Murder on the Potomac by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

much.
    “Something wrong?” he asked.
    “A woman with whom I spent last evening has been murdered. I’d say that represents something wrong.”
    “Whoa, wait a minute,” Smith said. “I’m not talking about being upset over the fact that she’s dead. You seem angry with
me
.”
    “Angry with you? No. Concerned? Yes. I suppose you’re doing the right thing by responding to Wendell’s call. I also know it frightens me. Another murder. Is it going to start all over again?”
    He didn’t hesitate with his answer. “No, it isn’t,” he said. “I’ll be home for dinner. Any preferences?”
    “Somehow, I’m having trouble thinking of food at this moment.”
    “Your gastric juices will say something by the time I get there. Chinese? Salads from American Cafe?”
    “Whatever. Please tell Wendell how sorry I am about Pauline.”

8
    Five O’Clock That Afternoon
    The Tierney complex sat majestically on a ridge in McLean, Virginia, overlooking the Potomac River. A long set of gray wooden steps zigzagged down through woods and boulders to the river’s edge where Tierney’s personal marina had been dredged and built years ago. Anchored at it were four boats: his 105-foot luxury yacht,
Marilyn
; a Cigarette racing boat belonging to his adopted son, Sun Ben Cheong, that carried the name
M.O.R
. and was translated beneath in Chinese symbols; an Aquasport utility fishing boat; and a fully fitted-out bass boat.
    The complex itself centered on a huge Georgian Revival-style home that had been expanded over the years into a series of wings that jutted out at odd angles. Some wings, depending upon the architect, approximatedthe main house’s architectural theme. Others did not, taking a more contemporary approach. A columnar porch ran the width of the front of the home, affording excellent vistas of the river and beyond. To the rear of the house, which was what you approached as you entered along a winding tree-lined drive, was a cluster of small gardens, one Japanese, some distinctly British, another an obvious vegetable patch. Outbuildings included a barn and a six-car garage with living quarters above.
    A dozen cars were in the circular gravel drive, two of them marked police vehicles.
    Smith parked his navy-blue Chevy Caprice at the end of the line, got out, and looked up to the sky. It was gray overall, with heavier clouds approaching from the west. He stepped up onto a farmer’s porch containing potting materials, a barbecue, and three bicycles, and knocked. The door was opened by Tierney’s son. “Mr. Smith. Hello. My father said you were coming.”
    “Hello, Chip. I’m on time, I think. Sorry about the news.”
    “It was quite a blow to all of us. Come in, please.”
    Because the main entrance was on the river side in front, and since there wasn’t an automobile access to that side of the house, visitors entered through the back door into a large mudroom—for lack of a better word—that had been spruced up to function as a foyer. Still, the prevailing feeling was mudroom.
    It was a home in which an active family obviously lived; the vestiges of young men were in ample evidence. Baseball bats and gloves, a lacrosse stick, fishing rods, and skis littered corners of the foyer—mudroom—where they had been carelessly tossed. A row ofwooden pegs acted as hangers for an assortment of outerwear.
    Smith knew from previous visits that the rest of the house was not so casual. It was sprawling and splendid, each large room filled with enough antiques to excite Sotheby’s. At the same time, Tierney’s love of electronic gadgets was ever in evidence. You didn’t have to move more than a few feet to put your hand on a telephone. The house’s security system was state-of-the-art. Large TV projection screens dominated many rooms, and the main stereo system, with speakers throughout the house, had enough wattage to amplify the Kennedy Center.
    “Dad is in his study. The police are here.”
    “So I noticed,” Smith