Murder at the Watergate (16 page)

“Senor Zegreda,” Cadwell said. “You look well.”

“Why not? Living well is the best revenge, huh?”

The ambassador smiled; his wife’s cheerless expression did not change.

Cadwell was a short, slight man; someone had once described him as being small and perfectly formed. The planes of his face were angular, his cheekbones pronounced, his chin clear and sharp, nose slightly hooked and thin. Once he’d begun to lose his hair, he’d taken to shaving his head, which made him seem even smaller.

He’d been appointed ambassador to Mexico by a Republican administration, more a matter of a pragmatic president demonstrating a nonpartisan approach to diplomacy than a reward for any unique qualifications.

Cadwell was a Democrat, albeit a conservative one. He was born in Oxford, England, the only son of a professor at the university. They moved to the United States when the young Cadwell was seven, his father accepting a teaching post at the University of Vermont. Russell became fluent in Spanish, and went on to teach Latin American history at the same school. It was there he met and married Priscilla, the unattractive daughter of a logging company founder. Using her family money, he mounted a run for governor in Vermont, lost, then drifted to Washington, where he held a variety of jobs in the State and Labor Departments.

His nomination as ambassador to Mexico caught everyone by surprise, including Cadwell. He’d been generous with Priscilla’s money to the Democratic Party, not a nickel to the Republicans. But his past was so lacking in controversy, his visibility so limited, that those charged with confirming him, especially Democrats, were hard-pressed to deny the Republican president’s choice.

And so Russell and Priscilla Cadwell moved to Mexico City, to his delight and her chagrin.

Scott, the in-sitting American Democratic president, had elected to retain Cadwell as ambassador, despite growing Republican displeasure with his performance. Critics of the administration’s Mexico policy accused Cadwell of being nothing but a pawn of the president’s trade-first policy, and of being too cozy with the PRI’s leadership.

Elfie Dorrance’s criticism of him was less specific, and more simplistic: He held the job she wanted. Therefore he was inept.

“You look lovely,” she said to Priscilla Cadwell.

“Thank you.”

“I love your dress. Did you buy it here?”

“New York. I’m afraid there isn’t much to buy in Mexico for an ambassador’s wife.”

“Of course. Excuse me. I think another guest has arrived.”

Martin Leff accompanied Elfie to the foyer to greet Viviana Diaz. Leff, a wealthy American ex-pat who’d moved to San Miguel twenty years ago because of its low cost of living, had never married. “He must be gay,” it
was said. Not so. Leff was asexual, and handsome, and bright, which enhanced his acceptability as an escort for women in need of a safe one.

“Ah, Viviana,” Elfie said. “How wonderful to see you.”

“I was glad I would be in San Miguel tonight,” Viviana said, displaying a wide, ravishing smile familiar to anyone who followed Mexico’s entertainment industry. She’d been a star in a succession of films, always playing the beautiful other woman using sexual wiles to steal leading men away from their true loves. Although she hadn’t made a movie in more than five years, her presence, oddly, had grown, thanks to a succession of rumored affairs with leading politicians and businessmen, one ending in the tragic suicide of a wife.

“You know Martin.”

“I don’t believe so.”

Martin Leff smiled. “No reason for the glamorous Viviana Diaz to know plain ol’ Martin Leff,” he said. “But I’m delighted to meet you.” He spoke in an exaggerated baritone, and with precise pronunciation befitting his role as a nonthreatening gigolo.

They followed Viviana as she made her entrance into the cocktail room. All eyes went to her. To call her beautiful was to do her an injustice. She was more than that. Her large almond eyes were direct and challenging, her full, shining, and sensuous lips and large, white teeth creating the mouth of a temptress worthy of an Aztec myth. But it was her body that had brought her fame on the screen. Her breasts, precariously contained in the low-cut, black evening dress, were large but not vulgar, her waist strikingly small. Were her long legs visible that
night, aside from glimpses afforded by a slit on one side of the gown, their symmetrical perfection would have been in evidence, adding to the spectacular effect.

Central Bank president Antonio Morelos, for whom Viviana would be a tablemate, quickly crossed the room, took her hand and kissed it, gave it up reluctantly, straightened, and said, beaming, “I have looked forward to this evening with special pleasure … ever since I learned we would be together.”

Hardly the way to put it, Elfie thought, waving for a waiter. She took Viviana’s arm and led her away from Morelos to a knot of guests talking with Cadwell.

“Ah, Senorita Diaz,” Cadwell said, looking up at her. “How good to see you again.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” she said. “Mrs. Cadwell.”

Cadwell started to introduce her to others, all of which was unnecessary. A waiter brought Viviana a flute of champagne, refilled others. Glasses were raised; the ambassador offered a flowery toast.

Because everyone seemed to be having a splendid time over cocktails, Elfie sent word to the chef to put dinner back a half hour. Eventually, when she realized she couldn’t postpone it any longer, she announced it was time to go to the dining room. There the conversation continued at its brisk pace, stories making their way around the elaborately set table in Spanish and English, the universal language of laughter filling the room.

Dessert had just been served when the housekeeper whispered in Elfie’s ear that she had a call. She started to say she would call back, but the housekeeper told her where the call was from, and from whom.

“Excuse me,” Elfie said, standing, with the help of Martin Leff, who leaped to his feet and moved her chair.

She went to her study, released the hold button, and said, “Christopher. What a pleasure. I wasn’t expecting you to call. I’m having a dinner party—lovely time—and—”

“Sorry to disturb you, Elfie. I’m heading for Mexico tomorrow night.”

“Oh? I thought you weren’t coming until the elections.”

“There’s been a change.”

“I hope you’ll find time for me.”

“Of course I will. I just got word that my father died.”

“I’m so sorry. Had he been sick?”

“No, I don’t think so. A sudden thing. Heart, I suppose. I’m flying to Boston in an hour for the funeral. I’ll leave from there tomorrow night.”

“Well, sorry for the bad news, but still, I look forward to seeing you. What’s new in Washington?”

“The usual. I’ll fill you in when I get there. Who’s at the party?”

“The ambassador and his darling wife. Manuel Zegreda. Morales. Viviana Diaz.”

“Really? Have you spoken with her?”

“Of course. She’s a guest.”

“No, I mean about—”

“I must get back to my guests, Chris. Sorry about your father. You were close?”

“No. I’ll call from Mexico City.”

“I’ll send Maynard. Let me know your flight.”

The party broke up at midnight. Elfie was effusive in her parting comments, assuring Russell Cadwell he was the best ambassador who’d ever served there,
complimenting Antonio Morelos on what a charming companion he’d been to Viviana, joking with Manuel Zegreda and his wife that he would soon own all of Mexico, and lavishing praise on Viviana for how beautiful she looked, and her taste in clothes and jewelry.

“And how is your charming vice president?” Viviana asked Elfie as they stood in the foyer.

“Fine.”

“I hope to see him again when he comes for the inaugural celebration.”

Hopefully to honor the PRI candidate, Elfie silently said. “He’ll be busy but—”

“Please give him my best.”

“Of course.”

Elfie stood alone in the foyer with Martin Leff.

“Some brandy?” he asked.

“No, I think not. I’m exhausted. Thank you, Martin, for being such a wonderful addition to the party, as usual. I’m going straight to bed.”

“Well, then, I will take my leave,” he said, sounding as though he were auditioning at a radio station. “Wonderful party, Elfie.”

“You’re a dear,” she said, kissing him on the cheek and opening the door. “We’ll be in touch.”

She went to the room where the cocktail party had been held and told the bartender, who was packing up, to give her a cognac. She took it to her bedroom, stripped off her clothes, put on a pink nightgown, robe, and slippers, and went to the roof of the wing next to the park. It was deathly still there. A half-moon came and went behind clouds arriving from the west.

Elfie sat in a cushioned chair, propped her feet up on
another, and drank from her glass. It was at times like this that she ached for Jeremy Mahon. It was nine years ago that he left for Russia on a business trip and did not return alive. He suffered a massive heart attack while there; his body was flown to San Miguel for burial.

There had been many proposals of marriage since then for Elfie, some of which she seriously considered. But Jeremy’s death had left in her a lingering sadness that she knew would get in the way of another relationship. The thought of growing old alone was not pleasant. She’d reached a point in her life where it was—at least it seemed—preferable not to enter into a fifth marriage, unless, of course, another Jeremy were to surface. She doubted that would happen. And the trade-offs of marriage between well-placed people were less and less alluring. Instead, she’d contented herself with what had become a busy, fulfilling life outside herself, knowing the men and women who made things happen, becoming important to them, achieving a status in which what she thought and said mattered. And there was always a lover when needed.

She finished the cognac in a single swallow and went to the black wrought-iron railing. The cry of a nocturnal bird shattered the quiet. Then, a bat swooped low over her, causing her to cover her head with her hands and to scurry inside.

The bat kept attacking her in her dreams throughout the night.

She awoke groggy in the morning—and afraid.

Of bats?

Or of …?

“True nobility is exempt from fear,” Shakespeare said.
That line came to Elfie as she huddled in bed, the covers pulled tight around her throat. Later, she got up, went to the window she’d closed against another bat attack, opened it, looked out over one of her gardens, the rising sun illuminating its glorious palette of colors, drew a breath, and said aloud, “The time for being afraid was years ago, darling. Be noble, be brave. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

She smiled with satisfaction. Most people assumed it was FDR who’d coined that famous saying in wartime. But Elfie knew it had been Thoreau in 1851:“Nothing is so much to be feared as fear.”

It was the sort of knowledge that came in handy at dinner tables when someone pointed to Churchill, say, as the source of the sentiment, especially if that person was a bore needing to be put in his place. Besides having learned every nuance of hostessing, Elfie had collected hundreds of such tidbits, like hors d’ouevres, and was as skilled at dropping them into conversations as she was at creating ingenious menus and brilliant seating charts.

“… man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower and is cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.”

The funeral for Frank Hedras was held at Christ Church in Cambridge, across from Cambridge Common. It was a dim, rainy day around Boston; the church’s interior, filled with light when the sun shone, was a somber gray this day, befitting the solemn occasion.

Chris Hedras sat with his now widowed mother in a front pew. To his other side was his older sister, Pauline, who worked part-time as a graphic artist, and her husband and two children. Chris knew that had his father died ten years ago, the church would have been filled. But this was ten years later, ten years in which his once prominent father had not only slipped into obscurity, but a disgraced one at that.

Following the service, they stood together on the sidewalk in front of the church, black umbrellas raised, awkward expressions of sorrow exchanged, mundane
questions asked of those who owed their presence to a death.

“How is Washington?” Chris Hedras was asked by an uncle.

“Fine. Very busy.”

“I hear you’re the president’s right-hand man.”

“Well, not really. I’m on loan to the vice president for his campaign.”

“I suppose he’ll run,” an aunt said, her tone mirroring her lack of interest in whether he did or not.

“I suppose so,” Chris replied.

“Coming back to the house?” his sister asked.

“I don’t know,” Chris said. “I have to catch a plane.”

“Your mother will be disappointed,” said the uncle.

“Maybe for a few minutes.”

“I have deli,” said his sister.

“Uh-huh.”

Chris looked to where his mother stood just inside the church’s open doors, out of the drizzle. He hadn’t seen her in more than a year, had forgotten how diminutive and frail she was. She’d borne the brunt of Frank Hedras’s fall from grace, had been at his side when the front pages of the
Globe
and
Herald
and the six o’clock news reported his indictment on bribery and fraud charges, and had been at his bedside to nurse him through two heart attacks. Her quiet, staunch defense of her husband—his father—had, at once, impressed their only son, and caused a concomitant feeling of loathing.

Until his father’s indictment, conviction, and one-year suspended sentence with five years’ probation, the Hedras name in Boston was one of which to be proud. It opened myriad doors for Chris Hedras, and he was quick
to walk through them to reap the rewards once inside. Frank Hedras had been president of the city’s most powerful labor union, a man to be reckoned with. You went to Frank Hedras the way you went to your clergyman, or neighborhood mob leader, when you needed help. Politicians counted on him to keep the labor peace, to keep the city working, the workers happy, the political machine greased and moving, the union members’ tithings to the Democratic Party flowing without interruption. To be the son of such a man was an honor.