A Vote for Murder (12 page)

“Tomorrow morning? Eight?”

“Where?”

“I’ll come to the hotel. Breakfast is on me.”

“Very well; I’ll see you then.”

George was already at the Foggy Bottom Café when I walked in. Standing with him at the bar was a stunningly attractive woman wearing a gray plaid skirt and blue blazer.

“Ah, Jessica,” he said, taking my hand and kissing me on the cheek. “This is—”

I smiled. “I know who this is,” I said. “You must be Ms. Mumford.”

She shook my hand and said, “Just my luck to end up meeting the person you’re having dinner with. And someone from Scotland Yard as well.”

“Drink, Jessica?” George asked. I saw that he’d already been served his favorite, a single-malt Scotch, and that the reporter had a glass of red wine.

“No, thanks,” I said, thinking that I wanted to keep up my guard when talking to a reporter, and that an alcoholic beverage wouldn’t help achieve that purpose. “But I am hungry. Shall we take a table?”

Once we were comfortably seated, George and I next to each other, Ms. Mumford across from us, I said, “I really would appreciate it if we could do this quickly. I haven’t seen my friend here in a long time, and we have a lot of catching up to do.”

A knowing smile played around her lips and she said, winking at me, “If I were meeting such a handsome inspector from Scotland Yard, I’d want to find as much time alone with him as possible, too.”

I ignored the comment and said, “You told me on the phone that the police now consider the death at Senator Nebel’s house last night to be murder. From whom did you hear that?”

“The detective in charge of the case,” Mumford said.

“Detective Moody?”

“Yes. He’s the one who told me you’d discovered the body.”

“Not me alone,” I said. “George and I were together.”

“Of course. Look, I’ll level with you, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t know if you’re aware that rumors have been circulating around this city that Senator Nebel was carrying on a long-term affair with the deceased.”

I said nothing, not wanting to confirm or deny what she’d said.

She continued: “When a member of Congress is accused of having an affair with someone who works for him, and that someone ends up missing—remember Gary Condit?—or is found dead at the foot of a set of stairs at that elected official’s house, what was once just an indiscretion becomes a big story. You were at that dinner party, Mrs. Fletcher. I wasn’t. What I’m trying to do is get your impressions of the people who were there, and what you think might have happened to Nikki Farlow. You not only have a reputation as a wonderful writer of murder mysteries, but you seem to have ended up in the middle of real-life murders more than once. So tell me, what’s your take on what happened last night?”

George said, “I’m sure you’re aware, Ms. Mumford, that having someone of Mrs. Fletcher’s stature helping you with your story adds a certain—how shall I say it?—panache?”

“Sure it does,” she agreed. She looked at me. “Do you think Farlow was murdered?”

I looked at George before answering. “What I think doesn’t really matter, Ms. Mumford. If it was a murder, it’s strictly a police matter.”

“True,” she said, “but someone who was there last night tells me that Detective Moody spent quite a bit of time with you and Inspector Sutherland. Why was that?”

George answered: “Because we were the ones who discovered the body.”

“I also understand that Mrs. Nebel wasn’t there,” Mumford said.

“She wasn’t feeling well,” I said.

“Strange, isn’t it, that his wife, who’s heading up this Literacy Week, wouldn’t be at a dinner party celebrating it?”

“Not at all,” I said, looking at my watch. “I think we’ve spent our fifteen minutes together, Ms. Mumford. To be honest with you, I really have nothing to offer. A woman died an unfortunate death last night, and Inspector Sutherland and I happened to be there. Mrs. Nebel is an old friend of mine from back home in Cabot Cove, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be discussing personal things about her family, particularly allegations of an affair between her husband and the victim. I wish I had more to offer but I simply don’t.”

She sat back, smiled, and nodded. “I get the hint,” she said. “And I really appreciate the opportunity to talk to you like this. Mind if I keep in touch?”

“No, of course not.”

She’d been taking notes. She folded her long, slim reporter’s notebook, capped her pen, and stood. Then, as a practiced afterthought, she asked, “Any talk at the party about congressional funny money?”

George and I stared at her blankly.

“Thanks again,” she said. “We’ll be in touch. Oh, by the way, don’t be surprised if people in this town start speculating that Senator Nebel might have been the one who killed his paramour. If nothing else, his political enemies will make sure that possibility is floated.”

“How unfortunate,” I said.

She shrugged. “Welcome to Washington, D.C.”

Once Natalie Mumford left the restaurant, George and I deliberately avoided discussing the events of the previous night.

He’d certainly been busy since the last time I’d seen him. He’d been appointed by the Yard as its coordinator on terrorism, necessitating his meeting with others involved in antiterrorism activities from around the world. Like every other thinking, concerned citizen, I’d given a lot of thought, and had been concerned about, the wanton destruction terrorists had heaped upon the world, especially in New York City and Washington, and what the future might hold. But I knew only what I’d read in papers and magazines, or seen on television. George’s inside knowledge of the world’s war on terrorism went far beyond what’s been recounted in the popular press, and I hung on every word.

By the time we stepped outside the restaurant on to 25th Street NW, the unsettled weather had given way to a cloudless, starlit sky, and we decided to take a postprandial walk to the Kennedy Center, where a show had just let out and people came streaming from one of many theaters in the complex. We entered the building, named after the slain president, and took the elevator to the terrace, built over a highway, from which the view of the river and Georgetown beyond was spectacular.

“It’s a lovely city,” George said as we stood at a railing and took in the sights.

“I’ve always liked Washington,” I said. “The buildings are beautiful, especially at night. It’s a Southern city really, more slow-paced than New York or Chicago.”

“But not as slow-paced as your Cabot Cove,” he said, chuckling and lighting his pipe.

“That’s right,” I said. “I love the hustle-bustle of big cities, but always enjoy getting back home to my small town. Of course, Cabot Cove is growing, too, people from big cities looking for a more peaceful way of life.”

“What did you think of Ms. Mumford?” he asked.

“What did
you
think of her?” I asked.

“Attractive woman.”

“I noticed you noticed,” I said playfully.

“Was my appreciation that obvious? I thought she was pleasant enough. Journalists can be so bloody meddlesome, but I appreciate the job they have to do.”

“I feel the same way. But I felt I didn’t need to inform her of everything I know. Pat Nebel says she thinks her husband might have killed Nikki Farlow.”

My offhand comment caused him to cough. He removed the pipe from his mouth and said, “That’s startling. Usually a wife stands behind her man.”

“In most cases, yes. She claims to have overheard a conversation between her husband and his lawyer that indicated, at least to her, that Nikki was blackmailing Warren over an affair they’d been having.”

“Leave it to you, Jessica, to come up with information like that. I assume the police aren’t aware of Mrs. Nebel’s suspicions.”

“I hope not, at least for the senator’s sake. He’s received death threats, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Will you share what Mrs. Nebel told you with the police?”

“I suppose I should.”

“Death threats, you say? Since last night?”

I shook my head. “No, no. A while ago. I read it in our local paper before I left home. They have to do with his vote on locating the nuclear power plant near Cabot Cove.”

He resumed puffing on his pipe and looked out over the river. A brisk, welcome breeze came up and ruffled my hair. It felt good.

“I wonder if Ms. Farlow’s death—murder, it now seems to be—had anything to do with that power plant and the senator’s stand on it,” he mused.

“I hadn’t considered that, although I don’t see the connection.”

“What is the senator’s stand on that issue?”

“Ironically, he seems to represent the sole undecided vote. At least that’s how I understand it. It’s hard to fathom, not only for me, but for a lot of my neighbors, too. I remember when he was running for his second term. The issue was floating around even then, and he made speeches against locating the plant there. ‘It will be built here over my dead body,’ is what he said. But he’s made speeches since in which he’s pointed to the jobs the plant would create, and the boost to the Cabot Cove economy in general. I suppose I understand his conflict, and I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, having to make such a decision.”

“That’s a powerful position to be in.”

“What is?”

“Holding the crucial vote. I imagine he’s on the receiving end of considerable persuasion.”

I thought back to the conversation we’d had at the dinner party with Joe Radisch, Christine Nebel’s fiancé. He’d made a snide comment about the senator’s lavish lifestyle, insinuating that Nebel might be the recipient of illegal contributions. And the reporter, Ms. Mumford, had asked about “funny money.”

“Do you know what Ms. Farlow’s position was on the power plant, Jessica?”

“No, I don’t, although I have to assume it mirrored the senator’s view. It would be awkward if his top aide didn’t agree with his views.”

“Quite so,” George said. “Feel like a nightcap?”

“If it will extend the evening,” I said, taking his arm as we headed for the elevator.

A turbaned cabdriver drove us to the Willard, where we’d decided to end our night together. We walked into the Round Robin Bar off the lobby, a handsome room with a green hunt-club décor and a huge, circular mahogany bar manned by two bartenders in starched white jackets and black bow ties. We found a table for two in a secluded corner; the other tables were occupied by prosperous-looking men and women, adding credence to the hotel’s reputation for attracting Washington’s movers and shakers.

“What’s on your agenda tomorrow?” he asked once we’d been served.

“I’m not certain. The schedule for the literacy program has me on the run. But now that I’ve agreed to spend time with Pat Nebel, I’m not sure what that will do to the schedule. You?”

“Relatively free. Up for breakfast?”

“Already committed. I’m having breakfast here at the hotel, as a matter of fact, with Senator Nebel’s press secretary, Sandy Teller.”

“About the literacy program?”

“No. He wants to talk to me about what happened last night at the house, and what ramifications it could have for the senator. He also wants to give me tips for handling the press.”

“Strange.”

“What’s strange?”

“That he wants to speak to
you
about that.”

“I thought the same thing, and tried to dissuade him. But Senator Nebel evidently asked that we meet. At least that’s what Mr. Teller said.”

“I don’t doubt that the senator did,” George said. He paused before adding, “Do you get the feeling, Jessica, that the senator and his people might be using you?”

“The thought has recently crossed my mind—as recently as a few minutes ago—but I prefer not to believe it.”

“Which I can understand. I know you don’t need my advice, but I’ll offer it anyway.”

“Your advice is always welcome, George.”

“Distance yourself from the senator and Ms. Farlow’s murder. Devote yourself to the reason you’re here in Washington, your friend’s literacy program. Let the police worry about Ms. Farlow’s murder, and any ramifications it might have for Senator Nebel.”

His were words of wisdom, and caused me to fall silent. George sensed the internal debate I was going through, placed his hand on my arm, and said, “But I also know you, Jessica Fletcher. You’re loyal to your friend Mrs. Nebel, which is an admirable trait.
And
you have this penchant for seeing that justice is done.”

I turned to him. “You’re right, of course,” I said. “I do feel a responsibility to Patricia Nebel.
And
, as you so eloquently point out, I do have a penchant for seeing justice done. Not to mention that when I find myself involved in a murder case—which I might add has happened on occasion through no fault or deliberate action on my part—I’m naturally inclined to follow up on it.” I shrugged and raised my hands in a gesture of resignation. “That’s me, George, for better or for worse.”

“All part of your charm, Jessica. But I might point out that this particular murder has happened in your nation’s capital, at the home of one of your highest elected officials, and seems to be wrapped up in an affair between that elected official and the deceased. A heady scenario, I’m sure you’ll agree. Just be careful, my dear.”

I sat back and looked around the room. The other customers in the Willard exuded the sort of power for which Washington, D.C., is famous, and I knew George was right in how he’d characterized the situation surrounding Nikki Farlow’s death. As I was pondering his words, Walter Grusin, the lobbyist for Sterling Power, the nuclear power company, entered the bar with two other people, a man, and a woman I recognized as the congresswoman from California, Gail Marshall-Miner. I turned my back to the door, but not in time to avoid being spotted by him. He waved; after he and the others had been seated, he came to our table.