Murder at Ford's Theatre by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

NEA.”
    “
If
I’m confirmed. Come on, we’ll pick up Bernard on our way downstairs. An inspiring sunset and a stiff drink are precisely what I need.”

SIX
    A NNABEL, C LARISE, AND B ERNARD C ROWLEY had to negotiate a crowd of reporters camped outside the theatre when they left to go to Annabel’s Watergate apartment. They drove in Annabel’s car, which she’d put in a garage adjacent to the theatre, and parked in the space reserved for the Smiths beneath the Watergate complex, that parking privilege setting them back an additional $45,000 on the purchase price of their three-bedroom co-op in the south building. Although apartments in other Watergate buildings tended to be larger, the south building afforded stunning views of the Potomac River, and accompanying sunsets—on most days.
    “I lied,” Annabel said. They sat on the terrace, the women sipping glasses of red zinfandel, Crowley enjoying a glass of bourbon over ice. Mac had called to say he’d been detained at the university but would get there as soon as he could.
    “Lied about what?” Clarise asked.
    “The sunset. Sorry about the clouds.”
    “Clouds seem more appropriate,” Clarise said, “considering what’s happened.”
    “You said the young woman who’s been killed worked with you,” Annabel said to Crowley.
    “Yes, I’m embarrassed to say.” To Clarise: “I hope you don’t think poorly of me for not telling you. I meant well.”
    “Of course I don’t think poorly of you, Bernard. You did the right thing once you realized who she was. I’m somewhat embarrassed that I haven’t paid more attention to who’s working in the theatre. And let me say that despite my feelings about the girl, I am very saddened by her death. Very saddened.”
    Clarise lightened her tone. “I’m sure you noticed how attractive she was,” she said, sipping her wine. “I remember thinking whenever I saw her on TV how beautiful she was. No, make that sexy. There was a crude sexiness to her.”
    Annabel looked to Crowley for a reaction, whose slight shrug said he either didn’t have an opinion about such things, or hadn’t noticed.
    “Where was she from?” Annabel asked.
    “Somewhere in the Midwest,” Crowley answered. “I think her folks live in Florida. I remember her mentioning that once.”
    “What amazes me, Bernard,” Clarise said, “is that you didn’t realize who she was immediately. You can’t be alive in this town without reading about the flirtatious young intern and my esteemed former husband.”
    “I don’t read that kind of junk,” Crowley said, sounding as though he meant it. “Excuse me.” He headed for the kitchen to refresh his drink.
    “It’s inevitable that the rumors about Bruce and the young girl will surface again,” Annabel said to Clarise. “Had he ever discussed her with you?”
    “No. Once. After all the requisite denials had been issued, I asked him straight out whether he’d slept with her. Not that it was any of my business. He’s free to sleep with whomever he chooses. But I hated to see him fall into the dirty old man category. He’s too good for that.”
    “And?”
    “He gave me one of his usual charming answers. He said that at his age, talking after the act is as important as the act itself. ‘What could we possibly talk about?’ he said.”
    Annabel smiled. She and Mac had met the dashing, erudite senator from Virginia on a number of occasions, and could picture him saying that. He was a charmer, no question about that. She glanced over at Clarise, who seemed to be deep in thought, her eyes focused on the German Gothic spires of Georgetown University to the northwest, behind which the sunset had failed to make an appearance that evening. Clarise’s divorce from Bruce Lerner had occurred many years before Annabel had been introduced to her, but she had seen pictures of the elegant couple, as well as attended functions at which they both made an appearance, the tall, urbane senator from Virginia