A Vote for Murder (6 page)

“She landed on her back,” I said.

Moody stood. “Looks like she did, ma’am. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jessica Fletcher.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Mrs. Fletcher is a well-known writer of mystery novels,” George said.

“Right,” said Moody. “I read about you coming to D.C. for some event at the Library of Congress.”

“A literacy drive,” I said.

“Worthwhile thing,” he said. “Wish my kids read more. Not that they don’t—read, of course. Just wish they read more. You say you two decided to come down here to the dock? See anybody else do that during the party?”

We shook our heads. I said, “But we really weren’t paying attention at the time. Jack Nebel was—”

Moody looked at me and squinted, his expression inviting me to say more.

“That’s the senator’s son,” I said. “When George and I were about to walk down here, he was just coming up the stairs.”

The detective grunted.

The remaining uniformed officer had walked away from us and stood at the dock’s edge, looking out over the river.

A crime-scene investigator and evidence technician arrived. “What have we got?” Moody was asked.

“Apparent accident,” he replied. “But you’d better get the scene on the record.”

The CSI motioned for the EMTs to come from where they’d been sitting on pilings a dozen feet from the body. “Give us a few minutes,” he said, taking a camera from a shoulder bag and quickly shooting a series of shots of the body from various angles, and wider photos of the dock area and bottom of the stairs. The evidence tech, a young woman with red hair piled high on her head, and with silver fingernails the length of small knives, used a flashlight to search the area surrounding the deceased.

I realized I’d forgotten that George was there. He’d said nothing, content to have lighted his pipe and to quietly puff away a respectful distance from the deceased. He stood next to the Aquasport fishing boat tied to the dock. I joined him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” I looked over the side of the boat and saw that there was a thin layer of water surrounding the center console; someone’s shoes had left footprints in it.

“Oh, my,” I said.

“What?”

“Whoever last took this boat out was terribly careless tying it up.” I pointed to one of two lines wrapped around cleats on the dock. “They didn’t even knot it. It wouldn’t take much to have it slip away.”

“Good thing you spotted it,” he said.

“I’ve tied up my share of boats in Cabot Cove,” I said.

“It appears that you have,” he said.

I saw that whoever had last used the Aquasport also hadn’t bothered to tip the boat’s single outboard engine up out of the water. I moved to the transom at the stern, grabbed the gunwale with one hand to steady myself, and stretched as far as I could with the other to allow my fingertips to touch the engine.

“What are you doing?” George asked in a whisper.

“It’s warm,” I said in an equally quiet voice. “It’s been used recently.”

Our attention returned to where the evidence technicians were completing their examination of the scene.

“Anything?” Moody asked the female tech.

“
Nada
,” she replied. “Zip.”

“You finished?” Moody asked the CSI.

“Yup.”

Moody said to the EMTs, “Turn her over, please.”

We watched as an EMT slowly, gently turned Nikki’s body over, careful to position her so that her face would not come in contact with a pool of blood that had formed. His colleague placed a white towel beneath her cheek.

“Nasty-looking,” Moody said, referring to a four-inch laceration on the back of her head, running from the midline up into the hair on her scalp.

George leaned closer and said, “Hmm.”

I turned to him.

“It’s vertical,” he said in a voice so low I could barely hear him.

Moody heard him and said, “The laceration?”

“Yes,” said George. “Hard to see how her fall would have resulted in a vertical wound.”

Moody shrugged. “You never can tell how somebody’s going to fall.”

“True,” said George, “but still . . .” He circumvented the body and closely examined the edges of the bottom three stairs, lightly running fingertips over them.

“I hate to disturb you, Inspector,” Moody said, “but do you mind telling me what you’re doing?” When George started to respond, the detective added, “I know you’re some sort of an inspector in England, but if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon you not intrude.”

“Of course,” George said, straightening and smiling. “It’s just that the edges of the steps are rounded, worn, not sharp. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well, I noticed that, too,” Moody said defensively. “I also noticed there’s no blood on those edges.” He stared down at the victim before turning to his officers. “Let’s wrap this up,” Moody commanded. “Get the body to the ME’s office. Until—and unless—the ME says otherwise, I’m calling this an unfortunate accident.” He said to us, “Go on up to the house. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You know everybody at the party?”

“No,” I said. “We met quite a few, but there are some we weren’t introduced to.”

“Do me a favor and tell everybody to cool it until I get there. You get a roomful of movers and shakers like this, they tend to get nasty.”

“We’ll do our best,” I said, catching a sly smile from George out of the corner of my eye. As we slowly ascended the stairs, the second trip for me, George said, “Remind me, Jessica, to keep my thoughts to myself around Detective Moody.”

“Even if your thoughts make sense?” I asked, my legs getting heavy again as we neared the top.

“Perhaps. The detective is right, of course. Unless the medical examiner says otherwise, you can’t really question his accident finding.”

“But?”

“But if it
was
a fatal accident, it’s one of the stranger ones I’ve come across in my career.”

I wasn’t sure what to expect when we arrived back up at the house. I had visions of the serving people continuing to pour drinks, in some cases for people who simply wanted them, in others to mollify guests’ anger at being detained. I was right on both counts.

The Ohio congressman I’d seen on C-SPAN, whose name had eventually come to me—James Barzelouski—was ranting to the uniformed officer about being held “captive” as George and I walked through the French doors. “I’m a U.S. congressman, dammit!” he shouted at the young cop, who showed admirable restraint, gently but firmly reminding the congressman that there had been a tragic death, and that he was under orders that no one leave until Detective Moody had had a chance to speak with everyone.

George and I spotted two vacant forest-green leather wing chairs near where the bar continued to function, and took them. I did a fast mental count of people in the room: thirty-four, which according to my rough calculation meant that a half dozen people or so were missing, including Senator Nebel.

The female member of Congress at the party, who represented a district in California, came to where we sat and surprised me by perching on the arm of my chair. “Can you believe it?” she said. She was an attractive short woman with close-cropped coal-black hair and dancing green eyes.

“We haven’t met,” I said, and made the introductions. Her name was Gail Marshall-Miner.

“I’ve read a number of your books,” she said. “And enjoyed them very much.”

“Thank you.”

We all looked to where Ohio Congressman Barzelouski continued to berate the officer.

“Someone ought to tell Barzelouski there’s no camera on him,” she said. “He’s always making speeches.”

“I’m sure he understands the necessity of staying here,” I said.

“That oaf doesn’t understand anything,” she replied. “He gives Congress a bad name. He’s only interested in hearing himself talk or getting attention in the media. Most people in Congress are hardworking and dedicated to the public good. But a few bombastic idiots spoil our reputation and defame the whole house.”

I found it odd that the topic of conversation that interested her at the moment was her perception of the United States Congress. The only thing on my mind was the death that had occurred that evening. George sensed what I was thinking, because he changed the subject by asking, “Did you know Ms. Farlow well?”

Ms. Marshall-Miner smiled and replied, “No, I didn’t. I don’t have much contact with Senator Nebel’s office.”

But you were one of two members of the House invited to his party
, I thought.
Why?

As though she read my thoughts, she added, “We’re personal friends.”

“Does he throw parties like this very often?” George asked.

“Warren?” Ms. Marshall-Miner laughed. “He loves to entertain. It’s a shame his wife doesn’t.”

“She’s not feeling well, I was told,” I said.

“Not unusual,” the pretty elected official on the arm of my chair said. “Patricia is . . . How shall I put it? She’s delicate. Excuse me. I see they’re still serving drinks.”

We watched her go to the bar, where she ignored the bartender, took a bottle of whiskey, poured some into a tumbler, added a few ice cubes, and crossed the room to where others had gathered in anticipation of Detective Moody’s arrival. He walked in less than a minute later. Barzelouski sidled up to him and proclaimed loudly, “I’m a United States congressman. I have other official appointments this evening, and I’ll be damned if I’ll have some tinhorn cop tell me I can’t keep them.”

The room grew quiet as everyone strained to hear what the detective’s response would be. Moody, whose height and physical presence were more pronounced in the room’s bright lights, stared at the congressman for what seemed an eternity. Finally he said in a low, well-modulated voice, “I suggest you get out of my face, sir. This isn’t Congress, and you are not in charge—of anything! Sit down!”

I wanted to applaud, as I was certain others would have done, too, if it hadn’t been inappropriate under the circumstances.

“What’s your name?” Barzelouski asked, his voice less robust than before.

Moody smiled, pulled a card from the breast pocket of his shirt, and handed it to Barzelouski. “You can take that chair over there,” he said, pointing to one against a wall. The congressman paused as though deciding what to do and say next. He answered those questions by saying nothing, and strutting to where Moody had instructed him to go, where he sulked.

“Can I please have your attention?” Moody asked.

“Is she really dead?” a woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

The woman cried, and was comforted by a man I assumed was her husband.

“I won’t keep you longer than necessary,” Moody told us. “As you know, there’s been an unfortunate death down at the dock, a woman who’d been with you at the party. The assumption at this point is that she’s the victim of an accident.”

“ ‘Assumption’?” Richard Carraway said. “What else could it be?”

Moody ignored the comment. He said, “I need to have your names, addresses, and phone numbers before you leave. If you’re visiting Washington, I’d appreciate knowing where you’re staying, and where you’ll be going once you leave. I don’t know if I’ll need to contact any of you again, but that might be necessary—depending upon the outcome of our investigation.”

Barzelouski jumped up and said, “Fine. I’m Ohio Congressman James Barzelouski. Here’s my card.” He tossed it at the feet of Detective Moody and turned toward the door.

“Please detain the congressman,” Moody instructed the uniformed officers.

“Get out of my way,” Barzelouski snarled at the officer who stepped in his path. The officer was considerably taller and bulkier than the congressman, and stood his ground.

Moody turned his back on them. “Please give the information I requested to the officers,” he said. “You’re then free to go.”

People lined up, many with business cards in their hands. George and I stayed where we were. Because we were visitors to Washington, we felt it appropriate to wait until the city’s residents had provided what Moody wanted, and were allowed to leave.

The process took ten minutes. Once the room had cleared out, Moody came to where we sat. “I know you two are visitors,” he said. “Where are you staying?”

“The Willard,” I said.

“I’m at the Westin Hotel,” George said. “I believe it’s in the area known as Foggy Bottom.”

“Yup, that’s where it is,” Moody said, noting our responses in a small pad. “Nice places. You live good.”

We said nothing.

“Mind staying around a little bit?”

“For what reason?” George asked.

“Well, since it was you who discovered the body, and because you’re a famous mystery writer, and you’re a Scotland Yard detective, maybe I can learn something. You’re never too old to learn.”

“We’ll be happy to help in any way we can,” I said.

“May we go out to the terrace?” George asked, his pipe cradled in his hand. “I’d like to smoke where I won’t disturb anyone.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll find you when I need you.”

We excused ourselves from the detective and went to the terrace, where George lit his pipe and took a few satisfied puffs, looking up into the night sky. A breeze ruffled my hair and George moved to my other side to keep the blue smoke from his pipe from drifting in my direction. As we stood there, the medical technicians brought Nikki Farlow’s body up from the dock. It wasn’t easy for them to navigate the narrow, winding stairs, but they eventually reached the top and passed close to us, disappearing out of view around the corner of the house.

“How sad,” I said, “to see an attractive, intelligent woman’s life end so suddenly and harshly.”

“Had you gotten to know her, Jessica?” George asked.

“No, not at all. I’d had correspondence with her concerning the trip to Washington, and we’d spoken on the phone a few times. We rode together in the limousine here and she told me a little bit about herself. The senator had evidently met her in Chicago during a fund-raising trip and hired her to be his chief of staff. She seemed preoccupied with the details of the evening and the week coming up, so we didn’t talk very long.”