he knew what she was thinking, and had said to me.

At the end of the hour, I said I needed to get back to my hotel in preparation for meeting my friend George Sutherland for dinner that night.

“The Scotland Yard inspector,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Ironic, isn’t it, Jess, that a Scotland Yard inspector would be here the same evening that a murder occurred?”

“Pat, I must remind you that no one has said that Nikki Farlow was murdered.”

My words, I knew, fell on deaf ears. It was upsetting enough that she was convinced that Nikki had been murdered. What was worse was to hear her accuse her husband of it, and I wondered why she had. Was she being vindictive because he’d hurt her so many times by having affairs with other women? Or did she truly believe that Warren was capable of murder? One thing was certain: Nothing I said during our time together had convinced her otherwise.

The same driver who brought me to the house returned me to the Willard. I’d called George from the car, and we had arranged to meet for dinner at a favorite Washington spot of mine, the Foggy Bottom Café, a small, charming neighborhood restaurant in the River Inn, only a few blocks from the Kennedy Center.

The light was flashing on the telephone in my suite. I picked it up, pressed in the appropriate number for voice mail, and was told by a recorded voice that I had three messages.

The first was from a woman who identified herself as a reporter, Natalie Mumford. She said she wanted to speak with me concerning the death of Nikki Farlow, and left her number at the paper.

The second call was from George, who said he was tied up with some business and would be a half hour late meeting me at the restaurant.

The third was from Warren Nebel’s press secretary, Sandy Teller, who announced it was urgent that he speak with me. He left the numbers for both his direct line at the senator’s office and his cellular phone.

I returned the reporter’s call and she picked up on the first ring. I could hear the sounds of a busy newsroom in the background.

“Thanks so much for getting back to me, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “I’m working on the Nikki Farlow story and wondered if I could spend a few minutes with you.”

“With me?” I said. “Why would you want to speak with me?”

“I understand you were the one who discovered the body.”

“Quite by accident,” I said. “I don’t see why that would be of any interest to you as a reporter.”

“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sure you can understand that when someone like Nikki Farlow is found murdered at the home of her boss, a United States senator, that’s news here in Washington—or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Murder?”

“Yes. The police are now calling it a homicide.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“We just learned of it. Any chance of stealing fifteen minutes with you?”

“I suppose so, although this is shaping up to be a very busy week.”

“I can be at your hotel in five minutes.”

“Tonight? No, I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’m about to leave to meet someone for dinner.”

“How about fifteen minutes at the restaurant? Buy you and your friend a drink.”

“I—”

“I promise no more than fifteen minutes. My watch has a timer.”

I laughed. “All right,” I said, “as long as you set that timer. But I must warn you, Ms. Mumford, I have nothing of interest to offer. I was simply a guest at the party along with many others.”

“I realize that, Mrs. Fletcher, but you
were
there. I wasn’t. I just want to get a sense of the mood at the house last night. You’re a best-selling writer of murder mysteries. I’m sure your insight will be helpful. If you prefer, whatever you tell me will be on background. You have my word.”

I’d learned over the years in dealing with the press that reporters often don’t keep their word when they’re after a story. They promise many things, but conveniently forget those promises when it serves their purpose. Her pledge to keep our conversation on background—not attributing anything I said to me by name—was comforting, provided she meant it, but I intended to stick to the facts and not offer any opinions. We agreed to meet at the Foggy Bottom Café, and she ended our conversation with, “I’m wearing a gray plaid skirt and blue blazer. Don’t bother telling me what you’re wearing, Mrs. Fletcher. I certainly know what you look like.”

I next called the number Sandy Teller had left. He wasn’t at the office, and I tried his cell phone.

“Good timing, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, sounding breathless. “I just got home. You’ve heard, I assume.”

I knew what he was referring to but said, “Heard what?”

“That the police are now saying that Nikki was murdered, that it wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes, I did hear something about that.”

“You’ll be hearing a lot more, Mrs. Fletcher. I can guarantee you that. The press is already all over it. It’ll be a media circus by tomorrow morning.”

“I suppose that’s inevitable,” I said, “considering it happened at the home of a United States senator.” I didn’t add that the rumors of an affair between the senator and the victim would undoubtedly heighten press interest.

“How was your afternoon with Mrs. Nebel?”

“Lovely. We spent some pleasant time together.”

“She’s obviously upset about what happened.”

“Understandably so.”

“What did she have to say about it?”

I thought it a strange question for him to be asking me. What Pat Nebel and I spoke about was, and would continue to be, a private conversation between friends. My silence evidently wasn’t lost on Teller, because he quickly said, “I don’t mean to pry into what you and Mrs. Nebel said to each other. I suppose that . . . well . . . I suppose what I’m saying is that . . . well, let me put it this way, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact that you and your friend from England were the ones who discovered the body, and that you’re a celebrity, will mean that the press will want to speak with you about Nikki’s death. The senator is in the midst of a campaign for reelection, the worst possible timing for something like this to happen.”

Even worse for Nikki Farlow
, I thought.

“I’d like to suggest that we get together as soon as possible and coordinate how we handle the press.”

“Coordinate?” I said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I don’t know how much experience you’ve had dealing with the press, Mrs. Fletcher, but I doubt you’ve seen them in a feeding frenzy. I’ve been doing this for years. It’s my job as Senator Nebel’s press secretary. The Washington press corps can be vicious, especially when a story involves a high-profile politician like the senator. It’s my responsibility to see that he’s protected from a media smear campaign. I’m sure you don’t want to see that happen either.”

I glanced at my watch, and realized I had to leave if I were to meet George on time. “Mr. Teller,” I said, “I’m running late for a dinner appointment. I understand what your role is, but—”

“Has anyone from the press contacted you?” he asked bluntly.

I hesitated before replying, “Yes.”

“Who?”

“A newspaper reporter.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Teller, I appreciate your concern about Senator Nebel’s political fortunes, but I don’t think I have an obligation to keep you informed about who contacts me, and whom I choose to speak with.”

“I thought you were a friend of the family.”

“I am. At least, Pat Nebel and I are friends. I don’t know the senator very well.”

“All I’m asking for, Mrs. Fletcher, is a chance to meet with you and outline what we’re doing when it comes to dealing with the press on this matter. I’m not calling on my own. The senator asked me to contact you.”

“All right. I’ll meet with you,” I said, anxious to get off the phone. “When?”