A Vote for Murder (22 page)

“In case you want to make an arrest.”

He said he was leaving immediately.

I hadn’t noticed during the tail end of the conversation that attorney Hal Duncan and Nebel’s press secretary, Sandy Teller, had entered the room.

“Calling for a taxi?” Duncan asked. He spotted the blow poke and said, “What do you have there?”

“Detective Moody is on his way,” I said.

Senator Nebel joined us. “What’s going on?” he asked.

I told him about the blow poke, and that the police were coming.

“Where the hell did you get it?” he demanded.

“It might be better if I discuss that with the police,” I said firmly.

Seth came to my side.

A minute later sirens were heard, and there was loud knocking at the door. Teller opened it, and Moody and two uniformed officers entered the room. The senator and his attorney had left the room; Teller did, too.

The detective came directly to me.

“Is this it?” he asked, pointing to the blow poke that I’d laid on the desk.

“That’s it,” I said.

Moody looked at Seth. “Who are you?” he asked. Seth extended his hand. “I’m Seth Hazlitt, friend of Mrs. Fletcher from back home in Cabot Cove, Maine.”

“Seth is a physician,” I said.

“Nice meeting you, Doctor,” said Moody. To me: “Where’s your friend the Scotland Yard inspector?”

“Busy with the London terrorist attack,” I said.

“I came to Washington to be with Mrs. Fletcher,” Seth said. “Want to make sure nothing happens to her.”

“Oh, Seth,” I said, “I don’t think—”

Moody pulled a rubber glove from his pocket, picked up the blow poke, and examined it in the light from a lamp on the desk. “Looks like blood, and some hair,” he muttered.

“Detective,” I said.

He looked at me. “Yes?”

“I think you might want to make sure that Senator Nebel’s son, Jack, and the houseman, whose name is Jardine, are still on the premises.”

Moody carried the blow poke to the fireplace and compared its unique handle with handles on the other tools. “Looks like the blow poke we found matches the rest of the set. Unusual design, that’s for certain.” The officer accompanying Moody had carried in an evidence bag, and Moody handed him the fireplace tool. The officer secured it in the bag, sealed and labeled it. “Take it out to the car and stay with it,” Moody ordered.

“I’m afraid you’ll find my fingerprints on it,” I said, “and Dr. Hazlitt’s prints, too. We weren’t careful about handling it.”

“Important thing is who else’s prints are on it. Now, Mrs. Fletcher, what about the son and houseman?”

We were interrupted by the arrival of Senator Nebel. With him was Congresswoman Gail Marshall-Miner, who I assumed had entered the house through a side or rear entrance. Attorney Hal Duncan entered the room right behind them.

“What’s this about having found the murder weapon?” Nebel asked.

Moody ignored the senator’s question and asked his own: “Is your son at home, sir?”

“My son? Jack? Why do you want to see him?”

“Is he here in the house, sir?” Moody repeated. “And I’d like to speak with the young man who—What’s his name?”

“Jardine,” I said.

“Right, Jardine,” said Moody. “Please get them for me.”

“I hate to interrupt your little get-together, Detective,” Duncan said, “but are you about to question people about Ms. Farlow’s death?” He didn’t wait for Moody to respond. “If you are, Detective, I suggest you rethink it. Are you charging someone in her death?”

“Counselor, I—”

“Are you targeting the senator’s son or the servant in this matter?”

Moody responded. “I believe, based upon what Mrs. Fletcher has uncovered this evening, that your son, and the male servant—What’s his name?”

“Jardine,” I supplied again.

“That they might have information bearing upon the murder that took place here,” Moody said. “I suggest that if they are in the house, that you bring them down to this room.”

“This is absurd,” Nebel said. He looked to Duncan for counsel. The attorney nodded, and the two men left the room, leaving us with Congresswoman Marshall-Miner.

“How much can one man take?” she said scornfully. She wore tight jeans, an even tighter teal T-shirt, and sandals. “The rumor about him and Nikki, her murder at his house, that madman trying to shoot him in his office, and now
this
.”

I couldn’t help myself. “The woman upstairs has had to take a great deal, too,” I said.

“Pat?” Marshall-Miner said, a crooked smile on her face. “I’m sure she’s doing just fine.”

She stomped from the room.

Dr. Young joined us and was introduced to Detective Moody. “I just stopped in to see Mrs. Nebel again,” he said. “She’s resting comfortably.”

“Something wrong with the senator’s wife?” Moody asked.

“An accident,” Young said. He extended his hand to Seth. “I have to be going. It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Hazlitt. Give my best to Tom over at NIH when you see him.”

“Ayuh, I’ll do that,” said Seth.

Young turned to me. “A word, Mrs. Fletcher?”

We went to a far corner of the room. “Your being here and speaking with her was therapeutic,” he said. “She mentioned more than once to me how pleased she was that you came.”

“It’s the least I can do for a friend.”

He looked to where Seth and Moody stood, lowered his voice, and said, “When someone attempts to take her own life, Mrs. Fletcher, as feeble an attempt as it might be, it points to an underlying depression that can lead her to try again. The more time you can spend with her over the next few days, the better it will be for her.”

“I’ll certainly try,” I said, “as much as my schedule will allow.”

“Good. I don’t know how the senator will react, but I intend to send a colleague of mine here tomorrow to evaluate her psychologically. He’s a psychologist in whom I have a great deal of faith, very low-key, non-threatening.”

“That seems like a good idea,” I said.

“If the senator balks, your support could help.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll do what I can.”

As he walked away, Detective Moody came to me.

“What sort of accident?” he asked.

“Nothing, really. She’ll be fine. About that letter you showed me.”

“Yes?”

“Do you have it with you?”

“The copy.”

“May I see it again?”

He hesitated, checked that we were not about to be disturbed, pulled the letter from his jacket, and handed it to me. It wasn’t a long letter, only two handwritten paragraphs. Its salutation simply said,
Warren.
It was signed,
Nikki.
My second reading of Nikki’s words left the same impression as my first exposure had. She was threatening Nebel without being specific. There was no mention of a sexual relationship (not a surprise, considering what I’d learned from her parents of her sexual orientation). Nor did anything she wrote support my speculation that it might have had to do with money. She ended the letter with:
Don’t dismiss me, Warren. I can take you down—and will, along with Gail and Barzelouski.

I refolded the letter and handed it back.

“Why have you allowed me to see this?” I asked.

“Because . . . because I thought you might have some ideas about why she mentions the congressman and congresswoman. I mean, what do they have to do with her blackmailing the senator about the affair they were having? That’s what I can’t figure out.”

I thought for a moment before saying, “I don’t think the letter is about the alleged affair they were having, Detective.”

“ ‘Alleged’? Everybody in Washington knows about it.”

“Which doesn’t mean that everybody in Washington isn’t wrong,” I said. “That’s the problem with rumors like that. If they’re repeated enough, they become real. But in this case—”

“Are you saying you know for a fact that there was no affair?”

“Yes,” I replied as Seth headed in our direction.

“I’ll be damned,” Moody said.

“About what?” Seth asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Moody said. To me: “How about telling me why you want me to talk to the son and the houseman.”

I explained as succinctly as I could how I came in possession of the blow poke, how Jardine led me to it, and that he’d told me he’d been instructed by Jack Nebel to get rid of it.

“Think he was telling the truth?” he asked.

“That he’d taken the blow poke down to the dock? I think that’s obvious. Whether Jack Nebel was the one who sent him on that errand remains to be seen.”

Hal Duncan strode into the room, fairly pushing Jardine ahead of him.

“Here’s who you’re looking for,” the attorney said.

“Where’s the son?” Moody asked.

“Not here,” said Duncan.

“Is that so?” Moody said skeptically. “Well, Counselor, I suggest you let the young man know that I intend to talk to him, whether he volunteers or not. I consider him a material witness.” He handed Duncan his card. “I’d hate to have to issue a warrant for him, being connected to the senator and all. But if I don’t hear from him by noon tomorrow, I’ll have to do just that.”

Jardine looked at me with pleading eyes. I felt bad for him. Although he’d attempted to dispose of the murder weapon, which constituted obstruction of justice at best, I didn’t believe he’d had any part in Nikki Farlow’s murder. He’d tried to right an obvious wrong by showing me where the blow poke had been hidden. Had he been guilty, he could have left it there beneath the dock, and no one would have been any wiser. That he had a conscience was obvious.

“Jardine,” I said, “this is Detective Moody. I know he has questions for you, and I suggest you cooperate fully with him.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jardine said, his thin voice breaking. “I didn’t kill Ms. Nikki.”

“Now, calm down, son,” Moody said. “Nobody said you did. But if what Mrs. Fletcher says is true, you did a dumb thing by hiding what might be the murder weapon.”

Moody said to me, “I think it’s best if I take him to the precinct and question him there.”

“Why did you do this to me?” Jardine asked me, tears in his eyes. “I trusted you.”

“Just tell the police the truth, and you’ll be fine.” I hoped my words reassured him, and that the police would not make me a liar.

Moody called on his radio and the uniformed officer came into the room. “Take this young man out to the car.”

When they were gone, Moody said to Seth and me, “I’d better be going. Nice meeting you, Doctor. Your friend here, Mrs. Fletcher, is quite a lady, sharp as a tack. Wouldn’t mind having her on my staff.”

“Looks like you made quite an impression on him,” Seth said as we watched him leave.

“He’s a good man,” I said, “without an oversize ego to get in the way of his job. But I feel sorry for Jardine.”

“Nothin’ to feel sorry about, Jessica. He did something wrong. Ready to get out of here?”

“Yes, I think we can go now. Thanks for accompanying me.”

“Wouldn’t like you to come out here alone at night. With your Scotland Yard friend tied up with terrorists, makes sense for me to stick close.”

“And I appreciate that, Seth. Come on. It’s been a long day, and I have a feeling tomorrow will be even longer.”

Pleased that the red message light on my phone wasn’t flashing when I entered the suite, I undressed, drew my bath, and reveled in the soothing effect of the hot water, embellished with bath oils provided by the hotel. But instead of helping lull me into sleepiness, the bath awakened me. I wrapped myself in a terry-cloth robe, sat on a couch in the living room, and turned on the TV. New information about the terrorist attack in London was included in the newscast, and I wondered what George was doing at that moment. I considered calling him but thought better of it. If he’d managed to catch some sleep, I didn’t want to run the risk of disturbing him.

My mind was in high gear. The prime question I grappled with involved the alleged involvement of Jack Nebel. It was natural to speculate that he’d told Jardine to dispose of the blow poke because he’d used it to kill Nikki Farlow. Or had he decided to get rid of the weapon to shield someone else? Only he could answer that question. I was certain of one thing: Jack had been in the house when Detective Moody was there. It had been easy for Duncan to produce Jardine, whom the family attorney undoubtedly viewed as expendable. Jack Nebel, the son of a powerful U.S. senator, was a different story.

The other question nagging me concerned the letter from Nikki Farlow to Senator Nebel that Detective Moody had shown me. Had Moody received it anonymously? Or did he know the person who’d provided it? And had it been checked for authenticity?

Which led to a third puzzle: What was the significance of Congresswoman Gail Marshall-Miner and Congressman James Barzelouski being mentioned in that letter? My initial thought was that it had to do with something political, perhaps legislation with which they were jointly involved. The lobbyist for Sterling Power, Walter Grusin, had told me that Barzelouski supported the Maine nuclear power plant in the House, and had lent his weight to the literacy program. Surely something as “soft” as a literacy project wouldn’t be grist for a scandal. It must have to do with the power plant.

I reflected back on my dinner with Grusin. Something had bothered me about it in retrospect, and I’d mentioned it to Seth. What was it? I still couldn’t put my finger on it.

Jardine had admitted to me that the person with whom he’d had an angry exchange on the terrace the night of the party had, in fact, been the son, Jack Nebel. Because the shoe print had been there when I took a look behind the potted trees, their contentious words had to have taken place
after
Jardine had returned from the boat.

And what of Senator Nebel and his alleged affair with Nikki Farlow? That rumor had developed legs—as goes the saying—and had positioned him as a prime suspect in her murder. Her refusal to acknowledge her homosexuality publicly might have become a contentious issue with the senator. Had he pressured her to come out of that proverbial closet and put a definitive end to the rumor? If she had, it certainly would have wiped that issue from his campaign for a third Senate term. Could he have gotten angry enough at her refusal to kill her? It didn’t make sense. He could merely have leaked the information to the press. Perhaps he didn’t want his voting public to know there was a homosexual on his staff, afraid the news would turn off a portion of the electorate.