A Vote for Murder (23 page)

I turned out the lights, slipped between the covers, breathed a contented sigh at the bed’s soft comfort, closed my eyes, and fell soundly asleep till the following morning, when I was awakened by the ringing phone.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, this is Greg Farlow, Nikki’s father.”

I shook the sleep from my head and tried to come up with a reason he’d be calling me. I asked.

“Have you seen the newspaper this morning?”

“No.”

“There’s a story in it by some reporter named Mumford. Natalie Mumford. Do you know her?”

“We have met.”

I didn’t have to ask what it was about. Mr. Farlow sounded angry. It had to be about Nikki.

“This reporter,” he continued, “has outed Nikki in a national newspaper. My daughter had managed to keep her private life private until you came along. Why did you tell the press?” he demanded.

“Me? Mr. Farlow, I did not tell
anyone
about your daughter. You have my solemn word on that.”

“Then how would she get such a story?”

It was bound to happen. The press was relentless when following a hot story. Natalie Mumford had told me she’d come up with information about Nikki through unnamed sources in the Midwest. She’d tried to get me to corroborate it, although why she thought I might be in that position escaped me. I tried to ascertain my culpability in this. Did I have an obligation to re-contact Mr. and Mrs. Farlow to inform them that the reporter had developed information about their daughter’s sexuality? I hardly thought so. What was important to me at that moment was that I hadn’t breached their confidence, not even when doing so would have brought comfort to Pat Nebel. Yes, I’d told her, her daughter, Christine, and Detective Moody that I was certain that no affair existed between Nebel and Nikki. But I’d never stipulated why or how I knew.

Still, I felt for Nikki’s parents and their shock at seeing the story that morning.

“Mr. Farlow,” I said, “I am very sorry that such a story appeared. Does the reporter”—I was uncomfortable using her name, considering I knew her—“does she identify any sources for her article?”

“All very vague,” Greg Farlow responded. “So-called ‘reliable sources.’ Ha! If it wasn’t you, Mrs. Fletcher, I have to assume it was her boss, Senator Nebel.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Get himself off the hook, that’s why. Quash the rumor about them having an affair. Politicians! You can’t trust a damn one of them.”

I really didn’t want to get into a debate about the relative trustworthiness of politicians. It was possible Warren Nebel
had
leaked the information.

“I wish I could be more helpful,” I said to Greg Farlow, “but I’m afraid I can’t. I simply don’t know specifically where this reporter got her information. I suggest you call her and ask.”

“Fat chance of her being honest with me.”

“That may be, but I can’t think of anything else to recommend.”

We ended the conversation amicably. He apologized for initially accusing me of being the source of the story, and I reiterated that I understood the betrayal they felt, and assured him again that I had not breached his confidence.

I went to the door, opened it, and saw that the newspaper had been left outside. I leafed through but didn’t have to go far to find the story—it was on page three, accompanied by a photo of Senator Nebel and Nikki Farlow together at some Washington event earlier in the year. I read the piece with interest. Although “outing” the deceased Nikki Farlow was certainly insensitive, the reporter, Ms. Mumford, had skillfully wrapped it in its political ramification, raising the question of why the senator hadn’t come forward with the news that his alleged sexual affair with his top aide was highly unlikely, considering her sexual orientation. Mumford also pointed out that this revelation (from “reliable sources”) was likely to take the heat off the senator as a suspect in Nikki’s murder. All this aside, it still smacked to me of tabloid journalism wrapped in the paper’s lofty image, something I’ve noticed increasingly lately with so many mainstream newspapers, magazines, and TV news shows. There was one positive thing to come from the article: Pat Nebel, her children, and others who’d been injured by the rumor of an affair now had reason to put it behind them.

I showered and dressed quickly and went downstairs, where Seth was already seated by a window in the Willard Room, reading the morning paper and sipping orange juice, his linen napkin hanging from the front of his collar to protect his shirt.

“Good morning,” he said. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, but not long enough. Have you seen the story in the paper this morning about Senator Nebel and Ms. Farlow?”

“Ayuh, I certainly have. And I have a suspicion that you already knew about Ms. Farlow and her . . . her private life.”

I nodded. “But I didn’t tell anyone. The reporter, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he said. “You’re the most closemouthed woman I’ve ever known, and I’ve known quite a few in my day. Talk to Inspector Sutherland?”

“George? No, I haven’t. I’ll call him after breakfast. What’s on your agenda today?”

“Aside from stickin’ close to you, I’m going over to see my friend at NIH. Said he’d show me the latest research he’s involved in. Couldn’t say no to that.”

“I would say not.”

“You?” he asked.

“I have to check in with the folks at the Library of Congress. I’m afraid I’ve almost totally abandoned them, and that’s why I came to Washington in the first place. Then I feel compelled to visit with Pat Nebel again. Her doctor asked me to spend as much time with her as possible, and I said I would.”

“Then you should. I’ll go with you—unless you’d prefer I not.”

Knowing Seth as well as I do, I doubted whether he would have taken no for an answer. I gave him my cell phone number before leaving the table and we agreed to touch base later that morning. We said good-bye in front of the hotel and took separate cabs.

I’d consulted my schedule before leaving the suite to meet Seth, and saw that a ninety-minute meeting with the writers associated with the literacy initiative and a group of young children recommended by their teachers would take place at the Library of Congress at ten. I was eager to take part. I’d once been a teacher, and looked forward to sharing my love of books and reading with the youngsters.

“How wonderful to see you,” the library’s PR woman, Eleanor Atherton, said when I walked into the room. “I thought we’d lost you for good.”

“Oh, no,” I said with a smile. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Ms. Atherton took me aside. “What’s the latest with the murder?” she asked.

“The murder?”

“At Senator Nebel’s home. I read this morning about his aide Nikki Farlow. That was quite a bombshell.”

“I really don’t know much more than what’s in the papers,” I said.

“I just thought that because you were close to the Nebel family, you might—”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I said, not wanting to add to Washington’s rumor mill. Anyone who thought that Cabot Cove thrived on rumors and gossip needed to spend a few days in our nation’s capital.

I was relieved when the children came down the hall, interrupting our conversation. There were thirty of them, boys and girls who looked to be eight or nine years old, led by three teachers.

I joined the other writers—Marsha Jane Grane, Karl von Miller, and Bill Littlefield—in the room where the children were arranged in a semicircle around us. Their bright faces and natural curiosity buoyed my spirits, and I happily participated in the discussion of why reading can become a lifetime companion, a continuing source of pleasure and knowledge. The children’s questions and comments were delightful, their individual personalities shining through, some funny without meaning to be, others extremely serious, all a delight with whom to spend time. Karl von Miller proved to be their favorite, no surprise considering that he wrote books for young readers. He was a superb storyteller who held the children in his spell—held me in his spell, too. Marsha Jane Grane seemed uncomfortable dealing with youngsters, many of her answers to their questions above their heads. But she was obviously trying hard to fit in, for which I gave her credit.

When Ms. Atherton shifted the subject to murder mysteries, there were lots of oohs and aahs from the children. I asked them to create a mystery story on the spot, and their myriad suggestions were wonderful, leaving me to wonder whether I would eventually read a novel of that genre written by one of them.

The hour and a half flew by. As we were getting ready to end the session, a TV camera crew and reporter arrived to do a piece on the program. We extended the time together for their benefit, engaging the students in more discussion for the camera. Once the children were taken from the room, the reporter asked to interview Ms. Atherton and me. I was hesitant; I didn’t want the reporter to ask questions about anything to do with Senator Nebel and Nikki Farlow. But I agreed, and she stuck to the subject of literacy and the project for which I’d come to Washington. With the camera and microphone off, she did ask me whether Mrs. Nebel would be making any appearances in connection with the program she’d initiated, with her husband’s support.

“I really don’t know,” I said.

“I was wondering,” she said, “because of the incident last night. We’ve heard that she accidentally overdosed on pills.”

There evidently was no such thing as a secret in Washington, but I was not about to confirm her information. “Sorry, I can’t help you there,” I said.

I promised the other writers in the group that I would catch up with them later, and went to Atherton’s office, from which I called George Sutherland’s cell phone.

“Sutherland here,” he answered.

“It’s Jessica.”

“Ah, my dear, I’m so sorry to have abandoned you. How are you?”

“I understand, George. I’m fine. You?”

“Things are finally under control, although I’m afraid I will have to head off in a day or two. I was hoping we could grab some time together before that. Up for dinner?”

“Are you sure you can break away?” I asked.

“At the moment all is quiet. No one has claimed credit for the attack in London, and there hasn’t been much progress in rooting out the devils. We’ll be launching a major investigation when I get back. That should tie me up for months. About dinner?”

“Yes, of course. I’m heading for the Nebels’ to spend some time with Pat. She overdosed on pills last night.”

“Good Lord. Is she all right?”

“Fortunately, yes, but I promised her doctor I’d stop in and see her. Tell you what. I’ll call you at the end of the day, say five-ish, and we’ll make plans. Sound good?”

“Yes, it does.”

I remembered that Seth was in town and would want to spend time with me, too. As much as I wanted to, I was torn. There was no telling how long it would be before I again saw George. I could see Seth virtually every day back home in Cabot Cove. Was I rationalizing? Of course I was. I decided to play it by ear later, and didn’t mention to George that it might end up being a three-some.

I tried Seth’s cell number but reached only his voice mail; he’d evidently forgotten to turn on his phone. I’d go to the Nebel house alone and try him again.

As I rode in the back of a taxi to McLean, it occurred to me that the literacy programs were coming to an end, and with them my time in Washington. If I wanted to get to the bottom of Nikki Farlow’s murder, I’d have to move fast. Otherwise I’d go home without the answer, which would be frustrating. I’m one of those people who hate unresolved questions. Once I become involved in something, I need answers. Call it impatience. Call it nosiness. Call it a need for instant gratification. No matter what it represents it’s part of my basic nature, and I accept it.

I was surprised when Senator Nebel answered my knock.

“Jessica,” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

I told him why.

“You read the paper this morning,” he said flatly.

“Yes. I assume you knew all along about Ms. Farlow’s sexual orientation.”

“Of course I did. And I hasten to say that I respected her wish that it not become public knowledge, even though keeping her secret, even after her death, has caused me a number of problems.”

“That’s admirable,” I said. “But it must have been tempting to do just that, make it public to put an end to the rumor about you and her.”

“Of course it was. I consider myself an honorable man. I respect those who work for me, and that includes keeping their confidences.”

I wasn’t sure I should ask about the letter, but fell back on my decision to be direct in the interest of time.

“I may be out of line, Senator, in asking this,” I said, “but since I’ve been drawn into this situation, I feel justified.”

His smile was fatherly as he placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “Jessica, you can ask me anything you want.”

I didn’t hesitate: “Was Nikki blackmailing you? She was accusing you of something. Why? What was it?”

My question wiped the smile from his handsome face. His expression turned to stone. He removed his hand from my shoulder and said in a slow, measured voice, “I resent that question, Jessica. I resent it mightily. Perhaps you should leave.”

“I’m here to see Pat,” I countered. “Dr. Young asked me to.”

“Be that as it may, I remind you that you’re here in Washington because of me and the literacy program. You’re a writer, not a cop or a politician. I suggest you remember that.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of why I’m here, Senator, and of who I am. But now that any allegation of an affair between you and Ms. Farlow seems moot, the question of why she would write you a threatening letter looms large.”

“Letter?”

“Yes. I’ve seen a copy of it.”

“Who gave it to you? I’ll—”