Murder on Capitol Hill by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

started toward the house.
    “Lydia, before you go in there’s something you should know.”
    “What?”
    A gust of cool wind whipped her hair across her face.
    “Veronica wants the family kept out of this as much as possible… and bear in mind”—he took a few steps toward her—“this is not just
any
family, Lydia. This is the Caldwell family.”
    “I’m well aware of that.”
    A housekeeper opened the door and Lydia stepped into a large anteroom. A well-worn red-and-gold area rug partially covered wide floor boards that glistened with fresh wax. A long, cherry table along the wall to her left held a large silver bowl, nothing else. Above it hung an oil portrait of Veronica’s father. A scarred, sturdy church pew was against the wall toher right. Next to it stood an elaborately carved clothes tree on which a woman’s pale pink cardigan hung from a peg.
    “One moment, ma’am,” the housekeeper said.
    Lydia watched her go through a wide archway and disappear to her right, which Lydia knew led to the living and dining rooms. A few moments later Cale Caldwell came through the arch, extended his hand. “Thanks for coming, Lydia. Mother is very pleased you’re here.”
    “Cale, I’m—”
    “Yes, I understand, it’s an awful shock to all of us. Come on, Mother is in the den.”
    The den was a large room just off the living room. A stone fireplace took up one entire wall, and a fire that had been recently stoked and replenished cast a flickering orange glow over the room.
    “Lydia,” Veronica said as she got up from a cushioned club chair in front of the fireplace. They embraced, Veronica clearly on the edge of tears.
    They sat together on a couch from which Lydia could see into the living room, where Cale, Jr., and a young woman stood next to a table. The woman was talking into a telephone, and although Lydia could not hear from that distance it was obvious that Cale was coaching her on what to say. The resemblance to his father struck her as remarkably strong at that moment.
    “Who’s that?” Lydia asked, indicating the woman on the phone.
    “Joanne Marshall. She works for Cale in his office and offered to help out here. God, Lydia, will the phones ever stop ringing?”
    “Probably not for a long time.”
    “Cale sometimes used to be critical of the press and I never really understood. Now…”
    “I heard the interview you gave this morning to Quentin Hughes—”
    “You did?” She seemed genuinely surprised.
    “Yes. Frankly I was surprised you’d done it. And why him?”
    “Well, he
has
always been a good friend of the center, promoting it, helping raise funds through his show… Did you know that Cale taped Hughes’s TV show only last week?”
    “No, I didn’t… I thought Cale disliked Hughes.”
    “I suppose he did, but he agreed to do it because it was a chance for him to explain some new legislation he was involved with. I remember he said it went very well.”
    “When was it supposed to air?”
    “This Sunday, I think. The program is on every Sunday morning, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    A year before, Hughes had begun a weekly “public service” program on WCAP-TV. It ran for half an hour each Sunday morning and featured interviews with newsmakers in the Washington area. Ordinarily such shows were scheduled only to satisfy an FCC requirement that a station devote a certain percentage of its weekly programming to noncommercial, informational subjects in the “public interest.” But because Hughes had a wide following, and because his abrasive, probing interview style often made sparks fly, the show had quickly gained a wide audience.
    “I’ve agreed to be a guest,” Veronica said, looking away from Lydia.
    “About Cale’s death…?”
    “Yes… and other things.”
    Lydia tried to hide her dismay. “When are you doing it, Veronica?”
    “Tomorrow. He’s going to bring a mobile crew here. I think it’s the best way, don’t you, to put an end to all this media probing?