A Vote for Murder (21 page)

“He hated her. You’ll have to excuse me. Joe is picking me up. I want to get out of this place. Thanks for being there for Mom. At least she has one good friend.”

I turned to the river, its dark currents catching moon-beams and glittering in the otherwise black night. I’d wanted desperately to share with Christine Nebel why the rumors concerning her father and Nikki Farlow were baseless, and almost had. But I knew that doing so would betray a trust I felt with Nikki’s parents, and would address only one of the problems that seemed to be splitting the family apart. Christine’s vehement condemnation of her father as a politician was obviously based upon more than whether he was having an affair. She’d branded him a liar—and she’d mentioned money. What had she said? That her mother knew about the affair and the
money.
What was that all about?

I thought back to the dinner party, when Christine’s fiancé, Joe Radisch, had snidely commented that a senator could make a lot more money than his salary. I turned and looked back at the house. I didn’t remember how much a United States senator was paid, but it couldn’t have been enough to pay for and support what certainly was a mansion and its staff, as well as a home back in Maine.

Seth came through the French doors.

“Pretty fancy place,” he commented, turning in a circle to take in the vast expanse of the back of the house.

“Very,” I said. “How was your talk with Dr. Young?”

“Nice fella, knows my friend over at NIH. World gets smaller the older I get.”

“I’ve noticed that, too,” I said. “What did he have to say about Pat?”

“He didn’t say much, but seems she took too many pills.”

“Deliberately?”

“Maybe, only the amount she took wouldn’t have killed her. Appears to me like a cry for help.”

“I feel terrible, Seth. I knew she was upset, but never in my wildest dreams did I think she’d make an attempt on her life.”

“Now, Jessica, don’t go guiltin’ yourself. Most people don’t recognize the signs. Sometimes there aren’t any.”

“Poor thing,” I said, “feeling she had to go to that length to get somebody to listen to her.”

“The senator stopped by while I was speaking with Dr. Young,” Seth said, “came bustling in and disappeared as fast as he arrived. Took off with the lawyer and that Teller fella.”

“Have you seen the houseman, Jardine?”

“Ayuh. He asked me and Dr. Young if we wanted a drink.” Seth chuckled. “A drink’s the last thing I want. Told him some coffee or tea would be nice.”

“I’m going inside,” I said. “I want to speak with Pat Nebel. After all, that’s why we came here.”

Jardine was pouring a cup of coffee for Dr. Young when we entered the room. I went to the doctor and asked whether it would be all right for me to see Pat Nebel.

“I understand you’re a close friend,” he said.

“A friend from back home,” I said. “Perhaps it might cheer her up to see me.”

He thought for a moment. “Senator Nebel has asked that no one bother her, but in this case . . .” He nodded.

“Thank you; I won’t stay long,” I said, walking away before he changed his mind.

It occurred to me that while I’d seen much of the house, including her office, I didn’t know where the master bedroom was. I turned to find Jardine at my back.

“I’ll take you,” he said, and led me upstairs, pausing outside a door off a long corridor.

“She’s in there,” he said in hushed tones.

“Thank you,” I whispered. I knocked and slowly opened the door.

Pat was propped up on pillows in a king-size bed. The room was large, thickly carpeted, and expensively furnished in period pieces. Windows dominated the outside wall, offering a view of the river. A single lamp on a night table cast the only light in the room.

She looked up, startled at first, but saw who it was, sat up straight, and waved me to her bedside.

“Hello, Pat,” I said.

“Hello to you, Jess,” she said, her voice strong. “They dragged you here again, I see.”

“They didn’t have to drag me,” I said. “When I heard that—”

“That I’d done something dumb like overdose on pills. How embarrassing.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, Pat.” I pulled up a small upholstered chair from a dressing table.

“Oh,” she said, placing her fingers against her lips. “I forgot. It’s supposed to have been an accident.”

“That’s what they’re saying,” I said. “An accidental overdose.”

“The spin machine in full gear,” she said. “Wouldn’t look good if Warren’s long-suffering wife tried to kill herself. It might give credence to the rumors about Nikki.”

“Pat,” I said.

“What?”

“Warren wasn’t having an affair with Nikki.”

She opened her eyes wide and turned to face me.

“Trust me,” I said. “They were not having an affair.”

“How do you know?”

“It doesn’t matter how I know, Pat. What’s important is that you believe me.”

“But the blackmail.” She reached for my hand, and her voice took on urgency. “I heard it, Jess. I heard it with my own ears.”

“What exactly did you hear, Pat?”

“I heard Warren discussing it with his attorney, Hal Duncan. They were trying to figure out how to handle it. I only listened in for a minute or two, but that’s why—”

“That’s why you thought Warren might have murdered Nikki, to keep her quiet.”

“Of course. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“Yes, it does. But maybe she was blackmailing Warren about something else, for a different reason.” Which I now knew was the case from having read Nikki’s letter that Detective Moody had shared with me.

Her expression grew dark, and she turned from me.

“What else could it be?” she asked.

Nikki’s letter to the senator hadn’t mentioned anything about an affair, but also hadn’t been specific about what was behind her threat. Was it money? Joe Radisch’s comment at the party, and Christine’s mention of it downstairs, coupled with the lavish lifestyle the Nebels were enjoying—at least Warren was enjoying it—made that a distinct possibility.

“Could it have something to do with money?” I asked.

“I don’t know what it could be,” Pat said.

“If you’d rather not discuss it, I—”

“I really appreciate your being here, Jess, and if you’re right about Warren and Nikki, you’ve done me a very big favor. But I’m suddenly tired, very tired.Would you mind?”

I stood. “Of course,” I said, returning my chair to the dressing table. “I’ll be downstairs for a while if you need me. Seth Hazlitt came with me tonight.”

“Did he? How is he?”

“Just fine. He said to say hello, and that he hopes you’re feeling better soon.”

“Give him my best.”

I backed away from the bed, went to the door, and opened it. Jardine was standing just outside in the hallway, and I had the feeling he’d been listening.

I started toward the stairs, but he stopped me. “May I talk to you?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Not here,” he whispered. “I will be at the dock.”

“Couldn’t we speak here?” I asked in equally hushed tones.

He looked positively panicked. “No, ma’am, not here,” he said, looking downstairs over the railing. “I don’t want any trouble. The dock. I will go there now.”

He ran down the stairs, leaving me on the second floor to ponder what to do. On the one hand, I was determined to not miss this opportunity to hear what he had to say. It undoubtedly concerned Nikki’s murder. On the other hand, the thought of going down to the dock at night—the scene of the murder—to meet alone with a man who might well have had something to do with Nikki’s death was off-putting.

I went down the stairs and caught up with Seth Hazlitt, who stood by himself staring out the window to the terrace.

“Had your coffee?” I asked.

“Ayuh. How is Mrs. Nebel?”

“She seems fine, a little tired. Feel like some fresh air?”

Once outside, I said, “Seth, I want you to do me a favor.”

“What might that be, Jessica?”

“I’m going down those stairs to the dock to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“Jardine, the houseman. What I want you to do, Seth, is to stand at the top of the stairs in case I need you. But don’t allow yourself to be seen from below. Okay?”

“I do not like this, Jessica Fletcher. Here you go again, puttin’ yourself in some kind of dangerous situation.”

“I have nothing to worry about as long as I know you’re here.”

What I didn’t say was that I wondered what help Seth could possibly be in the event I actually did need him. He was not in what would pass for good physical shape. Still, just knowing he was there would put my mind somewhat at ease.

“Will you?” I asked.

“Ayuh,” he said, obviously not happy about it.

We went to the head of the rickety steps and stopped.

“Stand here,” I said, indicating a place where he would not be visible from the dock. “I’ll be right back.”

As I started down, I looked up and silently thanked an almost full moon for providing a modicum of illumination for my descent. It also occurred to me as I went step by step, my hand firmly gripping the wooden handrail, one foot after the other, that Jardine might not even be there, might have had a change of heart.

I continued until I’d reached the final landing before the dock itself. I squinted to see whether Jardine was there. I didn’t see him—but then I did, his silhouette against the pinpoints of light on the crest of ripples in the river.

“Jardine?” I said quietly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

We approached each other, stopping a few feet apart.

“What is it you want to tell me?” I asked.

He said nothing in response. He turned and walked quickly away from me, along the dock, past the Aquasport, and to the far end of the dock. I hesitated to follow him into the darkness, but did, stopping a dozen feet away. He turned and looked at me; I moved my hand in the moonlight to indicate I was with him. He nodded—and suddenly disappeared over the side of the dock. For a second I thought he might have fallen into the river. But there was no splash. I slowly went to where he’d been standing. Staying a few feet from where the dock ended, I leaned forward to see where he had gone. There was a lower platform, covered with vines and other shore growth, that jutted out from below the dock. Jardine was on his belly, an arm extended over the edge of the platform. He retrieved something, scrambled to his feet, and walked to me, holding the item he’d pulled from beneath the platform. I couldn’t make out what it was until he was directly in front of me. He extended it with both hands, as though presenting me with a sacred sword.

It was a blow poke.

I reached for it, but withdrew my hands.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Where did this come from? Why? Did
you
hide it under the deck?”

He walked past me to the foot of the stairs and looked up. I hoped Seth had remained where I’d suggested and couldn’t be seen. That was evidently the case, because Jardine returned to where I stood.

“I do not want to be a part of this,” he said.

“But you have been,” I said. “Did you—”

“I did not kill Ms. Nikki,” he said. “You must believe me.”

“Then why did you end up with this blow poke? It is probably the weapon that killed her.”

The words tumbled out of his mouth. “He told me to—”

“Who?”

“Jack. He told me to take the boat and throw this into the river.”

“Jack told you to do that?”

“Yes. Yes. He told me.”

“But you didn’t do it,” I said.

“No. Yes, I took the boat but didn’t throw this into the river.”

“Why?”

“I was afraid. . . . I didn’t know what to do. . . . I didn’t want trouble. . . . He told me if I didn’t do what he said he would send me away. . . . You will help me?”

“Help you? Jardine, the best thing you can do is to give the blow poke to the authorities and tell them everything you know. If Jack killed Nikki, then he will have to face his punishment.”

“No, no, they will say I killed her. I know that.”

“Jardine, you must listen to me. You have to—”

He thrust the blow poke into my hands and raced up the stairs, leaving me holding the potential murder weapon in my hands.

“Jessica?” Seth called from the top of the stairs. “You all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m coming up.”

I reached the top of the stairs, out of breath and with heavy legs. I leaned against the railing and let out a whoosh of air.

“What’s that?” Seth asked, referring to the blow poke and pulling it from my hands.

“Oh, Seth, you shouldn’t have,” I said. “Your fingerprints are on it now. So are mine.”

“Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“It was given to me by the houseman, Jardine.”

His expression said he didn’t understand.

I took the blow poke from him, using the hem of my light jacket to hold it, and said, “I have to call the police.”

Dr. Young had left the house, as had Christine. I went to a telephone on a small rolltop desk, pulled Detective Moody’s card from my purse, and dialed his number. I didn’t expect to reach him at his office at that hour, but I was wrong. He picked up directly.

“Detective, it’s Jessica Fletcher.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. How are you?”

“I have been better,” I responded. “Detective, I think you’d better come to Senator Nebel’s home right away.”

“Oh? What’s happened?”

“I believe I have in my hands the weapon that killed Nikki Farlow.”

“That blow poke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you get it?”

“I’d rather discuss that when you’re here. You might bring additional officers with you in case . . .”

“In case what?”