Death of a Washington Madame (26 page)

"I'd say about eleven thirty. Wouldn't you
Clayton?"

"That's about right Ma'am," Clayton said.

"And you didn't go out again?" Fiona asked.

Clayton shook his head.

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

"We're asking the questions, Clayton." Fiona
said, realizing how futile it was. If they were in it together, they would
naturally back up each other's story. The fact was that the only solid proof of
Clayton's involvement had to come from Martine, an identification process that
would have little or no credibility. She remembered how she had instinctively
reacted to that possibility at the Eggplant's office. "We could rattle his
cage," she had said then.

But how?

At that moment, the two people brought the painting to
floor level. Fiona could see the outline of where it had been. Obviously it had
not been removed for many years.

"Carefully now," Madeline cautioned as the two
people, each holding one end, slowly moved it toward the entrance.

"So..." Madeline said, continuing to watch the
two workers bringing the painting toward them. They would have to pass them to
get in the vestibule where Fiona could see a large wooden packing crate
awaiting the painting. "...barring any definitive evidence or witnesses, I
would expect that this inquiry is.... how can I be delicate ... insulting ...
and maybe, just maybe, legally actionable."

"We're not here to insult anyone or abridge their
rights."

"I know," Madeline said, holding up her hand like
a traffic cop gesturing a vehicle to come to a stop. "Just doing your job.
I'm sure my husband will have some ideas on how to proceed ... an action that I
hope will get the maximum response."

"She means trying to getting our asses fired,"
Gail said.

"Ah," Madeline sneered. "The balcony is
heard from. I was wondering how long that would take."

At that moment, she turned to observe the painting move
past them toward the vestibule. Fiona followed her gaze.

"Wait," Fiona shouted to the two people who were
navigating the painting to the vestibule.

"Don't listen to her," Madeline cried.

Fiona took out her badge and flashed it. The two people who
carried the picture bowed to the badge's intimidation.

Fiona studied the painting for a long moment.

"Of course," Fiona said. "That's it."

"What's it?" Gail said.

Fiona pointed to the figure's left hand, difficult to see
at a distance, but clearly visible now. It hung loosely at the figure's side,
graceful, smooth, the fingers elegantly poised ... except that the index finger
was cut off at the top knuckle, at the exact place where Roy's finger was
severed.

"Roy's message," Fiona said.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Madeline
cried.

"His finger, Mrs. Shipley. Roy's finger."

Madeline traded glances with Clayton.

"Are you crazy?" Madeline said.

Fiona shot a glance at Gail who looked equally puzzled.

"Would you prefer this to be a private talk, Mrs.
Shipley?" Fiona asked. Madeline appeared to reflect for a long moment.
Then she nodded.

"It's alright Clayton. Don't worry." Madeline
said.

"I'll explain later," Fiona assured Gail.

The two people carrying the picture, after a nod from
Fiona, continued to bear their burden into the vestibule looking completely
confused by the episode.

"The kitchen will be fine," Fiona said, leading
Madeline into the kitchen. They sat across from each other at the same table
where they had had their exchanges with Gloria and Roy.

"I don't know what this is all about," Madeline
said. She had dropped her arrogant pose, at least for the moment. Trying a new
tack, Fiona reasoned.

"It's beginning to make sense," Fiona said. She
wasn't quite sure of her ground, she admitted to herself. But there seemed no
other way to approach this, except directly. She wished Roy would come back.
She was sure, that once confronted, Roy would crumble, admit everything, and
fill in the blanks.

"Wouldn't you just love to pin something on me,
something scandalous and creepy, something that would make good fodder for the
tabloids?"

"Mrs. Shipley," Fiona began. "How much do
you know about your husband's background?"

"Everything," Madeline said. "Absolutely
everything."

"About his father?"

"Of course."

Fiona savored the idea of sudden revelation, hoping to
throw Madeline off-guard.

"The war hero who died at the Battle of the Bulge, the
one in the picture?"

"It doesn't have to be underlined Sergeant. I know all
about the young man depicted in the picture.... with Roy's finger."

"Do you?"

"Are you shocked?"

"About what?"

"Roy painted in his own finger. I know he painted the
picture. William told me. His mother hired him originally to paint portraits of
her dogs. Then he decided to stay on as a sort of Jack-of-all-trades. Is there
something sinister in that?"

"Mrs. Shipley?" Fiona asked. "Have you ever
seen a photograph of William's father."

Madeline's brows knitted and for a few moments she was deep
in thought. She seemed to be turning something over in her mind. Then,
inexplicably, she smiled.

"No I haven't."

"You don't think it's curious?"

"Curious?" She reflected for a moment. "Yes.
It's curious. But there was this magnificent picture. Perhaps Deb destroyed any
earlier pictures. People who grieve do bizarre things."

"Your point is well taken, Mrs. Shipley," Fiona
said. "It doesn't really mean anything, except to someone paranoid about
having the subject exposed to the media and all the resultant juicy coverage. A
man running for President of the United States cannot afford such exposure....
even if he's really not responsible for the events."

Madeline sighed and shook her head.

"I wish you would make yourself clear."

"I wish you could help me make it clear, Mrs. Shipley.
We'll just have to confront Roy Carpenter. He's been quite a good soldier so
far..." Fiona marveled at her odd use of words. Good soldier!

"Would you care to hear my speculation on this
subject, Mrs. Shipley?"

Madeline looked around the room as if inspecting it for
eavesdroppers.

"Just you and me Madeline," Fiona said, studying
Madeline's face. "Girl to girl." She seemed expectant, wide-eyed, her
head slightly cocked, like a dog awaiting a signal. Fiona felt confident that
she was following the right line of questioning, was on the right track.
Revealing a theory often disoriented a perpetrator.

"I'm listening," Madeline said, more composed
than Fiona had hoped she would be at this stage.

"Roy Carpenter is, in my opinion, your husband's
father," Fiona said, watching Madeline's face, which remained curiously
immobile at the revelation. It was not what Madeline had expected from an
experienced actress. Surprise, shock, perhaps, but not this cold calm visage,
devoid of expression.

"Go on," Madeline pressed.

"Deb Shipley concocted the scenario with Roy Carpenter
a willing participant. One might argue that she was ahead of her time. She
wanted this child, wanted a son, in my opinion. Her whole modus operandi, her
glittering social life, her friendships with the high and mighty, all were put
into the service of her one unalterable obsession, to construct a political
career for her son that would bring him to exactly where he is today ... at the
very apex of political life, on the verge of becoming President of the United
States."

Madeline, in another reversal of expected reaction, clapped
her hands briefly.

"Bravo," she cried. "You should write
scenarios for Hollywood."

"Am I far from the truth, Mrs. Shipley?"

"The truth is it?" She shook her head and offered
a broad spectacular smile, the mighty seductive smile that lit up the silver
screen.

"I'm sure of it."

"The one great truth," Madeline said. "The
one great truth in a mountain of lies. The needle in the haystack. The
magnificent golden kernel of truth. Find that and you have discovered the
secret of great drama, and you have touched the soul of the actor. Do you think
oh great detective that I don't know the one great truth? Do you think I would
be expending all this time, energy and treasure if I did not know it."

"You know?"

"The truth is essential to a solid marriage, Officer.
I've been through three of them. I'm an expert on the subject. Of course we
know. William has always known."

"About everything?"

"Don't look so shocked."

"Then why..."

"Where is the crime in this, FitzGerald? In an odd
way, we're victims in a cabal that took place before William was born and in an
even stranger twist of fate, he, too, became a willing participant. Yes he
knows and he also aspires to fulfill his mother's fantasy. Imagine that. He
wants to be President of the United States. There may be a crime in
that..." Madeline laughed, a real laugh, with her head thrown back, her
hair falling undone. She re-twisted it on top of her head.

"I had no idea..." Fiona began, stunned by the
revelation.

"William lived in this house. He wasn't blind and he
wasn't stupid. He was a curious little boy. He actually saw them in flagrant
delecto up there in that room. Sorry to be so crude. Apparently Deb was one hot
number and Roy, although you wouldn't know it to look at him today, must have
had the right stuff to keep that woman satisfied. Naturally, he couldn't know
for sure that Roy was his father and, for obvious reasons, he would not have
urged a blood test. Which would have meant an unwanted confrontation on the
subject. I'll say this for Deb Shipley. She was one clever bitch. Amazing how
she covered her tracks. We actually didn't know how she did it until ... well
until ... I got into the picture and we put our heads together and I began to
use some of my chits with the power boys. I must say they will do flip-flops
for us Hollywood types, especially, if they are, modestly I say this ... a
super star. I see I've got you hooked, officer."

"I admit it," Fiona said. It was, indeed, a
compelling story, told with compelling drama by a performance expert.

"It seems that Deb had this old buddy, Chester Brewer,
an assistant Secretary in the Penagon. Voila! He was in charge of personnel.
Seek and ye shall find. He found a name. Missing in Action in the Battle of the
Bulge. William Shipley, a genuine much-decorated hero with, miracle of
miracles, no relatives. An orphan in fact. Suddenly, by magic, the records
reflected a marriage to one Deb Sanders. From that came more records and in
these records, a name, William Shipley Junior and a history. No. More than a
history. A mythology. And a magnificent painting to embellish that myth. Oh we
must forgive Roy his little joke. Poor asshole probably needed something to
validate his ... assumed progeny. I'm sure they had a good laugh over it. Hell,
it did the job for more than fifty years. Still doing it in fact. Of course,
I'm having it retouched, a little finger painting."

She chuckled, smiled and continued.

"Old Chester Brewer," Fiona said. "It would
never have occurred to me."

"Probably cost her a pretty penny. But then Deb knew
the various ways one could inspire loyalty. Sometimes money. Sometime promises.
Sometimes sex. That's a talent, let me tell you."

"Takes one to know one," Fiona muttered.

"As I said old Deb was the quintessential bitch.
Against her we're all amateurs. The point of our little discreet investigation
was to be sure that when William got into a bigger arena some snot nose
reporter wouldn't dredge up the, as they say, the real truth. I'll say this for
old Deb." She glanced up suddenly, a truly believable heavenward gesture.
"Bless you, darling. The painting was one great idea." Her eyes
drifted downward. "Think of the people of power who came through that
house. There in living color was the great symbol of William's legitimacy. She
gave William one helluva Dad."

"Another lie on the resume," Fiona sighed.

"Come come, dear Fiona. People create themselves and
their histories all the time. Take little me for openers. I'm the perfect
example. My official bio is bull. You can't imagine how dull my early life was.
As for my career, how do you think I got my start?" She laughed again.
"Let your imagination run amuck. It will still not approach the actuality.
Oh I do have talent and God, by some strange twist of genetic miracle, made me
a knockout. You should have seen my parents. Ugly as sin. You know what my real
talent is. I'm, quite literally, one of the great blow job specialists in the
world. Are you shocked? Do you know how far that can get you in Hollywood?
Maybe even in your business, Fiona. I blew my way through the door. It gave me
opportunity. How was I to know that my persona on the silver screen was an
emotional explosion? It's all bull, Fiona. Oh there's shock value in Deb's
story. Big socialite keeps secret lover, issue of same is William Shipley,
candidate for President. No, we don't want it splashed across the world media.
Yes, it can seriously cheapen William's image, embellish it with ridicule and
humor, a very dangerous thing for a candidate for the highest office in the
land. My entire modus operandi is dedicated to William's image. So we public
figures tell lies. Create and recreate ourselves. Haven't you heard, Fiona?
Life's a movie and movies are a crock of lies. Bottom line to all this. So
what? Is there a crime in that?"

Her soliloquy, Fiona decided, using the appropriate term,
although cynical and certainly morally reprehensible was mesmerizing.... and
convincing.

"No crime in that," Fiona admitted.
"But..."

"Why have I spilled the beans to you?"

"Good question."

"As I've been telling you this, I've been pondering
that ... Fiona. Do you mind if I call you Fiona? As the daughter of a famous
Senator I'm hoping that you know what I'm going through. Politics is like show
business. Same driving motives. Image and emotional response moves an audience
to react. In politics that translates into votes or the perception that you can
get votes. I know I'm gambling on your discretion, but I believe you understand
completely what I've been talking about." She suddenly stopped, grew
thoughtful, and leveled her violet eyes at Fiona. "Besides, there is no
proof. Never will be. And, of course, I'll deny everything." She chuckled
"I'm also gambling that you'll buy my theory about this murder."