Murder at the National Cathedral by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

stuck his head into the bathroom, where Annabel was drying her hair, a huge pink towel wrapped around her nakedness. “Who called?” she asked.
    “George St. James. I’m heading for the cathedral now to meet with him. We’ll have to scrap breakfast.”
    “Why?” she asked.
    “There’s been a … an accident at the cathedral. George wants to discuss it with me … from a legal point of view. I said I’d meet him in twenty minutes.”
    “What kind of accident?”
    Smith looked into her large green eyes and had a sudden burst of recognition, which had been happening with some regularity since the wedding. They
were
married. She
was
his wife. No secrets. Right? Right! “Look, Annabel, this will be a shock, but Paul Singletary is dead.”
    She slumped back on a stool, the hair dryer blowing hot air on her feet. “Paul? How? What happened?”
    No secrets. “He’s been murdered. Somebody hit him in the head, at least according to George. He’s … he’s dead.”
    “I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” she said, standing and redirecting the hot air at her thick, wet red hair.
    “No. Right now, George is concerned about people knowing, for some reason. It’s got to come out, of course.I’m meeting him privately, in the Bishop’s Garden. You hang out here, take any other phone calls, and meet me at the back of the cathedral at quarter of nine, near the statue of George Washington.”
    “Mac, I … You’re not going to get involved in another—”
    “Please. I’ve told you all I know. I’ll do better at quarter of nine.”
    Smith drove his blue Chevy Caprice up Wisconsin Avenue and stopped at Church House Road, the first small access road to the cathedral close. He saw the gathering of security people, and decided to continue on Wisconsin until reaching another road that would take him to the north side of the cathedral, where there should be less activity. He parked in a designated visitors’ space and walked briskly around the North Cloister and the administration building, turned right, the College of Preachers on his left, and followed the road south past the library and the deanery until reaching the Norman Arch, the main visitors’ entrance to the lovely Bishop’s Garden. He paused and looked back; a Cathedral Police white Ford Bronco, its yellow lights flashing on top, sped by. Had the bishop changed his mind and informed the authorities? Smith hoped so.
    He didn’t know where in the gardens George St. James would be waiting, but decided to head for the Rose Garden, where floribundas and hybrid tea roses would be in full bloom in Washington’s mild October weather. His hunch was right. St. James, now dressed in simple clerical collar and black suit, stood at the end of the Rose Garden beneath an old pear tree. Next to him, surrounded by rare Kingsville dwarf box, stood Heinz Warneke’s statue of the Prodigal Son. The scent of roses hung thick in the still morning air.
    St. James spotted Smith and waved him over, as though directing the relocation of a piece of heavy furniture.
    They shook hands. What had happened that morning was written all over the bishop’s face. It was drawn and sallow,a pleading quality in his ordinarily bright blue eyes. “Thank you for coming,” he said.
    “I saw some activity,” Smith said. “Did you change your mind, notify the police?”
    St. James shook his head. “I told you I wanted to wait until—”
    “All right, tell me again what occurred this morning.”
    St. James quickly recapped the events, culminating with the discovery of Singletary’s body in the Good Shepherd Chapel.
    “Who is the woman who found him?”
    “I don’t know her name. Eileen is with her in my dressing room.”
    “Eileen knows?”
    “Yes, I had to tell her. I mean, she is my wife.”
    “Of course.… I understand. When did you last see Paul?” Smith asked.
    “A few days ago, just before he left for London.” St. James stopped, as though having been struck by a