Murder in the Smithsonian by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

stopping by, and again, sorry about canceling out yesterday. It couldn’t be avoided.”
    ***
    Back at MPD, Hanrahan was about to go to a meeting of detectives assigned to the Tunney case when the desk sergeant called. “Captain, there’s a woman here to see you. She says it’s about the Tunney murder.”
    Hanrahan rolled his eyes up and reached for a Tums. It was about to start, the procession of crazies offering useless information and theories to match. The city was crawling with them, the lonely and slightly unbalanced, no one to talk to, nobody to give them a sense of importance. They called phone-in radio talk shows to report their latest encounters with men from Mars, or their personal miseries with uncaring relatives,stone-hearted social agencies, ex-spouses, and so forth.
    Recently, a demented young man claiming to be a nephew of James Smithson—the Smithsonian was named for him—had been leaving notes in Smithsonian museums threatening to blow them up if he didn’t receive his “rightful recognition.” So far no bombs had gone off, but it had become a nagging pain in the neck for Hanrahan.
    Hanrahan now told the desk sergeant, whose name was Arey and who had a reputation for confusing phone messages, “Get her number and tell her we’ll call her back.”
    “She says she came all the way from Scotland, Captain. She says she’s the deceased’s fiancée.”
    “Tunney’s fiancée?”
    “That’s what she says.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Heather McBean.”
    “Let me talk to her.”
    “Hello,” Heather said.
    “Hello. I’m Captain Hanrahan. You were Dr. Tunney’s fiancée?”
    “Yes.”
    “You just arrived from Scotland?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Do you know anything that you think might help us?”
    “Do
you
know anything that might help
me
, Captain? I was engaged to be married to Lewis Tunney. He’s been murdered in your city, in a leading museum, in a cold-blooded brutal fashion. The wedding is off, Captain, but I intend to stay here until I get some answers that…”
    Hanrahan had to smile to himself. She sure was Scottish. The anger and the brogue were thick. He toldSergeant Arey to have someone escort Heather McBean to his office, hung up and called Joe Pearl, telling him to put the meeting off an hour.
    “Why? Everybody’s here.”
    “
I’m
not there, and I won’t be for an hour.”
    “
Okay
, Mac, whatever you say.”
    ***
    Heather sat in the chair Hanrahan offered and crossed what Hanrahan noted were shapely legs, well muscled like a ballet dancer’s, or a woman who lived in a hilly city like San Francisco.
    “Is Edinburgh hilly?” he asked. It was the only city in Scotland that he could think of offhand.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “No special reason. I’ve never been there.”
    “No, it isn’t especially hilly. Windy, though. It’s in the Gulf Stream.” She smiled, and so did he. Hanrahan, she thought. No doubt about being Irish. Black Irish her uncle would have said, black hair, fair skin and green eyes in nonstop motion.
    “So, Miss McBean, you were engaged to marry Lewis Tunney. I’m most sorry for your loss.”
    “Thank you, Captain… We hadn’t been engaged long, only a few weeks…”
    “I’m sure that makes it especially tough,” Hanrahan said, unsure of what to say. “Did you work with him, I mean in the same field?”
    “Yes, in a way. I was a museum curator.”
    “Which museum?”
    “The British Museum in London.”
    “I thought you were Scottish.”
    “Being born Scottish doesn’t mean lifetime prohibition from traveling.”
    He sat back. This one sure had spirit. The question was, would she help or backbite. “Did you meet Dr. Tunney through your work?”
    “In a manner of speaking. He’d been friendly over the years with my uncle, Calum McBean, who was one of the world’s leading collectors. They shared an interest in secret societies from post-Revolutionary War America. They didn’t see much of each other, though. My uncle was a