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

and the stunning television and movie producer from Hollywood, a power couple if there ever was one—not only because of their respective positions, but the physical swath they cut when entering a room as well. They were always cordial toward each other when in the presence of others, seemingly friends who probably got along better divorced than when coupled in marriage.
    Clarise had been relatively reticent with Annabel about the marriage and breakup, summing things up with flippant, offhand phrases: “No house was big enough for both egos.” Or, “He wanted to be a movie star, and I wanted to be a senator. We were both failures.”
    “How’s Jeremiah?” Annabel asked. It sounded like an obligatory question—à la
How’s the kids?
    Jeremiah was the only child from the Lerner-Emerson marriage, and Clarise seldom spoke of him. Annabel knew that the young man—how old was he now, twenty, twenty-one?—was a disappointment to Clarise, and presumably to his father. There had been scrapes with the law, minor incidents—Annabel knew little of the details—and whispers among rumormongers that the kid was a foul ball, a drifter, an un-handyman type of guy with no steady employment and no future, unless the Lerner name propelled him forward.
    “Oh, Jeremiah is all right, Annabel. Still finding himself.”
    Not an especially prideful response. Annabel withheld any follow-up questions.
    But Clarise wasn’t finished. “I have nightmares about Jeremiah.” Her sigh was prolonged and pained. “You know, the things I did wrong, the times I wasn’t there for him. Bruce and I did our best, I think, ‘our best’ under the circumstances of our careers and schedules. I don’t know, Annabel, maybe politics and parenting don’t mix.”
    Annabel thought it interesting that Clarise chose her former husband’s career as an example rather than her own career as a high-powered movie and TV executive. Jeremiah, Annabel knew through anecdotes from people who were friends of the Lerners when they were a couple, had spent most of his youth in his father’s home, with full-time nannies. Clarise, who spent each week in Hollywood, had flown home to Washington on weekends to be with her husband and son. Not the ideal parenting situation, but not as bad as some others in which poverty exacerbates single-parent homes. Who was to judge their parenting record? Not Annabel. Not anyone other than the boy’s mother and father.
    Crowley returned to the terrace, a fresh drink in hand. A moment later, Mac came through the door and apologized for being held up. “I see you’ve found the bar,” he said pleasantly. “Good. I think I’ll find it, too. Be with you in a minute.”
    When Mac joined them, the conversation turned from Jeremiah Lerner to Ford’s Theatre and its upcoming productions.
    “We have the teen show coming up,” Clarise said. “The Stages for all Ages program has really taken off. We can’t handle the number of teens who want to participate.”
    “The
Post
sponsors that, doesn’t it?” Mac asked.
    “Among others,” Crowley answered. “Metro Transit, DC Commission on the Arts. The support’s been terrific, thanks to our friend here.” He said to her, “Clarise, you’re the best arm-twister I’ve ever known.”
    “Thank you,” she said lightly, “but that’s what the job is all about, isn’t it?”
    “That, and putting on plays,” Mac offered.
    “The easiest part,” Clarise replied. “Keeping the money flowing, and dealing with all the different personalities, are a lot harder.”
    “Sydney Bancroft,” Crowley said flatly.
    Annabel laughed. “Still the bane of your existence, Clarise?”
    Clarise’s smile wasn’t pure pleasure. “Oh, Sydney is all right,” she said. “He’s directing the student play and doing a good job, I’m told.”
    Crowley, who was leaning against the terrace’s railing, came away from it and went to take the fourth chair, which was vacant. He stumbled as he did, caught