Death of a Washington Madame (5 page)

Time had removed much of the gloss of that first
impression. The furniture looked shoddy and there was a tomb-like feeling about
the room and a nose tingling smell of decay. She remembered how awesome and
mysterious the room had appeared to the eyes of the little girl. It was still
awesome and mysterious, but in a more haunted way, as if it had aged into
infirmity.

"Can we get you anything?" Fiona asked. The
Governor and his wife shook their heads in the negative. Both seemed stunned
and sat down side by side on a couch like grieving robots. Clayton stood
nearby, his guardian eyes in perpetual motion.

"Why ... why would anyone want to kill mother?"
Shipley asked haltingly, his expression puzzled.

"It makes no sense," Madeline sighed.

"We haven't come to that yet, Governor."

"Was it...?" Shipley swallowed, as if tamping
down hysteria. ".... Was it bad?"

"I don't think she suffered," Fiona said,
deliberately avoiding the revelation of possible rape, which surely would have
contradicted her assertion. There was no point in speculating otherwise.
"She was stabbed to death."

"Oh my God," Madeline blurted.

"We'll know more after the autopsy."

"More?" Shipley asked.

"You know," Fiona made a quick course correction.
"Time of death, nature of the weapon, how quickly ... routine
things."

"Must she have an autopsy?" Shipley asked.
"I hate to see her..."

"She's dead, Governor. She is beyond pain. But the
body has much to tell us." She was quoting Dr. Benson, her friend and
ally, the coroner, who expounded often on the eloquence of analyzed remains.

"We want her killer, William," Madeline said,
shaking her head and sighing. "What a world we live in."

"She should have moved from here long ago,"
Shipley said. "I begged her. She could have lived at our Middleburg place.
It was so.... well stupid. Take a look out there...."

"Roy said they never had any trouble. None at all.
Ever."

"Roy's an old fool," the Governor snapped with a
sudden burst of anger. "She should have gotten rid of him long ago. He's
senile for crying out loud."

"He was very devoted," Madeline said gently.
"Devotion from her retainers extremely important to her. Gloria,
too." Gloria was the maid's name.

"Too much so," the Governor muttered.

"Did you know that Marshall had died?" Fiona
asked. Gail was standing nearby, watching the scene, but not participating.

The Governor nodded.

"Roy told me that last week. They put great faith in Marshall. As is obvious from this room, mother was always a dog person." Fiona and
Gail exchanged amused glances. "Dogs, she thought, would always protect
her. Fact is that no one could come into this house without Marshall, or his
many predecessors, reacting vociferously."

"Did it concern you, Governor? I mean the fact that he
was gone. You did know about their security system?"

The Governor nodded, then shook his head.

"It was put in years ago. Frankly with Marshall gone I thought Roy would have the sense to activate it." He clicked his
tongue. "I guess mother should have reminded him. Or Gloria.... "He
sucked in a deep breath. "Or me."

"Don't tear yourself up about this William,"
Madeline said. "You can't blame yourself." She took off her
sunglasses, briefly showing her incredibly beautiful violet eyes, then put them
back on again.

The Eggplant came in. Fiona did the introductions.

"We'll find out who did this, Governor," he said,
glancing at Fiona. "We've got our best team on it."

"I'm sure," Madeline said with an unmistakable
trace of sarcasm. She smiled thinly at Fiona.

"Not that it will do much good. Not for Mama."
Shipley lowered his eyes and nodded his head, as if he were about to be
overcome with emotion. Suddenly, he raised his eyes and turned to his wife.
"I want a very private funeral. Just a few friends. We have this crypt in Virginia. More like a memorial to Dad."

As if to underline the idea, he turned his head and looked
up at the picture of the young soldier. He was incredibly handsome and
self-assured in his heroic pose. "Missing in France in '44. Before I was
born. Mother never remarried."

His eyes glistened suddenly. "Gives you an idea of her
sense of loyalty. When Mama was committed, she was committed." He looked
briefly toward his wife who turned away leaving an unmistakable impression of
contempt. It was the kind of look that set off an alert antenna. And Fiona, in
her investigative mode, was alert to every nuance of gesture and expression,
however minor.

Instantly, the look provided a deep glimpse into the
relationship of Madeline Newton with the murdered Mrs. Shipley. Strained, would
be the operative analysis. William Shipley was the adored only child; son and
clone of the immortal loved one. From where she sat, Fiona could see more
pictures of Shipley, infant, boy and man.

As the pictures in the bedroom had demonstrated, William
Shipley, Jr. was clearly the dominant person in his mother's mind. That obvious
fact, coupled with the evidence that there was not a single picture of the much
photographed Madeline Newton, even at moments when she would be logically
present, such as the ceremonies of marriage and inauguration and important
social events, telescoped the undeniable message of friction between them. It
was a cliché of course, possessive mother locked in a tug of war with
strong-willed equally possessive, albeit famous wife. But the logic of the
evidence was undeniable.

Fiona pushed away the edge of suspicion. It was absurd, she
thought. If such antagonism were a motive, the world would be strewn with
corpses.

"The autopsy will tell us more about the sexual
assault," the Eggplant said. Fiona felt her stomach knot.

"Sexual assault?" Shipley asked, puzzled, turning
to his wife, then to Fiona.

"You didn't mention that," he muttered angrily,
the words barely able to pass his lips. He had been pale when he arrived. Now
he was ashen.

"I'm sorry," the Eggplant said looking at Fiona,
obviously regretting his revelation. "You didn't tell him?"

Fiona shook her head.

"We weren't absolutely certain," Fiona replied
tamping down her indignation.

"It's a good bet, I'm afraid," the Eggplant said
cutting a glance at Shipley. He felt not the slightest hesitancy in sharing
this information with Shipley. "It's awful, I know. I'm sorry."

"She was seventy-seven years old," Shipley said,
his voice hoarse. He turned to Fiona, glaring. "So she didn't suffer did
she?"

"I was trying to spare you, Governor. Besides, the
sequence is not confirmed."

"Sequence?" Shipley said, his expression shocked,
indignant, obviously trying to contain his rage.

"It could have happened after...."

"It's sick," Madeline Newton said. She appeared to
be equally shaken by the revelation.

"Very," the Eggplant agreed, glaring at Fiona.
There was, after all, no way of hiding the information. Sooner or later they
would know. She felt remiss, her indignation misplaced. She had let compassion
intercede.

"Must the world know this?" Madeline Newton asked
looking at her husband, who glared back at her.

"We're public servants, Mrs. Shipley," the
Eggplant said self-righteously, invoking, Fiona supposed, the public's right to
know, normally the media's mantra. "Anyway, it's impossible to hide these
things."

"May I remind you, Captain," Madeline said.
"We.... my husband is a public servant as well."

"No insult intended, Mrs. Shipley," the Eggplant
said, feigning humility.

"I didn't mean cover-up, Captain," Madeline said
pointedly. "I'm talking about the so-called tabloids, those vicious
newspapers and TV shows. It's so.... so lurid. A seventy-seven year old woman.
Let her have her last moment of dignity. At one time in this town she was an
institution. She had the world's most powerful people in this house." She
paused, removed her sunglasses, her powerful violet eyes glance roaming the
room, her thespian training kicking in. "She was celebrated."

"I can't control what the media does, Mrs.
Shipley," the Eggplant sighed, his own not unsubstantial thespian
abilities activated.

"But surely, Captain." Madeline turned to her
husband. "You could evade providing the information. I mean
really...."

"I certainly will try," the Eggplant said.

"He can, can't he William?" Madeline Newton
persisted, ignoring the Eggplant's comment, treating him with the arrogance of
her own perceived superiority. "I mean I'm not asking him to break any
rules or suppress evidence or anything like that. I'm trying to protect your
mother's reputation ... her image if you will. This is, after all, the capital
of the United States of America, not Hollywood."

Same rules, Fiona thought. The cult of celebrity. Her being
on the scene only made it worse. The marriage of politics and entertainment, a
perfect match. Fiona's cynicism reinterpreted Madeline Newton's plaint. She
didn't want the mud to splatter over her husband, not at this critical juncture
in his career. Tabloid journalism mucked everyone it touched.

William Shipley looked trapped, helpless. Fiona sensed his
ordeal. He confronted his wife with a mordant bloodshot stare of rebuke.

"The woman's dead, Madeline."

"I know she's dead, William," Madeline replied,
her tone rising. "It's humiliation enough to have to bear it without
shouting it from the rooftops. The rape of a seventy-seven year old woman.
Can't you just picture the headlines? My God, William. Do something."

"It's out of our control, darling," Shipley said,
his voice wispy.

"Don't we have any rights as relatives, William?"

Having spent most of her adult life the butt of gossip, her
protests seemed a bit ingenuous. She had been married four times, been linked
with numerous men, and photographed surreptitiously in various states of
undress. Her medical history was an open book. Her various illnesses and her
alleged bouts with alcoholism and drug abuse were well documented. And here she
was, reincarnated as Miss Prissy, a potential first lady, protesting, of all
things, the media's spin, the very spin that helped provide her persona with
mystery, glamour allure and enduring celebrity.

Yet Fiona understood the woman's position, despite the
heavy handed and obnoxious way she was presenting it. She was looking at it
solely from a politician's point of view, a vantage that Fiona knew well. The
revelation could be far worse than an indignity to a dead woman's image. It
injected the double-edged sword of ridicule, even humor, which could spill over
and soil the public image of William Shipley.

So far, to those like Fiona who eagerly observed and
digested such implications, there hadn't been a single misstep. As a
Presidential aspirant, Shipley was the current golden boy of American politics.

He was invested with all the obvious equipment, good looks,
a golden tongue and quick wit, a well honed track record of political success,
a natural dignity and charm and the outward appearance of decency and
compassion as well as the more subtle attributes, a strong libido validated by
his bedding, taming one might conclude, an American sexual icon. Nor was it a
secret that Madeline Newton was, after all, and had been the moment she married
him, the principal asset and perceived guardian of William Shipley's political
future.

"I assure you Mrs. Shipley," the Eggplant said
patiently. "That I will be as discreet with the media as is humanly
possible."

"Discretion is not the issue. It's revelation. Isn't
it William?"

"It's too late for that Madeline," Shipley
shrugged.

"No it's not," Madeline persisted." The
world doesn't know, not yet. And if we can control the agenda.... "Her
voice drifted off as if she suddenly realized that she was engaged in
inappropriate conduct for the circumstances at hand.

"There are reporters out there, Mrs. Shipley,"
the Eggplant said with some impatience.

"Even as a favor, Captain. As a personal favor,"
Madeline Newton said, purring now, a switch from bitch to seducer. Apparently
she had waved away any self-imposed criticism of impropriety. Fiona was amazed
at her chameleon tenacity. This was a woman used to having her own way.

She was, Fiona observed, despite the bizarre events that
had occurred, actually attempting to work her very considerable woman's wiles
on the Eggplant. No way, Fiona decided. He was pushed around enough at home to
be compliant on the job. Besides, his agenda was to become police commissioner
and there was no apparent upside for him in keeping his name out of the public
eye.

"Leave it alone, Madeline," her husband snapped
impatiently. "There's nothing we can do. Not now." There was an
ominous portent to the idea of postponement.

"I'll do my best," the Eggplant said, showing
remarkable restraint.

"Of course you will, Captain," Madeline said,
shooting her husband a glance of futility as if he hadn't measured up to the
occasion. She watched as the Eggplant turned from the room and let himself out
the front door and into the maw of the media.

"I should have," Roy said. "It's my fault. I
guess I wasn't thinking."

Mrs. Shipley's caretaker was a tall man, his posture an
ungainly slouch, even seated. The fat seemed to have melted off his face,
leaving it cadaverous. Behind knobby cheekbones, his eyes were colorless and
faded, the whites filled with tributaries of red veins like rivers and streams
on a map. But they struck Fiona as feral, alert and wary as they looked back at
her. His neck was scrawny and wrinkled and his Adam's apple slithered up and
down his neck as he talked.

Despite his appearance, Fiona's intuitive sense told her
that he was not a dullard, although that was the facade he appeared to want to
project. His awkward feet encased in ugly black shoes with heavy rubber soles
were planted in front of him and his thick arthritic knuckled hands gripped
both thighs like claws.

She noted, too, that the small finger of his left hand was
missing its nail and appeared severed to the top knuckle, a minor flaw that was
barely noticeable unless it was part of a complete inspection of the man, like
now.

He wore two hearing aids, the kind with a half moon of
plastic flattening the gray hair above the ears. He hadn't shaven and the white
whisker sprouts gave his face a more ashen and hangdog look than he might have
had with a clean face.

They were sitting at one end of a long heavy wooden table
in the large kitchen equipped with appliances that were at least three decades
old. The man's name was Roy Parker and he acknowledged that he had been in Mrs.
Shipley's employ for more than fifty years. His driver's license had revealed
his age as seventy-nine.

They had only partially interviewed Gloria, the maid, a
heavy-set dignified gray haired black woman in her late sixties who still had
not recovered from the harrowing experience of discovering Mrs. Shipley's body.
She told them that she had gone up with a breakfast tray, knocked as she always
did and opened the bedroom door. Recounting the experience was too much for her
to continue and they had accompanied her back to her room, where she was
currently resting. They planned to talk to her again.

"What exactly were your chores for Mrs. Shipley?"
Gail asked Roy.

"Oh many things."

"Such as?"

"I drove. In the old days, when Madame was very
active, I drove a lot. Took her everywhere. Shopping. Parties. Visits. You
can't believe Madame's energy in those days. Last few years, she rarely went
out. I also helped with the heavy work. You know, the things that Gloria
couldn't do. Lifting. Fixing things." He raised his arthritic claws.
"Getting harder with these, but I manage. Years ago, I would also bartend
and help Gloria serve with the small parties. She always had the big ones
catered. I was a kind of all around helper, I guess. Anytime she needed me, I
was there." He seemed proud of his loyalty. His articulate manner
confirmed Fiona's earlier observations of his innate intelligence."

"When did you first start working for Mrs.
Shipley?" Fiona asked.

There was a moment of hesitation. Perhaps he was
calculating.

"February 7th, 1952," he said.

"My God," Fiona said. "That is well over
fifty years."

The calculation following on the date, gave the
reaffirmation an incredulous twist.

Roy nodded.

"More than half a century?" Fiona mused.
"That's a very long time," Fiona said, instantly sorry. Retainers of
his type, she speculated, often served their employers for a lifetime.

"I enjoyed every moment of my life here," Roy shrugged, sucking in a deep breath. "I guess it's over now."

Earlier she had inspected his room just off the kitchen, a
cell really, with a narrow bed, tightly made with a khaki Army blanket and a
single pillow, a reading lamp and a telephone on an end table beside it, a
wooden chair, a slightly askew wardrobe, a battered chest of drawers on which
was a browning picture of a man and a woman in clothes of a long gone era, the
man in a high stiff collar and high button shoes, the woman in an old fashioned
black dress and hair piled on top of her head like a Gibson girl.

"Your parents?" Fiona asked.

Roy nodded.

On the walls, painted in dull white over obviously repaired
plaster were photographs of various dogs in cheap black frames hung without
regard to symmetry. There was one crowded shelf of books on dogs, mostly
training manuals. On the floor, piled in stacks were paperback novels by such
authors as Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Tolstoy and Dostievski and an old torn
and battered copy of The Faith of a Collie by Albert Payson Terhune. The titles,
except for the Terhune, who wrote dog stories, seemed oddly out of context with
the man's appearance.

To one side of the room was a long wooden chest and behind
it a door.

"Where does that lead?" Fiona asked.

"Storeroom," Roy replied. "Where I keep my
tools."

"And you heard nothing?" Fiona asked, yet again.

"I wish I had," the man said sadly, shaking his
head.

"No vibrations? Nothing?"

He lowered his eyes, which had begun to glisten with tears
and nodded his head in a gesture of despair.

"I blame myself," he mumbled.

He took out a soiled handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

It was Gail who asked about the telephone, the old
fashioned kind with a dial and big buttons which lit up when someone called, a
deaf man's tool. That instrument, too, like the kitchen equipment seemed an
anachronism.

"When she needed me for something, I could tell by the
light, even if I couldn't hear it."

"Even if you were asleep?" Gail asked.

"When I was in this room, alone or asleep, I never
failed to see that light. Never once. Yes, even if I were asleep. I would
awaken instantly."

Back in the kitchen, he had explained again, remorsefully,
that he couldn't sleep with the hearing devices in his ears, which explained
why he hadn't heard the intruder. He was repetitive on that point, obviously
continuing to blame himself for this deficit having helped cause his employer's
death.

"Marshall would have scared her with his bark and
Madame would have picked up the phone," he said, shaking his head. "I
forgot about the security system that William had had installed years ago. Fact
is, I probably forgot how to activate it."

"When did Marshall die?"

"A week ago. We were all pretty depressed about it.
Especially Madame. The house wasn't the same."

"How did he die?"

"The vet said probably 'bloat,' although he wasn't
dead certain. It's a kind of sudden death for a big-chested dog like Marshall. The intestine gets twisted. Blood supply gets cut off. Happens quickly. Sudden
death. Second time it's happened to one of our dogs. We lost one twenty years
ago like that."

"How old was Marshall?"

"Twelve. Probably could have gone another two, three
years. I was about to start looking around for another one. Thing with dogs.
Their life span is too short. You get so emotionally attached and it hurts to
see them go."

"Who disposed of the dog?"

"The vet. Actually we have his ashes. Buried them in
the pet cemetery in the back. Sort of a tradition with Madame. Little stone
plaques over their graves. They were like relatives to us." He grew
wistful. "Madame loved her dogs. I trained them well. That was one of my
jobs for Madame."

"Did the vet do an autopsy on Marshall?"

"What good would that do? The dog was dead. He was a
great watchdog. Bark at the drop of a hat. Luckily, we didn't have much
trouble."

"In this neighborhood, no trouble?" Gail said.
"Are you saying never?"

"Madame always believed that if you were nice to
people, whatever their race or condition, they'd be nice to you."

"Isn't that naive, Roy?" Fiona asked.

"Probably. But it did work. She was a good and decent
woman and they must have sensed that in the neighborhood. Christmas,
Thanksgiving, we'd go up and down the street and give gifts. Then she always
had the Easter party for children. Wasn't as big as it used to be when she
invited the children of the people who ran this country. She knew everyone, you
know. Everyone. Invitations to this house were one of the great social honors
of Washington."

"I was here once," Fiona said. "At one of
her Easter parties."

Roy's face lit up in a smile and
his eyes glistened.

"Then you know."

"You really liked working for her, didn't you Roy?"

"It was my whole life," Roy sighed. "You
should have seen this place in the old days. President's came. Heads of
Governments. Senators. Industrialists. Handsome ladies in beautiful clothes.
Nobody could throw a party like Madame." Fiona could tell that he was
winding up for a loquacious nostalgia trip. Would be nice to get a first hand
account of those days, Fiona thought, but a waste of time concerning the matter
at hand.

"Can you tell us what you did this morning, Roy ... before Gloria discovered...."

He ruminated for a moment, rubbing the sprouts on his chin.

"Got up at seven. Put up the coffee. I always put up
the coffee. Then I dusted up the ground floor. It's a big place and it gets dusty.
There's six chandeliers that have to be done on a rotation basis. When Marshall was alive and all the dogs before that I would take them out for a walk. Used to
train them. Oh I told you that. I'd walk them three times a day. Today I was
going to do the vestibule chandelier and I went down to get the ladder from the
basement. When I came up, I went out and got the Washington Post from the front
steps. Gloria comes into the kitchen about seven-thirty. Her room is in the
back on the other side of the house. She comes in, puts up the oatmeal, pours
the juice, makes the toast. Lays out my breakfast, then takes up a tray to
Madame."

"Which is when she discovered ... well what she
discovered," Gail prompted.

"I heard the scream, then rushed up and saw..."

His face paled and he stood up abruptly and turned away
from them, his shoulders trembling with emotion. He removed the handkerchief
from his pocket and brought it up to his face. It took him a few moments to
regain control of himself, then he turned again, revealing moist eyes and tear
stained cheeks, cleared his throat then sat down again. Regaining his
composure, he continued:

"Gloria was in no condition to do anything. It was I
who dialed 911." He shook his head. "I can't get it out of my mind.
The way she was. It really doesn't make any sense."

"Never really does," Fiona said.

"Was it you who covered her Roy?" Fiona asked
gently.

He nodded and swallowed hard.

"I couldn't leave her like that. This had to be some
monster. What he did."

"And you found nothing else taken?" Fiona asked.
It was old ground, but it needed to be covered again.

"As far as I can see ... just the cross. It was big
but it wasn't that valuable."

"Have you checked the upper floors?"

There was a brief moment of hesitation.

"No. We haven't been up there for years. I mean in the
rooms. All the doors have been locked for ages. Oh yes, I do the dusting and
general cleaning about once every couple of months."

"Not Gloria?" Fiona asked.

"Madame thought it a waste of her time."

"None of the doors been broken into?"

"Shall I look?"

"It's alright, Roy." Fiona exchanged a glance
with Gail who got up and moved up the backstairs.

"No cash missing?" Fiona asked when Gail had
gone.

"She kept her wallet and the cash in a desk, which
adjoined her bedroom. Like Gloria said, the wallet was still there with cash in
it. I also looked in the cash box in the bottom drawer. Doesn't look like it
was disturbed in any way. It was never locked. I went to the bank every week
and they gave me an envelope with cash that I gave to Madame. She would put it
in the box and dispense it."

"She paid your salary in cash?"

He nodded.

"Gloria as well?"

"Yes. There was extra if it was needed."

"Just cash. No deductions? No social security?"

He shook his head.

"She did that for more than fifty years?" Fiona
asked.

"Yes."

"Isn't that illegal?" Fiona pressed. "I mean
not to take it for taxes or social security."

Roy shrugged.

"That didn't seem important. There's nothing I needed.
Madame paid our doctor bills." He lifted his hands. "As you can see,
I have arthritis and Gloria has asthma. If I needed anything, like clothes or
something, Madame would provide the money."

"You've put nothing aside?" Fiona asked.

"What for?"

"What about now?"

"I never thought about it."

"You really believed that this life would go on
forever, Roy? Was that realistic?"

"Realistic? I never thought about that either."

"Does William know about any of this? The way his
mother ran things."

"I don't know."

"Was he involved in her affairs, Roy?"

"William?"

For the first time in the interrogation, she could sense
that he was becoming evasive.

"It would have been none of my business," Roy said. He was holding back, Fiona speculated.

At that moment Gail returned from her foray to the top
floor.

"As he told us, Fi," Gail said. "All
buttoned up upstairs. No sign of forced entry anywhere."

"Think it needs a techie sweep?"

"Looks totally undisturbed."

Fiona glanced toward Roy who seemed relieved by the news.

"Do you have any idea who might have done this Roy?" Fiona asked.

He shook his head, then speaking with slow deliberation
said:

"If I knew..." He paused.

"Yes?" Fiona prodded.

She saw the gnarled knuckles of his hand go white as they
gripped his thighs. His lips pursed and the blood seemed to leave his face
completely, making it appear like a death mask in gray cement.