A Vote for Murder (4 page)

“I think I know my people,” Nebel said. “Besides, I still haven’t made a final decision on my vote—which, I might add, is why you’re still lobbying me.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Grusin. “And by the way, thanks for inviting me tonight. A man who’ll invite his enemies to break bread with him is a big man.”

“I’m hardly your enemy,” Nebel said pleasantly. “While I might not always see your point of view, I recognize that you and your fellow lobbyists are a valuable source of information for any elected official.”

“We try our best,” said Grusin. He turned to Nebel’s son. “How are you, Jack?”

“Okay,” Jack said.

“Will your wife be here?” I asked the senator.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Pat isn’t feeling well and begged off. She’s in her room, and I encouraged her to rest this evening. She’s been on a backbreaking schedule lately, running all over the country promoting her literacy initiative. This week at the Library of Congress is really her idea. I’m just adding some senatorial muscle to it. She’ll join us tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m sorry she’s not feeling well, but I’m sure the rest will do her a world of good.”

It ran through my mind that Patricia Nebel must have really been under the weather to have missed joining her husband at the White House to celebrate what had been her idea and initiative, and to miss the follow-up dinner party in her own home.

A little later I was subjected to another bit of lobbying by Walter Grusin when George and I found ourselves standing next to him after we’d gone to a bar on which to set our empty glasses.

“May I get you a drink, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked pleasantly. When I didn’t immediately respond, he laughed and said, “No strings attached. No nukes in your backyard. I promise.”

“Thank you, no,” I said.

“Inspector?”

“Not at the moment, thank you,” George said.

Grusin said to the bartender, “Wild Turkey on the rocks with a splash of soda, and a chardonnay.” He turned to me. “If you change your mind about finding some time for me this week, I’ll be forever grateful.”

“I don’t think it will be possible,” I said. “I have a full schedule.”

Nikki Farlow walked up. Grusin took the drinks from the bartender, handing the bourbon to Nikki. She looked surprised. “Thanks,” she said, nodded at us, and walked away. Grusin wished George and me a pleasant evening, and followed her.

“Persistent chap,” George said.

“I suppose lobbyists have to be,” I said.

The sound of a ringing bell announced that dinner was about to be served. Nikki, who seemed to function as the missing lady of the house, motioned for everyone to follow her to a dining room, where a table that comfortably seated forty diners had been elaborately set with gleaming china and silverware. I took note that the four writers in the group had been spread throughout the crowd, and was pleased that George’s place card was immediately to my right. The card to my left indicated I’d also be seated next to a Richard Carraway. I hadn’t met him earlier or during the cocktail hour, and he was the last person to take his seat at the table. Carraway was a visibly nervous middle-aged man, with a twitch in his left eye. He was short and heavyset; perspiration had wilted his ill-fitting gray suit and white shirt. I noticed how pale he was. He’d combed disheveled gray hair from low on his right side up over his baldpate.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, wiping his brow and neck with an already damp handkerchief. “Lots of talk about you coming,” he said.

I introduced him to George.

“Scotland Yard, right?” Carraway said. “I heard you’d be coming, too.”

“Thanks to Mrs. Fletcher here,” George said.

“I take it you work for Senator Nebel,” I said.

“In a manner of speaking,” Carraway responded. “I work for
her
.” He pointed down the table at Nikki Farlow.

“Quite an impressive lady,” I said.

His scowl said he didn’t necessarily agree with me. “I’m the Hill’s oldest gofer,” he said.

“Gofer? The Hill?” George said, laughing. “And I thought we spoke the same language.”

“A gofer is an errand boy,” Carraway said, “and the Hill is Capitol Hill.”

“How long have you been with the senator?” I asked.

“I’ve been with Nebel since his first term. I handle his constituent relations, and oversee his staff on the Energy and Commerce Committee. I used to be chief of staff—until he brought
her
in.” He nodded in Nikki Farlow’s direction.

“Sounds like a challenging job,” George said, a hint of his Scottish brogue coming through. “Hardly an errand boy.” I sensed he’d said it to appease Carraway, to take the edge off the man’s overt agitation.

“Challenging?” Carraway said, guffawing. “It’ll kill me.” With that he gulped down a large glass of water and looked around for a refill.

Dinner proceeded as most dinners do, with course after course served by the household staff, augmented by uniformed staff who, I learned, were provided by the catering firm hired for the event. We started with crab bisque, went on to a salad topped with crumbled Gorgonzola, and enjoyed a chateaubriand cooked to a perfect pink, garnished with green beans and fingerling potatoes. A different wine accompanied each course, which would have been sufficient. But a number of people at the table, including Senator Nebel, augmented the wine with hard liquor, their glasses refilled by a male member of the caterer’s staff who somberly and silently went about the task, circling the table, a bottle in each hand. The East Indian houseman who’d served drinks during the cocktail hour seemed to have disappeared, presumably busy in the kitchen.

Along with rumors of Senator Nebel’s straying from his marriage in Washington, there were also claims that he’d become a hard drinker when away from home. Both allegations would not sit well with Maine voters, who tend to value self-discipline and moral integrity. His opponent for a third term had already begun to allude to these weaknesses on the part of our junior senator.

Fueled by the liquor, some members of the party became increasingly boisterous, their voices rising in volume along with their animated telling of tales, jokes, and Washington’s latest rumors.

After dishes had been cleared, Nebel tapped a glass with a spoon, stood, and held out his hands in a call for silence. It took a few moments for the last voices to fade away. When they had, and after welcoming everyone, he said, “As you all know, this week devoted to fostering national cultural literacy was not this senator’s brainstorm. The credit belongs to my wife, Patricia, who’s committed herself to raising an appreciation for literacy, and the arts in general, in this wonderful land of ours.”

George leaned close to my ear and whispered, “He’s had a tad too much to drink.”

I nodded. The effect the drinks had had on Nebel wasn’t extreme, but his speech was slightly slurred.

“Of course, kicking off this week was also a good excuse for a party, which I hope you’re all enjoying. I want to especially thank Dr. Lester for gracing us with his presence tonight. The Library of Congress is one of our most treasured institutions, and I thank him for his support and leadership in mounting this symbolic and important week.”

Many people applauded; a few who’d continued to imbibe gave out with whoops and hollers. The senator’s daughter, Christine, sat at her father’s end of the massive table. Next to her was a man I’d been told was her fiancé. He appeared to be in his forties; she’d passed her thirtieth birthday but looked like a teenager, small and delicate, and sober faced. The man joined in the applause; she did not, looking very much as though she would rather have been someplace else.

Nebel added to his remarks about the literacy week ahead of us, and concluded by heaping praise on his cook, a Mrs. Martinez—“I might have brought in the caterers, but Carmela planned the menu” (there was applause) —and announcing that dessert and after-dinner drinks would be served on the terrace. Nikki Farlow opened French doors and the sound of a pianist reached our ears.

The brick terrace was almost as large as the dining room. Small individual tables had been set up, and an ice-cream buffet was situated in one corner, a bar in another. The day’s heat had dissipated, and a refreshing breeze came up from the river. It was a clear night, the sky filled with twinkling stars surrounding an almost-full moon. The pianist played a medley of showtunes. He’d just segued into “Cheek to Cheek” when George took my hand, placed another at my waist, and we started to dance. I was a little self-conscious because we were the only couple dancing, but I quickly melted into the pleasure of it, ignoring those around us. When the music ended, there was polite applause for our efforts, and we went to the bar, where George ordered a Scotch for himself, sparkling water for me. We found a matching pair of cushioned patio chairs partially shielded from the crowd by small trees in large pots, settled in them, and sighed in concert.

“Your senator lives quite well,” George said.

“So different from his persona at home, George. I suppose he campaigns there under the when-in-Rome philosophy. Still, it seems dishonest, doesn’t it, to pretend to be one thing for voters, and then turn into something else once you’ve captured their vote?”

“No different in England, my dear, or anywhere else in the world, I suspect. Have you been introduced to everyone here?”

“Almost everyone, I think. I haven’t met his daughter or her fiancé, and there are still a few unfamiliar faces. The other writers were congenial. Senator Nebel seems embroiled in the debate over a nuclear power plant proposed for a site near my hometown.”

“So I gathered. Nasty business, politics, being pulled from every direction by special interest groups when legislation is pending.”

I nodded and sipped my water. “Enough about politics,” I said, placing my hand on his on the arm of his chair. “How is your conference on terrorism going?”

“More politics actually,” he replied. “Lots of talk, little substance. Your chaps seem transfixed on your color-coded warning system. The Israelis and Germans take a more pragmatic approach. We Brits seem to think that by debating it in our House of Commons, bin Laden and his thugs will simply fade away. Not much progress, I fear.”

We shifted to a recounting of our respective lives since last being together, and were thoroughly engaged in that topic when a voice from behind the potted trees caused us to stop, and to cock our heads in its direction. I was sure the voice belonged to the East Indian servant—his high-pitched voice and singsong cadence were too distinctive to mistake. “You don’t threaten me,” he said, just loud enough for us to make out his words. “I threaten
you
. I know about you—I have seen you and will tell people.”

The words stopped, and we heard two sets of footsteps walk away.

“The chap is obviously angry,” George said.

“It certainly sounds that way,” I said. I stood and peeked behind the row of potted trees. The East Indian was nowhere in sight, but I did see Jack Nebel, the senator’s son, walking away in the direction of the stairs leading to the dock. I looked down. The terrace was paved with a pristine white stone, which provided a background for what appeared to be the partial print of a shoe sole that had evidently stepped in some black substance. Maybe using white stone wasn’t such a good idea for the terrace, I thought as I rejoined George. Beautiful, but not especially practical.

We returned to our previous conversation about our lives, but were again interrupted when Christine Nebel’s fiancé wandered into our area, a drink in his hand. He seemed startled to see us and said, “Sorry. Don’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is George Sutherland.” George stood and shook his hand.

“The Scotland Yard inspector,” the man said. “I’m Joe Radisch.”

“Please join us,” I said.

He pulled up a small white wrought-iron chair.

“You’re Christine Nebel’s fiancé,” I said.

“That’s right, for better or for worse.”

His comment caused me to pause before saying, “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her. I’m from Cabot Cove, Maine, and remember seeing the senator’s son and daughter with him when he campaigned. But they were younger then. So was I.”

Radisch laughed. “I suppose we’re all not as young as we used to be. Enjoying this party?”

“Very much,” said George. “It’s a splendid setting for one.”

Radisch slowly shook his head. “Yeah, Christine’s father lives well, that’s for sure. A senator can make a hell of a lot more than his salary. At least
this
senator.”

Was he suggesting that Senator Nebel might be the recipient of outside financial influence? It sounded that way, but it wouldn’t have been polite to pursue it. Instead I said, “When do you and Christine plan to marry?” I wasn’t particularly interested in his answer, but it was a nonconfrontational question to ask.

He shrugged, downed the remains of his drink, and stood. “There won’t be a date if the esteemed Senator Warren Nebel has anything to say about it.”

There didn’t seem to be an appropriate response.

“You write books,” Radisch said to me. “Murder mysteries.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking of writing a book,” Radisch said.

“A murder mystery?” George asked.

“Sure,” Radisch replied, smiling.

“Who’s killed?” George asked lightly.

Radisch extended his hand as though to include everyone on the terrace. “Take your pick,” he said. “In Washington, backbiting and double-dealing are daily occurrences, ample motives for murder. Nice meeting both of you. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

When he was out of earshot, George laughed and said, “It doesn’t sound as though it’s to be a wedding planned in heaven.”

I sighed. I’d been to many weddings where one or the other of the involved families wasn’t especially happy about their son’s or daughter’s choice of a mate. Expressing negative thoughts about his future father-in-law to strangers hadn’t been especially discreet on Mr. Radisch’s part. He was obviously an angry sort of man who probably had few nice things to say about anyone. I wondered what positive qualities he possessed to have attracted Christine Nebel’s romantic interest. I often ponder such things when I encounter couples who seem poorly matched, at least on the surface, but learned long ago never to judge why and how men and women end up together. Trying to quantify the chemistry between men and women is as fruitless as attempting to understand the universe itself.