Murder in Havana by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

have.”
    “That’s what they say about you in Congress, Mr. President.” Scott said this while settling on a white wicker love seat next to his wife.
    Chief of Staff Larsen said, “That’s the president’s political philosophy. Take it from Congress before they take it from you.”
    After another ten minutes of small talk, President Walden’s announcement that he and Sheila were calling it a day caused the others to stand and make similar pronouncements. Except for Mac and Annabel Smith. “I think we’ll sit up a while,” Smith said.
    “No necking on the couch,” said Walden. “You never can tell when there’s somebody out there with a long lens.”
    “We’ll try to control ourselves,” Annabel said brightly.
    “The hell we will,” Mac mock growled.
    When the others were gone, Annabel said to her husband, “What a lovely weekend.”
    “It’s good to see the president get away if even for a few days. He’s been looking exhausted lately.”
    “No wonder, with all the turmoil around him: a hostile Congress, the Middle East, the Far East, the fight over the Supreme Court nomination, Cuba. It never stops.”
    “Did you have a pleasant time with Sheila and the others?” he asked.
    “While you were bonding?” She laughed. “We had a lovely time. Sheila’s devotion to funding the arts in public schools is inspiring. She asked me to join the foundation.”
    “You will, of course.”
    “I will. Of course.”
    He took her hand and they sat in silence.
    Annabel was tall—five eight—trim except where shewasn’t supposed to be. Additional advantages included a creamy complexion and a mane of copper hair. Her eyes were, of course, green as if ordained, and large. Her ears, nose, and mouth had been created with a stunning sense of proportion. She was, in Mac’s eyes—which were a lighter green, the color of Granny Smith apples—at least the most beautiful woman in the world, a view shared by other men who’d pursued her. But Mac Smith was the one who’d won her hand, for which he was eternally grateful.
    Smith was equally handsome by any standard, slightly taller than medium, stocky and strong, hair receding slowly and within acceptable limits, face without undue defects. When they’d taken their vows in Washington National Cathedral’s Bethlehem Chapel those ten years ago, Annabel had prompted laughter when asked the question, “Will you have this man to be your husband?” She had replied in a loud, cheery voice, “Oh, yes, I certainly will.”
    Smith had been widowed when he met Annabel. His first wife and only child, a son, fell victim to a drunk driver on the Beltway. That vast loss created in him a whole new way of viewing life. He decided to close down his lucrative criminal law practice and took a position as professor of law at George Washington University.
    When Annabel met Smith at an embassy function, she, too, had been considering a change in her life. She was a matrimonial attorney in D.C., and a good one, but years of dealing with warring couples and their inability, or unwillingness, to forge peaceful dissolutions of their marriages had worn her down. Her true personal passion had long been pre-Columbian art. With her husband’s encouragement, she closed her law offices and opened a storefront gallery in Georgetown that eventually grew in size and stature.
    “I envy you your trip to Cuba,” she said quietly.
    “In the summer? It would be worth envying if it were January.”
    “Speaking of heat, while you guys were male-bonding we were discussing why the president is taking so much of it these days from Congress over his Cuba policies.”
    “The Castro hard-liners won’t let go, Annabel. They can’t accept the idea that the main thing the embargo has accomplished lately is the impoverishment of the average Cuban, and the strengthening of Castro’s image—him against the mighty aggressor ninety miles off his shores.”
    “Well, it should be an interesting trip,” Annabel