Death of a Washington Madame (28 page)

"And then there were none," Fiona said aloud to
herself. She was sitting in her den, sipping scotch and trying to empty the
Shipley case from her head.

"Can't live a lie," she said, hearing her words
in the dead silence of the room. She reached for the phone and dialed Daisy's
number, surprised when she heard her friend's chirpy voice, the echo of another
world.

"I caught myself talking to myself," Fiona said.
"You were my last hope. I was afraid you were out on your appointed
rounds."

"Bob is. I'm home imagining things," Daisy said.

"Like what?"

"Him in the sack. Disgusting flashes depicting him in
the pursuit position, while she, whoever she is, pushes against his office
door."

"Great image, Daisy."

"I thought so. Frankly I'd rather be the doo-ee."

"I'm depressed enough without confronting your depression.
It's either Prozac or you baby."

"Damn it Fi. Marry the man. See the world. Get laid on
the Pacific rim."

"I sent him away, Daisy," Fiona said. She held
her glass up to the light, studied the amber fluid, then took a deep sip and
suffered through the long silence.

"Don't you ever act in your own interest, you
idiot?" Daisy rebuked. "What am I going to do with you? It's that job
of yours, Fi. All those bodies. You're too much into death. Life is what you
should be thinking about. Specifically yours."

"I couldn't have handled it, Daisy," Fiona said.
"Too much like politics. Kissy assy stuff. I saw what it did it my
Mom."

"Land sakes, Fi. Not that song again. You've got to
stop carrying around your mother's baggage. It's a different world now."

"I wouldn't measure up to Hal's expectations. I'd be
living a lie." She thought suddenly of Deb Shipley, Roy Parker, William
and Madeline. "There are dues to be paid for that."

"Big deal. So you pay them." Daisy admonished.
"I pay them every day. I'm paying them now. Hell, I render unto Caesar
what Caesar expects me to render."

"And to God?"

"Oh you're so theological. You want my
interpretation?"

"Can I stop it from coming?"

"No way. God means you, inside you. Your private
little place. Soul might be a good word. Caesar is the rest of our life outside
our soul. Caesar is the life I show Bob. All the joy in the material, the
visible, the social baloney, the kids, the home and hearth stuff, the in-house
screwing and sucking. But in that secret place, that juicy spot where all the
fantasies are kept, those private little joys, those sweet little
indiscretions, the secret wantings, needings, dreamings, and doings. Nobody
touches that. Nobody."

"I hate to say this, Daisy."

"Say what?"

"You're a lot smarter than you act."

"I know."

Of course, in their lifelong friendship Daisy had always
hewed to this concept of compartmentalization. She was articulating it with
more verve and eloquence as she grew older. Her little lessons in life always
made sense to Fiona. Unfortunately, she could never put them into practice.

"I wish I had your balls, Daisy," Fiona sighed.

"It's not my balls you need, Fi."

"So you think I did wrong with Hal?" Fiona said.
It wasn't advice she was seeking, nor validation, nor opposition. She knew
Daisy's attitude and answers in advance.

"For me, Fi. I can make compromises for love. You
can't seem to take that leap."

"Then what's out there for me, Daisy?" Fiona
said, the bantering spirit gone, her voice choking with emotion. She felt
suddenly engulfed in a tidal wave of self-pity.

"There I go again, making it worse."

"Not you. Daisy. Never you."

Fiona hung up; fighting the temptation to call Hal, she
poured herself another drink.

In these moods, Fiona knew she was helpless in any attempt
to control her thought processes. Alcohol instead of numbing her imagination
seemed to expand it, taking it on roller coaster journeys through wild
speculations and uncharted possibilities.

Decisions made under the influence were often
second-guessed and rejected as wishful or just wrong-headed when sober. But in
recycling events and conversations, she was often struck by revelations buried
in the heat of the moment.

Her encounter with Madeline was, in retrospect, a stunning
example of the persuasive power of personality. She had approached both
Madeline and Clayton in the spirit of pursuit and had ended the encounter in
total capitulation.

She tried to reconstruct Madeline's dialogue, actually the
monologue, attempting to divorce it from its considerable persuasive
properties. Yet even when the words were put into the bin of memory, devoid of
human embellishment, they revealed little that would change her opinion. Then
why torture oneself with uncertainty?

Nothing about human relationships ever fit into a neat
little package and this case was no exception. Despite the gaping hole of Roy's
disappearance, Madeline's logic was inescapable and certainly believable.

But where was Roy? Her original scenario had him setting
off on the mission he had proposed earlier, namely squirreling away the erotic
pictures he had painted of Deb from the prying eyes of those who were sure to
over-run the house. Madeline hadn't mentioned the pictures, which meant that
she didn't believe them relevant to the historical fiction that Deb had created
or that she didn't know about them.

The later explanation seemed to have more credence than the
former. Roy obviously had removed the pictures and stored them away in that
locked secret chamber. Chances were he had done this about the time of
William's wedding to Madeline at Deb's instructions.

It was clear that Roy had done nothing in the more than
fifty years of their hidden relationship that did not have Deb Shipley's
consent and imprimatur. She was, without doubt, the instigator of the events
surrounding the creation of the myth. Roy was the tool, an implement, used
strictly in accordance with the plan. One had to assume that he loved the
woman, worshipped her in fact, to the point where he could be manipulated to do
just about anything Deb Shipley wanted.

Did she love him? A crowd of maybes spiraled into her mind.
In her way, perhaps. Did she, Fiona, love Hal? In her way, perhaps. But in that
secret juicy self-centered place that Daisy had referred to ... nobody touched
that. Nobody!

She pushed aside the psychological speculation and directed
her thoughts back to the tangible and the material.

She had assumed the obvious. That Roy had returned to the
house. She tried to put herself in his place. It was true he had no place to
go. This was the only home he had known for most of his life.

On the other hand, that part of his life was over. It was
time to move on. Then why would he have returned to the house? Why didn't he
take the car and move on? But then Roy was not a man to be invested with the
common logic of self-interest. Just the opposite. His life was a living
testimony to self-sacrifice.

Could it be that Roy had, indeed, come back to the house?
Saw the moving people, then took off on his own on foot. No way, she decided.
In his condition, where could he go?

She was driving toward the Shipley house in moments,
hastily dressed, admonishing herself for her naiveté. Roy was the only living
source of confirmation of William's strange background and Deb's monumental
deception. If one wanted to forever end all possibilities of proof than there
was only one clear path.

It was nearly one and the streets were empty of traffic.
Fiona was able to reach the Shipley residence in less than fifteen minutes.

She wondered, too, considering that the ownership had
changed, if she had sufficient reason to enter the house without a warrant, a
violation, which would have no consequences unless she discovered something
that might validate her entry. In that case, she would have to confess to the
infraction and take the consequences. Discovered what? She shuddered at the
idea.

The front door apparently had been repaired to a degree
that prevented her from entering unless she broke it down again. She went
around to the rear of the house. The door that led from the kitchen to the
alley and the garage was also locked.

Then she tried the basement door and was surprised to find
it unlocked. It was quite possible for the moving people to have overlooked it.
Letting herself in, she tried the light switches. They were disconnected, an
ominous sign. She rummaged in her shoulder bag for the small flashlight that
was part of her regular equipment.

Throwing the beam in front of her, she walked quietly up to
the first floor. It was empty of all furniture now. The great room was a vast
barn like area, a musty relic of the past. A tremor of fear engulfed her as she
walked through the other rooms on the first level, not the irrational terror of
the supernatural. More like the fear generated by the knowledge of mortality
and the eerie truth that decay was in store for everything and everybody.

Inspecting each room, she peeked into closets and
cupboards, finding most of them either strewn with castoff odds and ends, the
residue of years. The second level, including Deb's bedroom and William's boy's
room were also denuded of furniture and wall hangings. Closed cartons, probably
containing old clothes and other useless items, were piled to one side of the
room awaiting donation to one cause or another.

All in all, the house contained an inventory that Madeline
had consigned to oblivion. Finishing her cursory inspection, she started down
the steps. The expedition, she realized, was the product of an overheated
imagination, unsatisfying in its result. Wild suspicion had taken her to an
obvious dead end.

Sitting on the bottom step of the now empty vestibule once
graced by a rock crystal chandelier, she heard a distant sound. Her heartbeat
accelerated, pounded in her chest. Freezing in position, she concentrated,
switching off the flashlight. The sound was coming from the basement.

Standing up cautiously, she moved to the basement entrance
door under the staircase, the same one that Roy had used to bring them to the
wine cellar. She noted that it was open slightly. Putting her ear into the
space of the opening, she could hear the sound clearly. Plodding footsteps were
moving at a slow pace along the basement corridor below.

She tried to analyze the sound and it was only when she
heard the grunt of effort and heavy breathing that she decided that someone
carrying a great burden was moving toward the basement stairs. She moved
directly across the corridor from the basement entrance, flattening herself
against the wall, losing herself in the darkness.

Removing the pistol from her holster, she clicked off the
safety and pointed the gun at the basement entrance. Her other hand held the
unlit flashlight.

The footsteps moved from the basement corridor to the
wooden staircase making hollow sounds as they moved upward. The hard breathing
became clearer. The door creaked fully open.

She clicked on the flashlight and pointed the pistol.

"Freeze," she cried, pointing the beam.

The man was so startled; he dropped his burden, which made
a thunderous sound that echoed through the house. He wore a woolen cap pulled
low over his forehead, a black sweater and jeans. She moved toward him and
pulled off his hat.

"You!" Fiona cried.

Her gaze met the terror stricken eyes of William Shipley.

"For crying out loud, shut that off," he cried.

"Sorry. Governor," Fiona said, moving the beam to
outline the body on the floor. It took only a brief glimpse to confirm the
identity of the body.

"It's not what you think," Shipley said. "I
can explain."

"Of course you can," Fiona sneered, still locked
in the incomprehensible shock of recognition.

"Are you alone?" Shipley asked, his eyes shifting
and blinking in search of focus.

Fiona hesitated for a moment, weighing alternatives.

"Yes," she said, keeping her pistol leveled.
"I'm alone."

"Good," Shipley nodded. "You need to know
everything. Then you can decide how to handle it."

Fiona cuffed William to the banister and cursorily
inspected Roy's corpse. The hair at the back of his head was matted with dried
blood, which had apparently been caused by a blow from a blunt instrument. She
felt secure enough with him cuffed to the banister to listen to what he had to
say.

"I wouldn't miss this for the world, Governor."

"I know you'll understand," he said, his voice
oddly confident, his manner calm. She leaned against the wall watching him, his
face visible only by the flat light of a half-moon filtering through the cut
glass panels beside the door.

"Before you do ... Governor," she said. From
memory she read him his rights.

"By the book is it?" he said. He seemed to smile
but she wasn't sure. He brushed the fingers of his free hand through his hair.

"Messy thing, the law," she sighed theatrically.
"It does interfere with one's personal agenda."

She looked toward the crumpled body of Roy Parker and only
then did it occur to her that this man, this probable murderer sitting before
her, was the man's son. God, she thought. Patricide! To her, remembering her
own father and the love she bore for him, it was a crime beyond infamy.

"I'm glad it's you, FitzGerald," Shipley said.
"The daughter of a Senator. You can understand the power of
ambition." He drew in a deep breath. "It was mother's milk to me. I
was never weaned from it. From the moment of memory it has been my life force.
Every mother's son can be President of the United States. Remember that old chestnut.
Mother took it one step further if that was possible..."

"What's that got to do with.... with Roy," Fiona
interjected, determined to speed up the process. A killer always had
justification for his act. She had spent eons listening to these bizarre
confessions.

From where she stood, his eyes looked like deep hollows,
his face oddly cadaverous in that light and for the first time she saw the
resemblance to Roy, a resemblance that would certainly deepen with age.

She tried to remember the color of Roy's eyes, deep set
behind high knobby cheekbones, the color barely memorable. It was probably good
fortune that William had inherited his mother's blondish coloring, the vivid
cerulean eyes that Fiona remembered from her childhood, the strong clefted
chin, the lightly freckled skin. Roy's dark brooding visage had not been passed
down as paternal evidence in childhood and youth. Only in old age, if Shipley
ever arrived there, would the paternity be validated visually.

"People have secrets, FitzGerald," Shipley said,
his voice's timbre echoing through the room, reminding her of his magnificent
eulogy to Gloria Carpenter. "He was going to tarnish the memory of my
mother."

Fiona was confused, her expectation of his confession
challenged.

"He threatened us with an exposure that was
unacceptable."

"Us?"

"Madeline and me. He made allegations that mother was
... was a whore, that she had used her ... her body, along with her influence,
as barter to further my early career. He said he had evidence. Can you just see
such evidence spread over the world tabloids? You might argue it wouldn't
affect my so-called image, but the fact is that it would project me in the
public mind as ... well ... tainted goods. In today's climate it could risk the
end of the dream."

P.R. again, Fiona mused. The politician's obsession with
his public persona. It had always struck her as a destructive force. Now she
was bearing witness to the full extent of its power.

"And you discussed this with Madeline?" she
asked.

He looked up. She assumed his expression registered
surprise.

"Of course. Madeline is my partner in this."

"What exactly did Roy want?" Fiona asked, oddly
puzzled by this new vantage, so different than what she had learned from Roy
and Madeline.

"A great deal. It was blackmail. He had blackmailed me
for years." Shipley paused and moved his head. The light of the half moon
caught the reflection of moisture, tears glistening his cheeks.

"Go on."

He sucked in a deep breath and continued. Fiona watched
him, mesmerized by this new unbelievable revelation, anxious to know where it
would lead and how it could be deciphered.

"I told him that it could not go on like this. There
was a great deal at stake, you see. Madeline agreed. With mother gone, it was
time to wipe the slate clean. We agreed to meet. Tonight. Here. Tomorrow, you
see, the house would be turned over to the architects. Madeline has visions of
contributing the house to some worthy cause. Perhaps something to do with the
protection of animals. Something to commemorate her name. Mother loved animals,
you know, especially dogs. You've seen the pet cemetery behind the
house...."

"So you met tonight?"

She saw his head bob, assuming it was a nod. He coughed,
cleared his throat.

"He ... he did not want to end it. Not him. He was too
canny for that. Oh no. He was going to hold mother's reputation and my future
for a King's Ransom."

"And you fought?"

"Not at first. I was determined to be conciliatory. I
agreed to all his demands, but on the condition that this ended it once and for
all."

"He would give you the so-called evidence and you
would give him the money?"

"Exactly," Shipley said. "Now I know why
you're such a great detective, FitzGerald. You have insight."

"Thank you."

She waited through a long pause. He had all the attributes
of a politician's glib resiliency. It was fascinating to observe.

"And then?"

"Yes.... then. He became angry, abusive."

"And you struck him?"

"No. He struck me first."

"With his hands?"

"Oh no. He had a hammer. We fought, rolled on the
floor here. I wrestled away the hammer and.... I had to. I had no choice."

"You struck him and he fell?"

"I had no choice."

It amazed her. His sincerity. His performance.

"Bravo," Fiona said, clapping her hands.

"What are you doing?"

"Let me finish this wonderful scenario," Fiona
said.

"You couldn't believe your eyes. You bent down, felt
his pulse. You'd killed him. Actually killed him. But you panicked. What to do?
What to do? You remembered the wine cellar. You carried him down there. Then
you sat for a long time contemplating any future action. Leave him there or
find a way to dispose of the body. After all, it was self-defense. Finally, you
decided...."

"I went outside, found a phone. I couldn't use my car
phone. I had to speak to Madeline. Madeline knows how to handle these things.
She was right. It was the only decision, we could make. After all, he struck me
first. But I couldn't risk exposure. You must understand that FitzGerald."

"And the purpose of this.... this concoction."

"Concoction?"

"However you put it, Governor Shipley."

She again waited through a long silence, but this time she
didn't prod him forward.

"Could be worth millions, FitzGerald. Think hard about
this. To you." His smooth glibness was wearing off. His voice grew harsh.
A hoarseness seemed to sandpaper his words. "Just between us. You said you
were alone, right? I mean use your head woman. Where will it get you to turn me
in? Roy had no relatives. There aren't any records. No credit cards. No social
security number. No bank accounts. Maybe a numbered account in some foreign place
or he had squirreled away the cash somewhere. We could get rid of him and none
would be the wiser. Hell, you're a homicide detective. You must know how to
dispose of a body. What do you say?"

She looked at him, trying to penetrate him with her eyes. Her
stomach tightened with disgust. She took her flashlight and threw the beam on
Roy's body.

"You killed your father, Billy."

"My father?"

She shined the beam on his face. He squinted and lifted his
free hand to shield his eyes.

"Come now little Billy. Stop this clichéd baloney. You
knew damned well who he was. Roy needing money? Ridiculous. You knew
everything. You remembered the pictures. It was the last detail. You found him
in his bed, asleep. You woke him. You forced him to tell you that the pictures
were in the car. You took the car. Trashed the pictures somewhere. Probably
burned them. He was the last link, the last possibility that might prove
you're..."

"Don't be a fool, FitzGerald," Shipley cried.

"Am I wrong?"

"That's not the point...."

"And the way you did your mother. Your own mother.
Christ Billy. What a monster you are. But clever. You were lucky there. Found
the perfect device. A lucky strike, as they say. And, from what I saw at the
church, the other day, you're petty good at black street talk."

She studied his expression in the faint light. He seemed to
be nodding. Worse, she saw his mouth, his teeth bared in a twisted smile.

"Pretty good, don't you think?" he said.

Somehow she had expected this arrogant surrender from a man
who had found a way to dispose of both his parents. She had no expectations of
seeing him wallow in remorse. Not him.

"A superb performance, Governor. Easily a dramatic
tour de force. You certainly have all the right stuff for a President."

He chuckled lightly.

"I liked the way she went. My dear mother. That bitch.
She showed more love to her dogs. She threatened to tell the world about me,
the whole dreary story of the subterfuge. She didn't care about her own future.
Hell, she had found religion. Ultimate truth. Bull. She needed to prove to me
how much she really hated Madeline. Hell, Madeline was my ticket to the White
House. She's a magnet that woman is. Oh I might have toughed it out. But why
bother when it was so easy. Besides, what does it matter? I've illustrated the
essential point of our present condition. Our society is falling apart,
FitzGerald. Imagine how simple it was to get a fourteen year old kid like that
to perform this service for such a paltry sum." He shook his head and
clicked his tongue. "What is happening out there? Stupid little kid bought
the whole package. A little cork, a little dark, a little street talk." He
chuckled. "You couldn't prove I did it in a million years. No way."

"But she was your mother." Fiona said, appalled
by the revelation.

"So what?"

"And Roy was your father?"

"So they say."

"Science marches on Governor. There's DNA."

In the flashlight's beam, he showed little emotion. His
performance was over. Beneath the facade was.... was nothing.

Fiona held in her anger. He was right, of course. Barring a
recorded or written confession, there was no way to get him to act out his
nefarious scenario, complete with makeup, costume and language, to satisfy a
credible identification by Martine.

She watched his face in the flashlight beam, then moved the
beam so that it lit up Roy's lifeless face. The dead eyes glowed back at them.

"We can prove this one, Billy."

"What did you do with the paintings?"

"Me to know. You to find out."

He was probably right about that as well.

"And Madeline?"

"What about Madeline?"

"She'll be very disappointed, Billy. She so much
wanted to be First Lady."

"Never worry about Madeline."

A floating cloud suddenly obliterated the faint light from
the half moon.

"I would have made a great President," he said,
his voice booming into the darkness.