Murder at the Kennedy Center by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

questioned about it. Smith had always found Ewald somewhat enigmatic—predictable in a few unappealing ways, persuasively attractive in others. A human being.
    Leslie returned carrying a scotch on the rocks for him, a balloon glass containing a dark liquid for her, partly consumed. “Did I get it right, Mac, scotch?”
    “Yes, might as well stay with it. What are you drinking?” To keep her talking.
    “Brandy and port. When Ken and I were in Scotland a few years ago, we took a particularly rough boat trip to the Orkney Islands. My stomach was queasy, and I asked the bartender for some blackberry brandy. He insisted a combination of port and brandy was more effective. He was right. I’ve felt like throwing up ever since we got your phone call, but this settled my stomach right down.”
    When they were seated on adjoining flowered love seats around a leather-topped coffee table, Smith said, “Okay, tell me about it. Don’t mince words, just be direct. I know the death of anyone we know is terribly upsetting, but I’m reading into this something beyond that. Am I right?”
    “Yes, you are
very
right.”
    “What am I right about?”
    “I don’t know where to begin. I suppose I should just tell you that—”
    Ewald and Farmer returned. Ewald pulled a red morocco leather chair on casters up to the table, settled his long, lean body in it, and crossed one leg over the other, the casualness of the pose in stark contrast to the tension-stiffened body of his wife. Farmer stood by a window behind Smith.
    “Leslie was just starting to tell me about a particular concern you have with Andrea’s death.”
    Ewald said to his wife, “Go ahead, might as well continue.” Smith couldn’t decide whether Ewald was angry at Leslie or feeling an anxiety that his outward appearance didn’t reflect.
    Leslie shook her head and looked down at her drink.
    “All right, I’ll pick it up from there,” Ewald said. “Evidently, Andrea was murdered with a weapon that belongs to me.”
    The expulsion of air through Smith’s lips was involuntary—and necessary. He sat back and listened to Ewald’s further explanation.
    “I’ve had a registered handgun in the house for years. Leslie had been expressing concern about the amount of time I’m away, and I thought simply having it on the premises would be comforting to her.” He looked at Leslie; she continued to stare down into her port and brandy.
    “It was a small stainless-steel Derringer, a three-inch .45 Colt. It’s been sitting in a drawer in the bedroom for God knows how long. At any rate, after you called with the news about Andrea, I opened the drawer. Don’t ask me why, but I did. The gun is gone.”
    “Who had access to it besides you and Leslie?” Smith asked.
    Ewald looked once again at his wife. “Everyone in the house,” she said.
    “Family?” Smith asked.
    “Yes, family, visitors, household staff, campaign staff. A cast of thousands.”
    Smith thought for a moment before asking, “Is that what’s concerning you so? Or do you think that someone in this household is going to be accused of her murder?”
    Ewald didn’t reply, but Leslie did, in a low, flat voice. “Yes.”
    “Someone from your staff, Ken?”
    “No,” Ewald said, looking at Leslie for the first time as if to receive approval of what he was about to say next. She was without expression. He said, “We feel there is the possibility that Paul will be charged with the murder.”
    “Why do you say that?” Smith asked.
    “Because …”
    Leslie Ewald finished the sentence. “Because Paul was having an affair with her.” Smith started to speak, but Leslie forged on. “Paul was having an affair with Andrea Feldman, and last night he did not return home.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes. We talked to Janet.”
    Smith was processing what she’d said. Both things pointed at Paul Ewald as a suspect, but they were hardly conclusive. Smith added a third element; Paul obviously had access to his