A Vote for Murder (5 page)

Perhaps it would have been more mannerly for George and me to mix with others rather than stay secluded, but I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to spend time with him. Besides, it appeared from our vantage point that no one would particularly miss us. People seemed to have found their own private niches for conversations with those they knew, or had met and with whom they wanted to continue interacting. We kept catching up until I looked at my watch.

“Getting late,” I said. “I started out today at the crack of dawn.”

“Then we must see that this tired lady gets to bed,” he said, standing and stretching against a stiff back. He’d injured it a few years ago when he fell into a moat surrounding the Napa Valley home of a former Hollywood producer and winegrower. That there had been a moat in the first place was bizarre, but reflected our host’s peculiarities. It was the last time George and I had been together. We ended up solving the murder of the producer and losing the idyllic vacation we’d planned.

“Know what I’d like to do?” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Walk down to the river.”

“I thought you were tired.”

“I am, but a walk after that big dinner would be welcome.”

“The walk back up all those stairs will test us both,” he said.

“And I’m sure we’re up to the test.”

We looked for the senator on our way across the terrace toward the stairs. He was nowhere to be seen. The senator’s aide Richard Carraway, who worked for Nikki Farlow, crossed unsteadily in front of us, a half-consumed drink in his hand, sweat glistening on his round face. George deftly stepped aside to avoid being bumped. “Sorry,” Carraway said, continuing on his way.

“I hope he has a designated driver to take him home,” I commented.

We stopped to compliment the pianist, who asked if we had any requests.

“Anything by Cole Porter,” I said. He immediately launched into “I Love Paris,” the catchy rhythm injecting added spring to our steps as we approached the stairs. We stopped short of them as Jack Nebel, perspiring heavily and out of breath, ascended the final few steps. He stopped when he saw us, looked as though he were about to say something, but quickly walked away. His sister, Christine, who stood with her fiancé, Joe Radisch, called out to him, but he ignored her and continued in the direction of the house.

The stairs down to the water were narrow, rickety-looking wooden steps that zigzagged from the terrace—thirty or so steps in one direction to a landing, then thirty or more in a different direction to another landing. We stood at the top and looked down.

“They don’t look terribly secure,” George said.

“What?” I said.

“I was saying that—”

“I’m sorry,” I said. My attention had been diverted by what appeared to be another partial shoe print of the same dark substance I’d noticed behind the potted trees. This one was close to the beginning of the staircase.
Someone is tracking mud all over the terrace,
I thought.

“Coming?” George asked, extending his hand.

“Yes.”

We started down, pausing at each landing to take in the river and surrounding countryside from the varying perspectives the platforms offered. Our way was dimly outlined by solar lamps attached to the edge of every dozen steps, luckily augmented by the glow from the fat moon above.

“He’s winking at us,” George said.

“Who?”

“The man in the moon.”

“Oh, him,” I said, laughing. I looked back toward the terrace and the house. The pianist was still playing Cole Porter tunes, and I thought how wonderful it was to be so musically gifted to be able to play, at the drop of a request, wonderful music from composers like Cole Porter and others whose music had brightened Broad-way for so many years. My eyes then went to the upper story of the house. Only one window was illuminated, and a woman stood alone silhouetted by the light. She seemed to be peering down at the terrace. Was it Patricia Nebel? I wondered. The picture of her standing there by herself, while festivities played out below her, was profoundly sad. Being the wife of a high-profile United States senator—and being the son or daughter of one—couldn’t be easy, and took an especially strong person to deal with the inherent stresses it must create.

We slowly continued our descent, and I realized for the first time that George had been right; climbing back up would be a challenge. The stairs were very steep, and I kept my gaze on the next step down even though George steadied my balance. We reached the last landing before the dock, and were now close enough to hear the river’s flow. I walked to the edge of the final set of steps, paused, and gripped George’s hand tightly.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Look!”

He leaned forward to see what had stopped me. The unmistakable form of a body, shrouded in shadows, was sprawled on the dock, just below the final step. While darkness concealed most of the body, a gray pant leg and black shoe angled across that final step were defined by the light of an adjacent solar lamp.

I followed George down as he went to one knee and felt for a pulse in the neck. He looked up at me, shook his head, and said, “Dead, Jessica. Very dead!”

“We’d better let someone up there know,” George said.

“I’ll go,” I said.

I started up the steps two at a time, but soon slowed as an ache developed in my legs. By the time I reached the top, I felt as though I were walking on two leaden pipes. The pianist was packing his sheet music into a briefcase, and the staff was in the process of clearing tables and putting away the ice-cream buffet and bar.

I saw through the windows that the guests had retreated inside. I searched for Senator Nebel but didn’t see him. Richard Carraway stood near the door leading from the terrace. I went to him and said, “There’s been an accident.”

His watery eyes said he didn’t understand.

“I’m afraid someone has died, falling down the stairs to the dock,” I said.

A bolt of understanding crossed his face. “Accident? Somebody’s dead?”

“Yes. Who’s in charge?”

Carraway looked over his shoulder into the room where the East Indian was again serving drinks. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll see if I can find the senator.” He walked away before I could say more.

“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.” It was Karl von Miller, the writer of young-adult novels. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “You look pale. Feeling all right?”

“Yes, something is wrong. Someone has fallen down the stairs.” I pointed to the ones leading to the dock.

“Oh, my. Seriously hurt?”

“I’m afraid so. In fact—”

Carraway returned with the security guard. “What’s this about somebody falling?” the guard asked.

I explained.

He crossed the terrace and paused at the head of the steps. I came up behind him, and looked back to see Carraway and a dozen others approaching.

“Down there,” I said. “Inspector Sutherland is with the victim.”

“Who?”

“What’s happened?” a male voice shouted.

I suffered a moment of shock seeing Senator Nebel cross the terrace in our direction. My first thought seeing the gray pant leg on the stairs was that it might have belonged to him.

I told Nebel what George and I had discovered.

“Get down there,” Nebel barked at the guard, who headed down the stairway, the senator and me on his heels.

“Who is it?” Nebel said to George when we reached the dock.

George, who’d been standing over the body as though shielding it from the embarrassment of being seen in that state, stepped back, allowing the solar lamp to cast muted light on one side of the victim’s face.

“Good God,” Nebel exclaimed. “Nikki!”

Others had followed us down, and a buzz erupted at the crowd’s hearing her name: “It’s Nikki?” “She fell?” “Nikki’s dead?”

The guard pulled a two-way radio from his belt and said into it, “We have an accident victim at the senator’s house. Call nine-one-one. Get some medical help here—and the police.”

The senator removed his suit jacket and held it out to George. “Cover her up, for God’s sake.”

George didn’t take the jacket. “Not until the authorities arrive and examine the scene,” he said firmly.

“ ‘The scene’?” Nebel said. “She obviously fell down the stairs. It’s an accident. You make it sound as though it’s something else.”

“Please, Senator,” George said, “it’s best to not disturb anything.”

“This isn’t London,” Nebel growled. “This is Washington, and this is my home.”

George ignored the comments and positioned himself so that he kept anyone else from getting close to Nikki’s prone body. The security guard, obviously agreeing with George’s assessment, stepped next to him, another body to shield the deceased from prying eyes.

I walked away from the crowd, giving myself a better, wider view of the scene. I now saw that Nikki had landed on her back. One leg rested against the first step; her arms were splayed. It struck me that if she’d fallen while coming
down
the stairs, she was likely to have landed on her face or side. But that was pure conjecture on my part.

Other questions raced through my mind as I waited for officials to arrive. Why had she left the party and come down the stairs at this time of night? I wasn’t thinking of anything untoward, simply wondering what would have motivated her. After all, George and I had decided to do the same thing. I thought back to our descent, and realized taking a misstep would have been easy in relative darkness on the spindly stairs.

I tried to see what her head might have struck during her fall. There didn’t appear to be anything protruding from the stairs or from the dock. There was the handrail, of course, and the edges of the steps themselves. She would have had to strike one of those with considerable force to have died from the blow.

But why had she fallen? Was there a loose board that tripped her? Had she been taking medication that dulled her senses? Had she had too much to drink and stumbled down the stairs to her death? I walked to the railing, gripped the top, and gave it a shake. It was loose. Could a weight thrown against it push it out of its foundation? Had Nikki grabbed for the railing? Were there splinters in her hands?

I was deep into those silent questions when the sound of sirens came from the house. Shortly we were joined by two emergency medical technicians, two uniformed officers, and a tall, heavyset black man wearing chino pants, a short-sleeved maroon shirt with WASHINGTON REDSKINS emblazoned on its front, and sneakers. I returned to the knot of people as he introduced himself as Detective Moody of the Fairfax County police, McLean District Station. He instructed the officers to shine light on the scene, which they did with large halogen flashlights. Now Nikki Farlow’s face was clearly visible. Her eyes were open wide; so was her mouth, which sagged to one side. A halo of blood surrounded her head.

Moody crouched close to her, examining her face without touching it. He looked up and asked, “Did anyone see this happen?”

There was no response.

He stood slowly, as though the movement caused pain in his legs. “Who discovered the body?” he asked.

“We did,” I offered.

“We? You and . . . ?”

“Me and Inspector Sutherland,” I said, standing next to George.

“Inspector?” Moody said.

George said, “I’m with Scotland Yard.”

Moody looked at me.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “Inspector Sutherland and I were guests at Senator Nebel’s party. We decided to take a walk down here to the river and—”

“Where is the senator?” Moody asked.

We all looked around, but he was no longer there.

“Must have gone back to the house,” Richard Carraway said. “Might I suggest that someone remove Nikki? Seeing her lying there dead like this is upsetting for everyone.”

“That’s her name?” Moody asked. “Nikki?”

“Nikki Farlow,” I offered when no one else did. “She’s . . . she was Senator Nebel’s chief of staff.”

“That’s right,” Carraway said.

Senator Nebel came bounding down the stairs, followed by his son, Jack. He pushed through those who’d gathered at the scene and announced himself to Detective Moody.

“I recognize you, sir,” Moody said, accepting Nebel’s outstretched hand, a smile crossing his deeply creviced ebony face. “She worked for you?” he asked, nodding toward the body.

“Yes, my top aide. Invaluable to me.”

Moody turned to an officer and requested that he call for a crime-scene investigator, and an evidence technician.

“Crime-scene investigator?” Nebel said, his voice heavy with incredulity. “What crime? The poor thing must have lost her footing and fallen. It’s almost happened to me a few times. These stairs are treacherous. I’ve been meaning to have them replaced since I bought this place. Now I’ll never forgive myself for not doing it.”

“I’m sorry, Senator, but this is an unexplained death. I have my rules to follow. You’re probably right that the lady slipped, fell, and died as a result. But I’m sure you can also understand my need to follow the law, you being a United States senator.”

“Looks like I don’t have a choice,” said Nebel.

“Afraid you don’t, sir,” Moody said. He addressed the others: “I suggest you all go on back up to the house. But please don’t leave. I’d like to have the chance to speak with each of you. Won’t take long. Just routine.”

He instructed one of the uniformed officers to accompany everyone to the house, adding after the others were out of earshot, “And make sure nobody leaves.”

He said to me, “I’d like you and the inspector to stay a few minutes.”

When the others were gone, Detective Moody crouched again next to Nikki’s body. “No sign of bruising or lacerations on her face,” he said to no one in particular. “Must have hit the back of her head. We’ll check that out.”