Murder at the National Cathedral (32 page)

Rhonda concluded, “The director took pains to point out, however, that while many individuals have been accused of wrongdoing, the indictment is not directed at Word of Peace itself as a charitable and well-intentioned movement. Many outstanding individuals and institutions have given considerable support to Word of Peace, according to the director’s statement, and it was his feeling that a worthwhile organization had been misused by these named in the indictment.”

As Smith watched television, Brett Leighton walked into the lobby of the small and popular River Inn on Twenty-fifth Street N.W., a few blocks from Smith’s Foggy Bottom home. He said to the nicely tailored young woman behind the desk, “I’m here to meet Miss Morgan. Clarissa Morgan. She’s a guest.”

The receptionist checked. “Yes, Miss Morgan is in room twenty. The house phone is over there.” She pointed across the lobby.

“Thank you,” Leighton said, smiling. He walked slowly toward the phone, glanced over his shoulder, saw that she’d turned her attention to a computer printer running off a reservation, and he quickly stepped into a waiting elevator. Room 20, he thought. He pushed the button for the second floor, stepped out into the carpeted hallway, and went to the door with
20
on it. He rapped lightly. No response. He knocked again, a little louder this time. Still no sound. “Too bad,” he muttered, retracing his steps to the lobby and going out to the street. He turned deliberately and walked north, although unsure of which direction to try.

Had he gone south on Twenty-fifth, he would have come
within minutes to a public telephone across from the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and seen Clarissa Morgan standing a few feet from it.

After abruptly hanging up on Smith—she’d had the feeling that someone was watching her—she’d gone inside the Kennedy Center and wandered around its massive red-carpeted and white marble foyer; it was like a cathedral of another sort and purpose, she thought. She was tempted to use one of the public phones in the center, but there were too many people and too much noise to make the call. Eventually, she left the building and returned to the booth from which she’d originally called Smith. Now she was caught in a bout of indecision. She knew Smith lived in the neighborhood; maybe it would be better to simply drop in on him. No, she didn’t like that idea. It would have to be another phone call. Where should she suggest they meet? He hadn’t seemed to like the idea of the cathedral at first. She couldn’t suggest her hotel because she knew
they
would probably know she was staying there. They knew everything. Not that she cared, at least she hadn’t up until this point. The hell with them. Damn them all. But it wouldn’t be fair to Mackensie Smith to bring him into the midst of something even nastier than he’d already experienced—to say nothing of his bird-watching wife.

The cathedral.

It had to be the cathedral. He’d show up. She didn’t know it well, but had been there, had a sense of it. It was so large, there would be many places, like that chapel, where she could meet him, tell him everything. For it was time.

She stepped into the booth and reached in her purse. She had a few shillings, but she was out of American change. She swore softly, returned to the Kennedy Center, and went to a gift shop, where she bought a key ring with a ballet dancer dangling from it. She used a traveler’s check and asked to be
given a portion of her change in silver. This time she ignored all the well-dressed people milling about. There was safety in numbers. She stepped up to one of the public phones and dialed.

Now Raining Cats and Rufus-size Dogs

Joey Kelsch sat in darkness behind the Jerusalem altar, at the east end of the nave. It was deathly quiet; he wondered whether the sound of his own breathing, which he tried to control, could be heard everywhere, by anyone in the building. Next to him was the small suitcase packed with underwear, jeans, two sweaters, socks, and his favorite Ping-Pong paddle.

He sat on a brilliant blue needlepoint kneeling cushion decorated with sprays of wheat, grape clusters, a spear, and a crown of thorns, symbolic of Holy Communion and the Passion and the crucifixion of Good Friday. He’d taken the cushion from in front of the elaborately carved wooden communion rail that separated the sanctuary from the chancel.

Joey heard movement in the nave and slowly, carefully peered out over the altar; he saw nothing and glanced up. Looking down on him, or so it seemed, was a large carved
figure of Christ set in one of three reredos. Quotations from Saint Matthew’s Gospel were written on another:

Farther up was the
trompette en chamade
, Willie Nickel always called them, the imposing pipes of the great cathedral organ.

He looked over the altar again at the nave’s vast emptiness. At the far end, more than four hundred feet away, was the west rose window, a soaring circle and an acclaimed tribute to the art of stained glass.

If there
had
been a noise, the source of it was not visible. Joey sank down onto the kneeling pad again, drew his knees up to his chin, and wrapped his arms about them. He was cold and frightened, and had no idea what to do next. He’d entered the cathedral after having decided he could no longer stay at school. Nor did he want to go home and face the questions, the scolding that were sure to ensue. There was too much on his mind, too many things to sort out, too many decisions to be made.
Damn
Willy Nickel, he thought. If Nickelson hadn’t given him that stupid punishment of sorting music in the choir room, none of this would have happened. He would have played in the Ping-Pong tournament and probably won. Instead, he was forced to witness the most horrible thing he could imagine—yet could do nothing about it. There was no one he could trust or turn to and tell what he saw, what he knew. It hadn’t been easy calling the police that next morning to tell them a murder had been committed in the National Cathedral. He’d blurted it out fast to the officer who’d answered the phone, and hung up immediately. The policeman thought he was a woman. That’s what the newspapers and television said.
Joey was glad. After making the call, he had visions of some special machine attached to the phone at police headquarters that could immediately identify boys and where the call was placed and the school of whoever placed it—some supercomputer. He’d heard about voiceprints, and how each person’s voice was unique and individual. Yes, he was very relieved when he read they thought a woman had called. But it was a fleeting and minor relief. Because he still knew, still had been a witness to the event.

He began to cry silently. Maybe he would just die there. That would be the end of it. Maybe he would just die and be found behind the high altar the next morning the way Father Singletary had been found in Good Shepherd. He prayed without sounding the words, ending his prayer with “Please tell me what to do.”

He didn’t know that the police were outside searching the close for him, or that a man named Tony Buffolino was checking the bus station, or that his parents were at home, his mother hysterical, his father trying to calm her but quietly fearing the worst for their only son. Nor did he know that upstairs in the bishop’s study, a meeting was in progress at which Bishop St. James and members of his staff worked on a financial report that was expected in two days at the church’s executive council in New York City. With the bishop were reverends Merle and Armstrong and three lay members of the cathedral chapter.

Damn that Willie Nickel, Joey thought again, clenching his fists. More tears ran down his already stained cheeks.

Mac Smith took Rufus for a short walk in the rain, returned to the house, checked the answering machine, and heard Morgan’s voice confirming she’d meet him at the Good Shepherd Chapel. He wrote Annabel a note:
Gone to meet Clarissa Morgan at the cathedral. Don’t ask why there. It just happened that way. Maybe we’ll finally get to the
bottom of this. Wanted to see you but will return ASAP. I love you. Don’t worry. Mac.

He checked his watch: time to go. He’d changed into tan corduroy slacks, and slipped a brown cable-knit sweater over the blue button-down shirt he’d worn that day. He’d also changed from black wing-tip shoes to his favorite pair of tan desert boots. He put on his raincoat, gave Rufus a reassuring pat on the head, and headed for the front door. The ringing phone stopped him.

“Mr. Smith?” a woman asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Helen Morrison at Sevier Home.”

Smith’s heartbeat accelerated. “Yes, Miss Morrison. Is my mother all right?”

“No, Mr. Smith, that’s why I’m calling. She’s taken a bad fall, and we think she’s broken her hip. She hit her head pretty hard, too.”

Oh, God. “Where is she?”

“The ambulance has just arrived to take her to the hospital. We’ve made her as comfortable as possible. I wanted to let you know as soon as possible.”

“Yes, thank you. What hospital is she being taken to?”

“Georgetown University.”

“I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

It was nine-thirty. There was no debate in his mind about which obligation to meet. Maybe I can swing by the hospital, make sure Mother is being properly cared for, and then find Morgan, he thought. He’d be late at the cathedral, but so be it.

He half-ran down the street to the garage they rented. Three minutes after he’d driven off, Annabel arrived, noticed that Mac’s car was gone, and went to the house.

She opened the door, hung up her coat, and went to the kitchen. Mac’s half-consumed cup of coffee was on the table and still steaming. Next to it was the pile of photographs from London. She looked at them carefully; a chill went
through her as the memory returned of that day in the sheep meadow.

Usually when she came home to an empty house, her initial response was to go to the study in search of a note Mac might have left her. This night, however, she first went to the bedroom and changed into silk pajamas, a robe, and slippers. She made herself a cup of tea and then strolled into the study … saw and read the note.

“Not without me, you’re not,” she said.

Minutes later she was dressed again and pulling her still-damp raincoat from the closet. She shoved the photos in her oversized handbag and headed for the front door. Instead, she went to the answering machine and changed the outgoing message. “This is your partner, Mac. I’m on my way to the cathedral to be with you. If this is somebody else, leave a message after the beep.”

It was raining harder now as she sprinted in the direction of their garage. By the time she reached it and opened the door, her shoes were soaked from puddles she hadn’t bothered to avoid. She turned the ignition key. Nothing. Can’t be, she thought. It started fine all day. “Come on,” she said, jamming her foot down on the accelerator. No sense trying to talk it into action. She stood on the sidewalk, looked up and down the street. No chance of getting a cruising cab at this hour, in this neighborhood, in this rain. She walked to the Kennedy Center, where a performance in the Opera House was letting out, and was able to grab one of many waiting taxis before the throng of theatergoers poured through the doors in search of those elusive vehicles. “The National Cathedral, please,” she told the coal-black driver whose name on the posted license read like that of an African king. As he pulled away, she wiped condensation from the inside of the window and looked out. “Stupid,” she mumbled. “You may be a brilliant professor, Mackensie Smith, but sometimes you are just plain stupid. Going to meet that woman alone, late at night.”

Then she thought, stupid? Who’s stupid? She had just left a message on the answering machine that was crazy. No one should use their machine to tell callers that they’re out. No woman should announce where she is going, alone and late at night. Especially not a woman whose life has been threatened.

Well, they were partners—and they could share the stupidity prize—if they lived.

Mac Smith stood at the side of a bed in Georgetown University’s emergency room. His mother, whose grip on his fingers was pincerlike, smiled up at him and said, “Don’t worry, Mac, I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, Mother, I know you will. Are you in much pain?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

“The shot helped,” he said.

Eyes still closed, she nodded.

The orthopedic surgeon on call that night entered the room carrying X rays that had been taken of Josephine Smith’s hip and head. “A clean break,” he said, slapping the still-wet plates up under metal clips and flipping on the back light. His finger traced a dark line on her left hip. “I’ve seen worse.”

“What about the blow to her head?” Smith asked.

“I see nothing on the X ray that would indicate any sort of injury.” He leaned over Mrs. Smith and said, “You’re going to be just fine.”

She smiled. “I know,” she said. “I was just telling my son that. You shouldn’t have bothered taking an X ray of my head, not this hardheaded old lady. I take after him.”

Smith grinned and massaged her hand.

“We’ll make sure you have a comfortable night,” said the doctor. “Afraid we’ll have to do a little surgery on you, however.”

“I suppose you do,” she said. “Where do I sign?”

The doctor looked at Smith and laughed.

“Be careful what you give me to sign,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “This man is a lawyer, and a very good one.”

Ten minutes later a hospital administrator came in with a surgical consent form, which Josephine Smith signed with a weak but deliberate flourish.

“How’s Annabel?” she asked Mac when the administrator left the room.

“Fine, although she wasn’t home when I left. She was having dinner with an employee. I’d better give her a call.”

“Tell her not to be concerned about me.”

“I’ll tell her, Mother, but don’t count on it. You do know she loves you very much.”

“Which makes me a fortunate old lady. Go on, now, get home to her. I’ll be fine. I’m getting drowsy.”