A Vote for Murder (24 page)

“It doesn’t matter who showed me the letter,” I said. “What is important is that it exists. Why did Nikki write that letter? Look, Senator, I agree that such a letter is highly personal; however, it might have some significance in Nikki’s murder. I’m sure you’re as anxious as I am to see her killer brought to justice.”

My little speech gave him time to compose himself. The smile reappeared, and his posture relaxed. “That letter,” he said, “had to do with politics, pure and simple, Jessica. It has absolutely nothing to do with Nikki’s tragic demise. You can take that to the bank! Now, let me ask
you
something.”

“All right.”

“Who showed you that letter?”

“I really can’t betray that confidence,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll find out who leaked it, and when I do, that someone will be very sorry.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Was it someone from my staff?” he asked.

“Senator Nebel, I cannot—”

“Excuse me,” he said smoothly. He smiled, but his eyes were rock hard. “I’m afraid I have to get back to my office. Why don’t I give you a ride into town?”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I came here to spend time with Pat.”

“She’s resting. She can’t see anyone now.”

“But—”

“Sorry, Jessica. Looks like you made the trip for nothing.”

I considered arguing the point but thought better of it, and accepted his offer.

It was obvious during our trip that Nebel wasn’t about to discuss anything having to do with the letter or Nikki Farlow’s murder. He drove fast, too fast for my taste, and launched into a monologue on the pressures of being a United States senator, particularly when dealing with a contentious subject like the power plant in Cabot Cove. I was content to listen; I knew any further attempts to gain information from him about other things would prove futile. I told him when we entered the city—the District, as it’s commonly known—that there wasn’t any need to take me to the hotel. But he insisted, and dropped me off at its front door. He reached across me and opened my door, smiling as he did. “Jessica,” he said, “I just want you to know how much Pat and I appreciate what you’re doing for the literacy drive.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for the ride.”

I got out of the car. He closed the door, gave me a flip of the hand, and drove off.

“Good afternoon,” the Willard’s doorman on duty said to me as he held open the door.

That remains to be seen,
I thought.

I smiled and returned his greeting.

Although I’d been brimming with energy since being awakened that morning by Nikki’s father, a wave of fatigue swept over me the minute I walked into my suite. I sat on the bed, kicked off my shoes, and made a decision. I needed some time for myself, and pledged to find it then and there. It would take a fire in the hotel, or an act of Congress, to drag me from the lovely suite in which I’d spent far too little time.

I changed into comfortable clothes, closed the drapes, retrieved a paperback book I’d bought at the airport from my bag, and curled up on the couch. Before starting to read, I called George on his cell.

“Hello, Jessica,” he said happily. “Where are you?”

“In my hotel suite. I decided I need some time alone to recharge the batteries—which, I might add, seem suddenly to have discharged.”

“Glad to hear that. Not about your batteries, but your decision to get off the treadmill. Will you feel well enough for dinner?”

“Of course. A few hours of solitude, aided by a nap, will do wonders. Seven? Is that good for you?”

“That’s fine. A colleague here has recommended a restaurant she says is splendid. I wrote it down somewhere. Ah, yes, here it is. Citronelle. ‘French with a California influence’ is the way she describes it.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Good. I’ll make a reservation for seven. Meet you there?” He gave me the address and phone number.

“I’ll be fresh as a daisy and on time,” I said.

I fell asleep after only a few pages of the book, which wasn’t an editorial comment on the author. My eyes had become so heavy that I simply couldn’t hold them open any longer. My final thought before succumbing was whether I should leave a wake-up call. But I couldn’t stay awake long enough to do even that.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to. The phone rang a half hour after I’d dozed off. It sounded frightfully loud, and jerked me awake. I shook my head and tried to blink away the sleep as I stumbled across the room and picked up the phone.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Richard Carraway. Senator Nebel’s aide.”

“Yes. Hello. I’m sorry if I sound groggy but your call woke me.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that. Mrs. Fletcher, I have to talk with you.”

“All right. I think I’m sufficiently awake now to have a rational conversation.”

“No, no, in person. I must see you in person.”

“I’m afraid I’m really not up to that, Mr. Carraway.”

“Please.”

It sounded as though his voice had cracked. Was he attempting to hold back tears?

“Look, Mrs. Fletcher, it’s about Nikki’s murder. I know something about that.”

“Oh? Then I suggest you immediately call Detective Moody with the Fairfax County police.”

“I can’t do that. And . . .”

“And?”

“I’m not sure I’ll be alive long enough to tell anyone. Please meet with me and I’ll tell you everything. You seem to be the only one involved who doesn’t have your own agenda, except maybe to get to the bottom of Nikki’s murder. I’m involved in a conference on a bill the House passed and the Senate is trying to amend. I can be out of here by six.”

“Six! I have a dinner engagement at seven. Wait a minute. What did you mean when you said you might not live long enough? Are you ill?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to end up like Nikki.”

I was momentarily speechless.

Carraway barreled ahead. “I promise I won’t make you late, Mrs. Fletcher. Please. I don’t want to beg, but—”

“All right. I’ll meet you at six. Would you like to come to the hotel?”

“No. Too public. Meet me at the National Cathedral.”

“The National Cathedral? Mr. Carraway, I—”

“It’s quiet there and we can be alone. I’ll meet you in the Bishop’s Garden, in the Rose Garden area. It’s next to the cathedral. Take a taxi. I’ll reimburse you.”

“Mr. Carraway, I am perfectly capable of paying for my own cab ride. I’ll see you at six.”

I almost had a change of mind, but he hung up before I could say more. So much for my tranquil respite. I had a feeling I’d been neatly maneuvered. He’d never have gotten around me so easily if I hadn’t been groggy.

There was still some time to kill before having to leave for my meeting with Carraway, and I considered resuming my nap. But there was no way I would fall asleep again, and even if I managed to drift off, I was afraid I’d awaken even more tired. I usually travel with an exercise videotape, and this trip was no exception. I put it in the VCR and spent the next half hour limbering up and getting my blood flowing with aerobics. That helped the rejuvenation effort. I took a quick shower and dressed in an outfit appropriate to having dinner later with George at a fancy French restaurant. With still some time before having to leave, I opened one of the guidebooks I’d carried to Washington and read about the National Cathedral, also known as the Cathedral Church of St. Peter and Paul, or Washington Cathedral. As much as I wasn’t looking forward to meeting with Richard Carraway, I experienced two parallel feelings: I was intensely curious about what he had to offer regarding the murder of Nikki Farlow, and I was looking forward to seeing the cathedral, one of too many of Washington’s imposing landmarks that I’d not gotten around to visiting on previous trips. If it weren’t for Carraway’s call, I wouldn’t have seen it on this trip, either.

I was preparing to leave when I remembered that I’d never gotten hold of Seth. This time my call to his cell was answered.

“I tried you earlier,” I said, “but you didn’t have your phone on.”

“I know. Plumb forgot. So how did your day go, Jessica?”

“Eventful, Seth. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

“I was plannin’ on dinner tonight. I’ll be heading back to Cabot Cove day after tomorrow.”

“So will I.”

I was thinking about my dinner plans with George. Should I invite Seth? Although I looked forward to time alone with George, I couldn’t exclude one of my dearest friends in this world; nor could I lie to him about my plans.

“George Sutherland called and suggested dinner,” I said, “and I accepted. Why don’t you join us? It would be nice having the three of us together.”

There was silence on his end. Then he said, “Where were you plannin’ on going? Some fancy French place?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what we planned. George says it’s highly recommended. It’s called Citronelle. How did he describe it? Sort of French with a California influence.”

Another silence. Dr. Seth Hazlitt is the quintessential meat-and-potatoes man, despite how that approach does little for cholesterol levels, to say nothing of calories.

“Well?” I said.

“Ayuh,” he said.

“Wonderful.” I gave him the address of the restaurant, and we agreed to meet there at seven.

I went to the lobby, through the doors, and climbed into a taxi whistled to the entrance by the doorman.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“The National Cathedral,” I replied. “On Wisconsin and Massachusetts avenues.”

“I know where it is,” he said gruffly, slipping the cab into gear and making a noisy getaway from the curb, followed by a plume of noxious smoke. It occurred to me, as it often does when traveling by cab in American cities, that once you’ve experienced London’s wonderful, comfortable, well-maintained taxis driven by polite, well-trained professionals, you can never be truly pleased.

After we’d been driving for a few minutes, I happened to look back through the rear window and noticed a black Mercedes behind us. I didn’t give it another thought until we’d turned onto the access road to the cathedral, and I saw that the Mercedes, which had obviously been trailing us the entire way, had also pulled on to the access road. I’m certainly not a paranoid person, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Carraway was having me followed.

The cabdriver came to a stop in front of the cathedral, the spire of which soared majestically into the sky. I paid him what he said I owed (I much prefer meters to Washington’s system of zones, having to know, or guess, how many zones you’d traversed), got out, and approached the cathedral. Its size and splendor were awe-inspiring, as was its stated mission, as defined by Congress in 1893: “a national house of prayer for all people.” How wonderful to have a national place of prayer regardless of one’s religion of birth or beliefs.

I was early; it was five-thirty. The driver had driven fast, too fast. Oh, well, I thought, I would have time to spend a few minutes inside the cathedral itself, where I could ask directions to the gardens. Before entering, I looked back and saw that the Mercedes had come closer, but had stopped a hundred yards from where I stood. For a moment I considered approaching the driver and asking what he was doing. But I discarded that notion. It was probably nothing more than a coincidence, and I didn’t want to look foolish.

I stepped into the nave, a tenth of a mile long from rear to altar, and was immediately overwhelmed by the interior splendor. Huge stained-glass windows high above caught the day’s fading sunlight and cast multi-colored shafts of light, creating a kaleidoscope of red and blue, yellow and purple.

There was total silence. I narrowed my eyes to survey the pews that stretched from where I stood to the imposing altar. I seemed to be the only person there, alone in this monument to man’s creativity and spirit, and to our need to build tributes to the gods, no matter who they might be. Outside, it was hot and humid. Here, surrounded by countless tons of Indiana limestone, it was refreshingly cool. I drew a breath; the lingering scent of incense filled my nostrils.

I glanced at the entrance to see if anyone had followed me inside. Seeing no one, I walked to the south transept and lingered in the War Memorial Chapel, dedicated to the men and women who’d lost their lives in defense of the country. It was one of nine chapels in the cathedral, and was dominated by a huge needlepoint tapestry called the
Tree of Life,
on which the seals of the fifty states were rendered in petit point.

I moved from there to the Children’s Chapel, where everything was child-size—scaled-down seats, low altar, and miniature needlepoint kneeling pads depicting family pets and wild beasts, including Noah’s Ark’s passenger list. Even the organ was small. The chapel celebrated the worth and dignity of children and four-legged animals, the most vulnerable and dependent of all creatures. A statue of the Christ child stood near the entrance, its arms open wide in welcome. I approached the statue and saw that the bronze fingers on one outstretched hand were shiny, in contrast to the rest of the sculptured figure that had burnished with age. How many visiting children had grabbed hold of those bronze fingers and kept them bright? I wondered.

I was so at peace with myself and the world that I’d forgotten about the Mercedes and had even neglected to keep tabs on the time. It was close to six, when I was to meet Carraway. I walked quickly out a side door. It was a fortuitous choice of exits. A sign across the road indicated the way to the Bishop’s Garden.

I crossed the road and followed signs that led through the Norman Arch and the gardens beyond. It was heading toward darkness. The trees, coupled with low, black clouds that had rolled in from the west, had turned day into almost night. I followed a winding path until reaching the Rose Garden, filled with floribundas and hybrid tea roses of varying hues. Carraway stood beneath an aging pear tree.