A Vote for Murder (8 page)

“I don’t know what the schedule calls for, but I intend to make time for us to have more than one dinner while we’re in Washington.”

“Sleep tight, my dear.”

The driver opened the door and I started to get out. George touched my shoulder. I turned and said, “Yes?”

“While you’re protecting Mrs. Nebel’s fragile nature, just remember one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s entirely possible that Ms. Farlow was not the victim of her own clumsiness. If so, it also means that someone with whom we spent time tonight saw to it that she didn’t live to come back up those stairs.”

I know he didn’t mean to plant that grim thought in my mind. Actually the thought had been there all along. But any hope of falling asleep quickly in my suite went by the wayside, and it wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning that I finally dozed off.

Despite my lack of sleep, I awoke surprisingly refreshed. I stayed in bed a few extra minutes after receiving my wake-up call, propped on one elbow and peering out the window into a gray morning. An occasional raindrop hit the windowpane; I was glad I’d thought to pack rain gear along with my extra pair of comfortable walking shoes.

I called room service and ordered tea, an English muffin, and tomato juice, and turned on the TV. The local CNN outlet was in a commercial break. When the anchor came back on the screen, a photo of Nikki Farlow appeared to the right of her head.

“In what appears to have been a tragic accident, Nikki Farlow, Maine Senator Warren Nebel’s chief of staff, was found dead last night at the foot of stairs leading down to the senator’s dock on the Potomac, presumably from a fall.” The television image switched to a view of the dock, obviously taken from a boat on the water. The camera panned up the winding staircase to the bluff on top where the Nebel terrace began. The angle made the stairs look especially precarious. In a voice-over, the anchor continued: “Ms. Farlow, thirty-nine, had been attending a dinner party at the senator’s McLean, Virginia, estate with others involved in a literacy campaign championed by the senator’s wife, Patricia. Ms. Farlow had worked for Senator Nebel for the past two years, and had a reputation as an especially capable legislative aide. Detective Joe Moody of the Fairfax County police, who was in charge of the scene at the senator’s sprawling home, told reporters this morning that while Ms. Farlow’s death is considered an unfortunate accident, there is an ongoing investigation into circumstances surrounding her fall and the condition of the staircase. No charges have been made at this time.” The image next to the anchor’s head now showed a campaign photo of Warren Nebel. “Senator Nebel issued a statement, praising his aide as a ‘brilliant administrator whose savvy political observations and tireless efforts on legislation will be sorely missed,’ and said he extended his most heartfelt sympathies to her family and friends. In the wake of Ms. Farlow’s death, there have been suggestions that there was more between Senator Nebel and his chief of staff than a professional relationship. CNN was unable to confirm those allegations. There has been no further statement from the senator’s office.”

Her mention of a possible romantic link between the senator and the deceased was dismaying at best, and personally distasteful. There was no need to bring that up, and I now understood Nebel having summoned his press aide to the house shortly after the discovery of the body. Was there any truth to the rumor? Speculation about his extracurricular activities in Washington had floated around Cabot Cove, but nothing concrete had ever surfaced, nor had the name Nikki Farlow been attached to those rumors. One thing was certain: Along with the glory and power of elected office came a parallel scrutiny of your personal life, real and imagined.

The morning newspaper had been delivered along with breakfast, and I scanned it for coverage of Ms. Farlow’s death. It was on page four, a short item that stuck to the who, what, why, where, and when of the story, no mention of possible romantic ties between the senator and Nikki.

My suite in the Willard, besides being lavishly decorated in Newport cottage style with white-painted furniture accented with blue lines, plush carpeting, a wall filled with stunning prints, and a glorious view of Washington through windows that actually opened, was also fully equipped as an office away from home. After eating breakfast and showering, I sat at the large desk and went over that day’s itinerary. I was faced with a second breakfast at eight-thirty at the Library of Congress, hosted by the Librarian of Congress, Dr. Lester. That would be followed by a tour of the library, and a luncheon in the Senate dining room on Capitol Hill. The afternoon was taken up with another tour, this one of Congress, and then meetings with members of that body involved with the literacy program. Finally, we were to attend a dinner that night at a restaurant on the city’s waterfront.

Whew!

I took heart that the note next to the evening’s scheduled dinner read,
Optional.
Hopefully George’s evening would be flexible and we could hook up for a quiet dinner for two.

I’d hoped to walk to the Library of Congress that morning, but the rain, coupled with the library’s distance from the hotel, made me think twice about it. I

went to the lobby, where I indulged myself a few minutes to soak in the stunning restoration of this historic beaux arts hotel’s public spaces. Its history went back more than 150 years, its rooms, suites, and bars and restaurants stomping grounds for world leaders, generals, poets, office seekers, inventors, and presidents of the United States. After being shuttered for eighteen years, it was restored to its original glory and reopened in 1986 to the delight of Washingtonians, many of whom consider it as important a monument as the Washington and Lincoln memorials.

The friendly doorman hailed a taxi for me, and I soon found myself going through an elaborate security system at the main entrance to the library’s newest building, the Madison, one of three housing the LC’s huge collection of the world’s wisdom. My bag was thoroughly searched, and the jewelry I’d chosen for the day set off the machine. But the guards were friendly, and I was soon waved through. Dr. Lester had mentioned at the party that the security apparatus was as much for keeping bad people with bad things out of the buildings as it was for keeping others from leaving with books not belonging to them. I would find upon leaving that scrutiny of me would be as stringent as when I entered.

I was directed to the first-floor Office of Public Affairs, where we’d been told to congregate, and joined the writers Marsha Jane Grane, Karl von Miller, Bill Littlefield, and others involved with the schedule. Niceties were exchanged, but talk soon turned to the events of the previous night.

“It certainly was a dramatic ending to an otherwise pleasant evening,” von Miller said.

“I’m sure the ‘drama’ of it wasn’t lost on you, Jessica,” Marsha Jane Grane said.

“I can do without drama of that sort,” I said.

“So typically Washington,” Littlefield said. “Did you catch CNN this morning? Looks like the senator might have had an interest in Ms. Farlow beyond their official duties.”

The public affairs specialist, Eleanor Atherton, a lively middle-aged woman with a bright smile, loudly cleared her throat before saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, might I suggest that we all would be better served if we refrain from discussing what happened last night at the senator’s house? It will undoubtedly be a delicate subject around here for the next few days.”

“ ‘Next few days’?” Ms. Grane said, incredulous. “Do rumors evaporate that fast in Washington?”

“There’ll be a new and better one to take its place before we know it,” von Miller offered.

“I’m afraid you’re probably right,” the PR woman said, shaking her head. “But in the meantime you know the saying, ‘The walls have ears.’ We wouldn’t want a casual comment to end up in the press.”

My colleagues and I glanced over our shoulders and around the room to see if anyone was listening at the door. Ms. Atherton continued: “On a happier note, it’s time now for our breakfast with Dr. Lester. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, the food
and
Dr. Lester’s remarks. He’s delighted you’re here.”

We were led to an upper floor and ushered into Dr. Lester’s spacious office, where the Librarian of Congress awaited our arrival. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases dominated two walls; a large rotating globe stood in front of one of them. There was a television set, a small, round conference table, and two distinct seating areas, three blue leather chairs with wooden arms on the opposite side of the desk, the other a group of tan leather furniture. Sliding glass doors led to a terrace, but the inclement weather precluded enjoying views of the city from that vantage point.

He made a point of greeting each of us personally before suggesting we go to a conference room in which the conference table had been replaced by smaller tables covered with white tablecloths, and set with silverware and dishes bearing the library’s official seal. I’d expected to meet Patricia Nebel there that morning, but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead her daughter, Christine, stood just inside the door and assumed her mother’s role as hostess. Each table seated six people; Dr. Lester, Christine, Karl von Miller, Eleanor Atherton, and a woman introduced as Lester’s congressional liaison joined me at my table.

“How is your mother feeling?” I asked Christine.

“Not very well,” she replied.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Will she be up to joining us later in the day?”

“I really don’t know,” she said, turning to Lester and expressing her mother’s regret at not being able to attend the breakfast.

“With all the work that wonderful woman has done to launch the literacy initiative,” Lester said, “I think she’s entitled to some time off.” He took in the table and asked, “Don’t you agree?”

We unanimously did.

Although we’d been admonished to not bring up the accident at Senator Nebel’s home the previous evening, Dr. Lester obviously hadn’t received that advice. “I had to leave early, but I heard what happened last night at your house, Christine,” he said. “Dreadful. Truly tragic. My condolences to your family.”

“Mrs. Fletcher discovered the body,” von Miller said between bites of fruit salad.

“It must have been shocking,” Lester said.

“Perhaps for most,” said von Miller, “but Mrs. Fletcher has a long and distinguished career writing about murder. Perhaps not as much of a shock to her as for us mere mortals.”

Everyone looked at me for a response. I shook my head and said, “Writing about murder and coming upon a victim are quite different. Of course,” I added, “you’re assuming that Miss Farlow was a victim of murder. As far as the police are concerned, it was an unfortunate accident.”

“Do you agree with them?” Lester’s congressional liaison asked. She was a middle-aged woman with a pretty oval face, whose intense expression indicated that she was vitally interested in everything you thought and said.

“I have no reason to disagree,” I replied, attacking my fruit salad.

Von Miller, who seemed pleased that the prohibition on bringing up Nikki Farlow’s death had been lifted by Dr. Lester, asked Christine, “Have you talked to your father about the accident, Christine?” His emphasis on the word
accident
made it clear he believed it was anything but an accident.

Nebel’s daughter looked for a moment as though she might begin to cry. With her eyes fixed on the table, she said, “I haven’t spoken with him about it. Obviously he’s extremely upset. Nikki was one of his closest aides.”

Ms. Atherton smoothly and quickly changed the subject by suggesting to her boss, the Librarian of Congress, that he might give everyone at the table a hint at what that morning’s tour would encompass. Lester, delighted to pick up the conversational baton, went through a long and detailed explanation of the areas we’d be taken to within the vast LC complex. He was a man clearly in love with his job as overseer of the world’s largest repository of information, and spoke with great animation about the various divisions of the library and their importance as a resource for researchers. “We have material in almost five hundred languages,” he proudly said, “and we have offices in Rio, Cairo, New Delhi, and numerous other countries throughout the world, including acquisition offices in Moscow and Tokyo. You probably know that the library was founded by Thomas Jefferson more than one hundred and fifty years ago. It’s critically important that our work continue for the sake of mankind and its continuing quest for knowledge, and an understanding not only of where we came from, but also of what possibilities exist for the future.” He smiled and added, “Of course, that takes money. The term
librarian
is a misnomer for me, I’m afraid. I spend most of my time not with historic books but going over the library’s financial books with Congress. With four thousand employees to pay, the upkeep on the three buildings, and trying to catalog electronically more than a million items in the back rooms that haven’t even been examined yet, it takes a lot of money.”

“Fortunately, there are members of Congress who believe in what we do and fight for funding every year,” said his PR woman. “Senator Nebel is certainly one of those.”

Lester looked at Christine and said, “Yes, you can be proud of the fight your father wages every year to see to it that we have the necessary funds to continue our work.”

“Dad believes in it,” Christine said quietly. “I know that for certain.”

When breakfast was finished and the tables had been cleared, Lester went to the end of the room and gave a short speech, which sounded more like a pitch for funds than a simple welcoming address. At the conclusion we headed off on our tour, which took an hour and ended up in the main reading room. Our guide, Ms. Atherton, who invited us to call her Eleanor, pointed up to a domed ceiling, 160 feet high; a female figure in its cupola represented human understanding, she told us. Surrounding the figure were a dozen other paintings saluting those countries that had contributed most to the development of Western civilization.