Murder on Embassy Row (13 page)

“Were you in love with Ambassador James?”

Callender looked at her watch. “I must leave now. I have a taxi arriving any minute.”

“You’ve been very generous with your time, and I appreciate it. Is there someplace in London I could contact you in the event I wanted to talk some more?”

“I gave up my flat when I came here. I’ll be staying with Mum and Dad until I’m settled into a new job.”

“Your parents live where?”

“I would not want them disturbed. Please, I’m not a rude person, but I must be off now.”

“Yes, thank you again.” Lake got up and they shook hands. They were the same height, and behind Callender’s green eyes Lake discerned fear and confusion, and a plea for understanding, for gentleness. “Good luck, Ms. Callender.”

“Thank you.”

Lake went to her car and pulled a small tape recorder from her purse. She listened for a few minutes to make sure it had recorded properly, then drove back to MPD.

***

“I called Ethel Pringle in London,” Morizio said late that night. They were at Connie’s apartment. “She’s handling it pretty well, but she wasn’t anxious to talk about Paul. She always was a pretty cold customer, didn’t like being in the U.S. She stayed pretty much by herself.”

“I only met her that one time,” Lake said. “She was cold, so unlike him.”

“Yeah, he was loose, loved drinking at Piccadilly. We had some good times.”

Lake had played the tape of her conversation with Callender for Morizio during a dinner of sausage, peppers, and spaghetti. He’d made notes, and when the final goodbyes played through the speakers, he put
down his pad and pen and said, “I wonder how much they did hate each other.”

“Callender and Barnsworth?”

“Mr. and Mrs. James. If he was about to divorce her, that could mean cutting her off after all those years of her supporting him, like doctors divorcing their wives after they’ve put them through medical school.”

“Make her mad enough to poison him? I suppose so, but what about Paul Pringle? I doubt if Mrs. James is capable of the things that were done to him.”

“Maybe she bought them.”

“Maybe. You want me to talk to her, don’t you?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice. Feel like it?”

“Callender told me she’s back in Philadelphia staying with her mother. I could go up there.”

“Take a shot at it tomorrow. I’ll cover for you.”

Lake sat back in her recliner and rubbed her eyes, stretched her long, bare legs out to their fullest extension, and said, “We’re in deep, Sal. It’ll kick back.”

“I’ll handle it, don’t worry.”

Lake took the 6
A.M
. Amtrak Metroliner, which arrived in Philadelphia at 7:45. She’d only had coffee on the train and was hungry. Besides, she was too early to be calling Marsha James’s family home in Bryn Mawr. She’d decided to take the same basic approach she had with Melanie Callender, but did plan to call a few minutes before arriving at the house.

She ate a large breakfast in a luncheonette on Thirtieth Street and read the morning paper. At 9:15 she went into a phone booth and dialed a number for a residence listed under Marsha James’s maiden name, Girard. The family traced back, according to newspaper stories about the ambassador’s wife, to Stephen Girard, who’d been the principal financier of the War of 1812.

A woman answered. Connie asked for Mrs. James.

“Not here,” the woman said. Lake assumed she was a maid, asked when Mrs. James could be expected. “At noon, at lunch.” Connie thanked her and hung up.

She killed the morning walking through Penn Center,
then called the Girard home at ten minutes of noon. The same woman answered. “Yes, who is calling?”

“Constance Lake of the Washington Metropolitan Police Department.”

“Please wait,” said the maid.

“Yes?” a different woman said.

Connie introduced herself again. “Is this Mrs. James?” she asked.

“No, this is her mother. You’re a police officer?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What a fascinating thing for a young woman to do. It would never have been allowed in my day.”

Lake smiled and said, “My mother says the same thing.”

“She must worry about you, my dear. You want to speak to my daughter?”

“I was hoping to. I don’t want to intrude but…”

“She’s been through a great deal, something no mother would wish upon a daughter, but that’s life, is it not? We take the bitter with the sweet.”

“Absolutely.” Connie realized how fortunate she was to have gotten Mrs. Girard. As long as she could keep her talking, stay on her good side, there was a chance of getting to Marsha James. She listened patiently as the old woman lamented over what had happened to Philadelphia, its rising crime rate, poverty, a loss of the genteel life to which she’d become accustomed. When she was through with her monologue, she said, “I’ve been talking your ear off. You’re a very nice young woman to indulge me.”

“I enjoyed it,” said Connie. She had.

“My daughter will speak with you.”

“She…”

“Hello.”

“Mrs. James?”

“Yes. You are…”

“Constance Lake. I’m with the Washington, D.C. MPD.”

“I really have nothing to say.”

“I’m not here to talk about your husband. I know that’s embassy business, but the murder of Paul Pringle is another matter.”

“Yes, I heard. Tragic. He seemed a decent sort.”

“Yes, he was very decent, Mrs. James. I’m trying to learn more about him to help us in the investigation. It’s more than official. He was a close friend of my boss and…”

“I’ll be more than happy to speak with you. When would you like to see me?”

“I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“You’re in Philadelphia?”

“Yes.”

“You were confident.”

“I suppose I was.”

“Twenty minutes will be fine. Mother insists you have lunch with us.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“No imposition. Good-bye.”

Connie stepped out of the booth and processed what had just gone on. It was so easy, too easy. She tried to think the way Morizio would think—“No such thing as a free lunch.” What are they after? She realized she’d find out soon enough, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address.

The house had been designed by Thomas U. Walter. It was, she decided as she looked at it from the cab, French-Federal, although she wasn’t sure what that meant. It was large and made of red brick. Four white columns decorated with cupids and flowers supported the roof of
the front porch. A Cadillac limousine and a red Mercedes were parked in the driveway.

The maid answered her knock, took her coat, and escorted her to a cozy paneled library where a fire roared in a walk-in fireplace. Three people were in the room, Marsha James, her mother, and a distinguished looking gentleman in muted brown tweeds and a magnificent red beard streaked with white.

“Miss Lake,” Mrs. Girard said as she crossed the room and extended her hand. She carried a cane but didn’t seem to need it. She was a tiny woman with silver hair and blue eyes that were very much alive. A natural pink hue forced itself through wrinkled parchment cheeks. She wore a black taffeta dress gathered at the sleeves, and a white silk shawl. Strands of pearls wound around her neck, and Lake noticed immediately that four fingers on each gnarled hand held rings of varying sizes and brilliance.

“You’re Mrs. Girard.”

“Yes, I am. Come, meet my daughter and her guest.” She took Lake by the hand and led her across the room. Marsha James sat in a white oak Wainscot chair. The gentleman stood behind her, his hand on the chair’s arched, cresting back as though he were ready to pose for a family portrait.

“Miss Lake, my daughter, Marsha.”

“Hello,” Lake said, extending her hand. Mrs. James took it but without enthusiasm.

“And this is Sir Edwin Ferguson,” said Mrs. Girard.

“Nice to meet you,” Connie said.

“Yes, likewise.” He seemed awkward at the introduction and did not address her directly.

“Sherry?” Mrs. Girard asked.

“Ah, yes, that would be…”

“Something else? My late husband used to say, ‘Wine
maketh glad the heart of man,’ or something like that. True for women, too. Would you prefer whiskey?”

“Scotch would be nice.”

“He drank too much but he liked it.” She rang for the maid and gave her Connie’s order. “More, Sir Edwin?” she asked Ferguson.

“Yes, please.”

“A Scotsman through and through.”

Lake glanced at Marsha James, who seemed either bored or annoyed with what had transpired, and decided to get into a conversation with her right away. “It was good of you to see me,” she said.

“I always wish to be cooperative.”

“I know, that’s your reputation.”

Mrs. James smiled and looked down into a glass of sherry she cradled in her lap. She was dressed in a simple but expensive graphite-gray dress. A burgundy silk scarf was neatly arranged around her neck. Her shoes were black, sensible pumps, and her only jewelry was a plain gold wedding band. She glanced up at Connie and said, “You look nothing like a policewoman.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Lake said pleasantly.

“I meant it to be. You said you wanted to talk about Paul Pringle.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“If you don’t mind my putting in my two cents,” said Sir Edwin Ferguson, “I think this is totally inappropriate. The death of that fellow has nothing to do with Mrs. James.”

“Of course not,” said Lake, “but this murder might be linked, in some way, to your husband’s death.” She said it to Mrs. James, deliberately ignoring Ferguson.

“That’s absurd,” Mrs. James said. “They were totally
unrelated. From what I read, Mr. Pringle was involved in drugs.”

“We don’t believe that,” Connie said.

“Why anyone would want to use those things is beyond me,” Mrs. Girard said from a maple Hitchcock rocker into which she’d settled by the fireplace. “All the criminals in Philadelphia are dope addicts. Disgusting lot.”

“Drugs and crime do go hand in hand,” Lake said. She looked at Ferguson, who was still posturing behind Marsha James’s chair. “Are you a family friend?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“Sir Edwin and my husband were business associates and good friends.”

“I see.” There was a sudden stillness in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Lake said, “This is a lovely room, so warm and inviting.”

The maid returned with the drinks, including a refill of sherry for Mrs. Girard. The old lady raised her glass and said, “To better times, without the dopeheads.”

Connie smiled and sipped her drink.

“When’s lunch?” Mrs. Girard asked. “I’m starved.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

They lunched at the library window, at a game table inlaid with leather. Outside was a large garden rendered gray and dormant by the pending winter. Lake was glad they were staying in the room. Besides being comfortable, it meant she could leave her purse where it was, on the mantel. The tape was rolling.

The food was simpler than she’d expected—onion soup, watery; tuna salad on a bed of lettuce; heated Pepperidge Farm rolls; and sliced tomatoes. Everyone ate quickly, and little was said. Dessert consisted of leftover apple pie and coffee.

“Delicious,” said Lake.

“Very nice, Mother,” Marsha James said.

“With the price of food these days the farmers have all the money,” said Mrs. Girard.

Marsha James sighed, got up, and returned to her chair by the fireplace. Ferguson excused himself and left the room. Connie remained at the table with Mrs. Girard, who’d sat back, her coffee cup in a very steady hand, and who was staring at Connie. “Do you really think my son-in-law’s death could be related to this Pringle chap?”

“We don’t know,” Connie said, pleased that the topic had been reintroduced, “but we’re trying to find out.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Marsha James said, “My husband was poisoned by his valued Iranian servant, Nuri Hafez, who is in custody in Iran.”

“That’s debatable, isn’t it?” Connie said.

Marsha James sat up straight. Her eyes opened wide and her mouth slipped into a tight sneer. “No, young lady, there is no debate about that whatsoever.”

Connie was tempted to back off. Instead, she looked Mrs. James in the eye and said, “We have information that leads us to believe Nuri Hafez might have been a scapegoat.”

“Good lord,” Marsha James said, turning from Lake and looking into the fire. “I’ve never heard such drivel in my life.”

“I didn’t say it was a fact, Mrs. James, just that there’s a possibility that Hafez did not kill your husband.”

“You’re not here to talk about my husband.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. What can you tell me about Paul Pringle?”

“Very little. He was a quiet man, did his job, was courteous.”

“Hardly a drug user’s profile.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. There’d been rumors that he’d had personal problems.”

“What kind of personal problems?”

“I have no idea. I was not involved with the security staff.”

“What in God’s name led you to become a policewoman?” Mrs. Girard asked.

Ferguson entered the room. “I really should be going,” he announced.

“Were you involved with Ambassador James in his Scottish oil company?” Connie asked. Ferguson looked at Marsha James. Lake added, “The one financed by the Manchester bank.”

“I think it’s time for
you
to leave, Miss Lake,” Mrs. James said, standing and smoothing her dress.

“Why is that question so out of line?” Connie asked.

“Scottish oil,” Mrs. Girard said in a disparaging voice. “Next they’ll be seceding from the Crown, and good riddance.”

“Please, Mother.”

Ferguson coughed.

Lake looked at Mrs. Girard, who was smiling. It was a sweet, satisfied smile. Obviously, she reveled in the dialogue that was taking place.

“To answer your question,” Ferguson said, “I am retired. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He said to Marsha James, “Might I speak with you a moment?”

Mrs. James quickly got out of her chair and followed him from the room. Connie realized her time was up, and she’d get nothing more from Marsha James. She said to Mrs. Girard, who’d returned to sipping her sherry, “Did you know the young Iranian who’s accused of murdering your son-in-law?”