A Vote for Murder (26 page)

“Good. I’ll see you later.”

My next call was to the Nebel house, where Jack answered.

“Hope I’m not waking anyone,” I said cheerfully.

“We’re up,” he said, “and I’m glad you called. I understand you told that detective that I gave the blow poke to Jardine.”

“Not true,” I said. “All I did was pass along to Detective Moody what Jardine had told me.”

“Well, I don’t think you had any right to do that, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Did you have the right to follow me last night when I went to the National Cathedral?” I countered.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t make a very good private investigator. I was well aware it was you driving the black Mercedes last evening.”

“Look, Mrs. Fletcher, things aren’t the way they might appear to be. The whole thing with the blow poke, and wanting to see where you went last night were—”

“Jack, why don’t we discuss all this when I come to the house later today?”

“You’re coming to see Mom?”

“Yes, and I’d like you to be there.”

“What is this?” he asked.

Instead of answering, I asked whether his sister was at the house. When he told me she was, I asked to speak with her.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he demanded.

“I’d really prefer to talk with you in person,” I replied. “May I speak with Christine now, please?”

Christine came on the line.

“I’m planning to be at the house about one,” I said. “Can you be there?”

“I suppose so.”

“I’d really like your fiancé, Mr. Radisch, to be there, too.”

“Joe is coming by to take me to lunch.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Perhaps you can delay your meal for a little while.”

“Does this have to do with Nikki’s murder?” she asked.

“Let’s discuss the reason for it when I’m there. Is Mrs. Martinez available?”

“Carmela? Yes. She’s in the kitchen.”

“Would you put her on?”

I introduced myself to the cook and told her of my plans to gather a number of people at the house that day. I didn’t want her taken by surprise if her employers asked her to furnish refreshments. She was pleasant and helpful.

“Do you want me to serve lunch?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, “and I don’t want to impose on either you or the Nebels.” What I didn’t say was that the subject of the gathering was likely to spoil the guests’ appetites. I asked if she knew whether or not the senator was at home and she said he wasn’t, that he’d left very early for his office.

By the time I made my second call to Nebel’s office, his secretary was there and answered. She put me through to an overtly irate senator.

“What’s this about a meeting at my house today?” he growled.

“That’s why I’m calling,” I said, maintaining a lilt in my voice. “I wanted to thank you and your family for all your hospitality since I’ve been here, to me and to my friends Dr. Hazlitt and Inspector Sutherland.”

He wasn’t buying it.

“Cut the crap, Jessica. I’ve already heard from Walt Grusin and Congresswoman Marshall-Miner. They said that Carraway told them it was to discuss the Cabot Cove power plant. What are you up to?”

“Is Mr. Carraway there?” I asked.

“No, dammit. He left a note saying he was out on meetings all morning and would see me at the house. Now, Jessica Fletcher, what is going on?”

It was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to finesse the situation any longer.

“Senator Nebel,” I said, “there’s an unsolved murder of your top aide to be resolved. It happened at your house, at a party you hosted. I believe I know who murdered Nikki Farlow, and I think you’ll want to know as well.”

“I don’t see where anyone you’ve invited—to
my
house, I might add—has anything to do with Nikki’s death. This is a joke.” His laugh was dismissive. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “None of my people had anything to do with it, and you can take the word of a United States senator on that.”

I said nothing.

Now his laugh was forced, conciliatory. “I will say this, Jessica. You have a very fertile imagination. But I suppose that’s to be expected of a successful mystery writer.”

“Senator,” I said, “why don’t you simply come to your house at one and hear me out? I’m sure you’ll find what I have to say enlightening.”

“All right,” he grumbled, “but leave Pat out of it.”

“Even if she wants to attend?”

“She’s not well.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking, that Patricia Nebel was probably a lot less “sick” than some of those around her. Still, I wouldn’t impose on her. I would simply make her aware of our presence and let her decide whether she wished to come downstairs or not.

Nebel abruptly ended the conversation, and I placed a call to Detective Moody’s office at the Fairfax County Police Department. They paged him and he eventually came on the line. I told him about the gathering I’d planned, and said I needed him to be there, preferably with a couple of uniformed officers outside. He pumped me for information, but I was steadfast in my determination to save my conclusions until we met. His final comment before we ended the call was, “Why do I have the feeling I’m a character in one of your murder mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I laughed and said, “I assure you this isn’t fiction, Detective. You’ll be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, his words punctuated with a low, rumbling laugh.

All the calls on my list completed, I looked up the number for the George Washington University Hospital and was connected with George’s room.

“Good morning, love,” he said.

“Good morning to you. How are you feeling today?”

“Not bad aside from a whopping headache. But I’ve got good news. If I pass some tests they insist upon giving me later, I’ll be able to leave by day’s end.”

“I’m so pleased to hear that,” I said. “Maybe we’ll finally find some time together.”

“No maybes about it, Jessica. We shall. My recovery won’t be complete without it. What is on
your
agenda?”

“I’m attending a meeting at Senator Nebel’s house.”

“Oh? Sort of a farewell gathering?”

“You might say that. I really must run, George. Be a good patient, pass your tests, and I’ll be in touch later this afternoon.”

I spent the next forty-five minutes on the phone with people involved with the literacy program, offering my apologies for my lack of participation, and promising to devote what time I might have the following day to the effort. Everyone seemed accepting of my vague reasons for not being active, for which I was grateful.

My guilt somewhat salved, I showered, dressed, and looked at my watch. A half hour to go.

The invitees to my little social gathering arrived at staggered times, with the senator still “on his way.” Christine and her fiancé, Joe Radisch, and Jack Nebel were already in the house when Seth and I got there. To my surprise, Jardine responded to our knocking. The houseman and I looked at each other for a brief second, not time enough for me to read his eyes. I suppose I couldn’t blame him for being angry with me, although his presence indicated he hadn’t been detained very long by the police. He disappeared immediately, and Seth and I joined the others in the large room overlooking the terrace. Mrs. Martinez had ignored my comment that luncheon wasn’t necessary. A buffet had been set up in a corner, along with a portable, unmanned bar.

Ms. Marshall-Miner, Congressman James Barzelouski, and lobbyist Walter Grusin stood together near the bar. With them, to my surprise, were press secretary Sandy Teller and Nebel’s attorney, Hal Duncan, neither of whom had been invited, at least by me. Carraway was alone by the fireplace, pacing up and down. Christine and her fiancé sat on a love seat near the entrance to the room. I saw through the window that Detective Moody and Jack Nebel were together on the terrace.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I told Seth, who nodded and approached the group at the bar.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Moody said as I came through the French doors.

“Hello, Detective,” I said. “Hello, Jack.”

“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I think this young man might like to have a word with you,” said Moody. “I’ll wait down at the dock. Don’t want my presence to make the guests jittery. Besides, I always enjoy a few peaceful moments by the water.”

When Moody had disappeared down the stairs, I asked Jack, “What did you want to say?”

“About the blow poke, Mrs. Fletcher.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry I sounded angry on the phone.”

“That’s quite all right. What about the blow poke?” He was obviously uncomfortable, and I didn’t press. Finally he said, “When he questioned me—the detective—I denied doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Giving the blow poke to Jardine to get rid of.”

“Which wasn’t true.”

“Not exactly. No. I just told him—Moody—that I wanted to change my story. He said that if I’d lied earlier, I could be prosecuted for obstruction of justice, and for giving false statements to the police.”

“What he says is true,” I said.

“I don’t want to be prosecuted for anything, Mrs. Fletcher. I might have done something stupid, but I didn’t mean to break any laws.”

“Be that as it may,” I said, “the only sensible thing for you to do is to tell the truth. Why
did
you try to get rid of the murder weapon?”

“Because . . .” He looked through the window into the room, where the others were waiting, before saying, “Because I thought my dad killed her.”

My silence confirmed for him that, all things considered, it wasn’t a far-fetched assumption.

“But I don’t anymore. He swore to me he didn’t kill her, and I believe him.”

“Did you think that your father murdered Nikki because of the alleged affair between them?”

“Yeah. But there was more.”

“Such as?”

“The note.”

“Do you mean Nikki’s threatening letter to your father?” I asked. How did he know about that?

“What letter? No. There was a note. I found a piece of white paper in Nikki’s hand when I discovered her body.”

That was news to me. “What did the note say?” I asked.

“It told Nikki to meet him on the dock.”

“Was it your father’s handwriting?”

“I don’t know. It was printed. He signed it ‘W,’ but anyone could pretend to be him, couldn’t they?”

“Maybe.”

“I panicked. He’s my father, a United States senator, and I was afraid he’d murdered his top aide at our own house. I didn’t know what to do. The blow poke was lying on the dock. I grabbed it, took Jardine aside, and told him to go out in the boat and dump it in the river.”

“What did you do with the note?” I asked.

“Tore it into little pieces and flushed it down the toilet.” He didn’t allow me to respond. “I know, I know, I know,” he said. “I made a big mistake. But can you understand why I did it?”

Understand? Perhaps. Condone? No.

“You’ve told Detective Moody this?”

He nodded. “Just before you arrived. He told me he knew I was lying when I went to headquarters, and urged me to tell the truth. Will you speak to him about not bringing any kind of charges against me?”

“I don’t have any control over that, Jack, but I will urge him to consider the fact that you’ve now come forward with the truth, even if it puts your father in a bad light. Why don’t you get Detective Moody to come back up to the house? I’d like him present.”

“Are you going to say that my father killed Nikki?”

“Let’s leave that for later,” I said. “Go on, now; get the detective.”

I reached in my bag for a notebook and tore out a page. When I reentered the room, Senator Nebel had arrived. He strode over to me.

“All right, Jessica,” he said. “We’re all here, as you wanted. Before you go any further with this parlor game, you should know that I intend to fire Carraway for getting these people here under false pretenses.”

I looked to where Carraway leaned against the fireplace. He smiled at me; he seemed uncharacteristically relaxed.

“I’m sorry you feel the need to do that,” I said to Nebel.

Barzelouski joined us. “All right,” he said, “I showed up because Carraway said we had things to discuss about the power plant. Obviously that’s not the case. I understand you set up this get-together, Mrs. Fletcher. I hope you’re not going to waste my time. I have important things to do.”

Jack and the detective entered the room.

“Then let’s get started,” I said, “now that everyone is here.” I turned and faced the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “I’d appreciate your attention.”

There were mutters of discontent and confusion, but they eventually grew quiet.

“As you know,” I said, “I write novels about crime. And on occasion I have helped in a criminal investigation. All of you were present when a crime was committed, when Nikki Farlow was murdered on the dock. I had the misfortune to be the first one to find her body. At least I thought I was the first one.” I looked at Jack, who avoided my gaze. “Detective Moody, from the Fairfax County police, has been investigating the murder,” I said, “and has been good enough to bring me into his confidence. Because of that, I believe I’ve learned who the killer is.” I looked from face to face. “One of you in this room murdered Nikki Farlow in cold blood.”

There was a stunned silence.

“There are plenty of motives to go around,” I said,

“and that’s the place all investigators start, identifying those with a motive to kill.”

“This is nonsense,” Barzelouski snarled from where he stood with Gail Marshall-Miner and Walt Grusin. “Come on. Get to the point.”

I was about to continue when a door to the room opened and Pat Nebel stepped through it.