Murder on the Potomac (18 page)

Kirshbaum took the flyer from Smith and proceeded to plumb the depths of his patient’s gaping mouth. “Some coincidence,” he said as he worked.

Smith tried to communicate with his eyes.

“The murder of the dental student last night,” Kirshbaum said. “You didn’t hear about it?”

Smith wanted to tell him that his friend and correspondent Monty Jamison, Tri-S’s membership chairman, had begun to mention it, but Mac couldn’t form the words.

“Young dental student murdered in a seedy hotel on North Capital. Heard it on the radio. A witness claims to have seen a woman coming down the fire escape. What goes around comes around, I guess.”

Eventually, and through lips numbed to stone by multiple injections of novocaine, Smith was free to get up from the chair and ask, “Planning on joining the Scarlet Sin Society?”

“Yeah, I think I might. Sounds like fun. They have a big event coming up this Saturday, don’t they?”

“They certainly do. All for a good cause.”

“Sounds like something you’d be involved in, Mac. I mean, being a criminal attorney. Sounds like it’s right down your alley, your cup of tea.”

“Maybe my cup years ago but not now,” Smith replied, curbing the temptation to add that an hour in a
dentist’s chair somehow seemed more gruesome than simple, quick murder. He paid his bill to the nurse at the reception desk, said hello to the next patient, a young senator from Massachusetts with whom Smith occasionally played racquetball, and headed home, fingertips pressed against his abused jawbone, his mind filled with visions of young women in nightgowns dancing down fire escapes.

What had another psychiatrist once told him? “Tell someone not to think of purple elephants, and that’s all they can think of.” Young women in
purple
nightgowns.

He pledged not to straighten pillows on the couch when he got home.

That Night

“I took it upon myself to read up on my character,” the clergyman playing President Buchanan said.

“And?”

“I think I now better understand him.”

“Good.”

Potomac Players’ director Seymour Fletcher started to walk away, but the reverend grabbed his sleeve. “The conclusion I’ve come to is that if I play him with a soft voice as you insist, it simply gives credence to all the nasty rumors.”

Fletcher slowly turned. “What nasty rumors?” he asked.

“Well, from what I’ve read, President Buchanan is accused by some of being our only homosexual president.”

“So what?”

“If not a homosexual, he might have been our only virginal president. But that’s just another nasty rumor without substantiation. The fact that he never married and preferred the company of male friends should not be used to support such scurrilous allegations. My concern, Seymour, is that if I play him
sotto voce
, it simply feeds into those allegations. I prefer to think of him as a robust man’s man with a big, booming voice.”

“I think you’re absolutely right, Reverend. I think you should boom it out. Excuse me. I have to get this rehearsal going.”

Originally, dress rehearsal was to be held on Friday night, but a series of conflicts with the cast, as well as with the church (the small theater had been booked months ahead for a children’s dance recital), left Thursday as the only possibility.

The cast clustered in various parts of the auditorium. Some read that day’s newspaper story about the Saturday production. According to the article, it would be the Scarlet Sin Society’s largest fund-raising effort to date. Wendell Tierney was quoted: “It should be a splendid day and offer those attending a glimpse of one of this city’s most sensational murders. The forecasters promise us perfect weather. It’s a historic event all Washington will remember for a long time.”

Fletcher stood center stage and clapped his hands. “People, people, listen up. This is our final opportunity to smooth the rough edges and go into Saturday confident that we have a first-rate production. We’ll go from the top and hopefully sail right through. Because we’ll be performing outside on Saturday, we won’t be burdened tonight with too many technical interruptions.
But I remind you that even with the sound system, the crowd will be large and scattered, which means each of you is going to have to project as you have never projected before.” He looked at the reverend, who smiled. Fletcher continued. “I have just learned from Mr. Tierney that there is a possibility that the president and first lady might attend. While that would be a feather in our cap, it will also be extremely disruptive.” He looked to where Tierney sat with Chip. “Any further word about the president showing up?”

“No,” Tierney replied.

“All right then,” Fletcher said, “places everyone.” He stood next to the prop girl. On a table in front of her were two antique guns of the vintage used at the time Congressman Dan Sickles murdered Philip Barton Key. They’d been donated, as the paper said, “from the vast weapons collection owned by venture capitalist Sam Tankloff.” Tankloff, who was away in the Cayman Islands with Sun Ben Cheong, had been the source of weapons for the acting troupe since being enticed into Tri-S by his friend Wendell Tierney. He not only loaned weapons for productions, he had them retrofitted to fire blanks.

There were two weapons on the table because of a last-minute script change. When Madelon St. Cere had first written it, she included only the single gun pulled by Sickles from his pocket. But Monty Jamison had pointed out that Sickles had carried two weapons and dropped one of them during his initial scuffle with Key. And so a second weapon was added, although this one had not been modified to accept blanks.

The cast took their places for the opening scene.
Fletcher sat in the third row of the auditorium in front of Wendell and Chip Tierney. “Let’s go!” he shouted.

“Where’s Carl?” Suzanne Tierney asked.

Fletcher looked around the room. “Yes, where the hell
is
Carl?” Carl Mayberry was the actor playing the role of Philip Barton Key. Fletcher got to his feet. “Yes, damn it,
where is Carl
?” When no one answered, Fletcher leaped onto the stage and extended his arms in frustration. “Call him,” he said to the assistant director. “Wake him up. Tell him to be here immediately.”

She called from the church’s only public phone and returned with a glum face. “He said he’s not coming.”

“Why not?” Fletcher bellowed. “Doesn’t he know this is dress rehearsal?”

“I told him that, Sy, but he said he didn’t care. He told me to tell you to take you, the script, and the play and … shove them.”

Fletcher’s face glowed lobster red. “I can’t believe this,” he said more than once. “Dress rehearsal and—”

“Chip could fill in,” Suzanne offered.

Fletcher spun around to face her. “What?”

“My brother, Chip. He knows all the lines.”

From the audience came a laugh, followed by, “Oh, no.”

Fletcher came to the apron and leaned forward, his hand positioned as a visor over his eyes. “Chip, my friend, would you? I mean, just come up and fill in so that we can get on with the rehearsal.”

“But what happens on Saturday?” Wendell Tierney asked.

“We’ll deal with that when we have to,” Fletcher replied. “At least let the rest of the cast have their rehearsal.
Lord knows, they need it.” Again to Chip: “Chip, please. You can carry the script if you wish.”

“Go on,” Wendell said to his son. “Dress rehearsal can’t be canceled because of one irresponsible actor.”

Chip would have declined if not for his father’s urging. He sighed, slowly rose, and joined the others onstage. The prompter held out a script for him, but he waved it away. “Suzanne is right,” he said, a wide grin on his boyishly handsome face. “I know the lines—
everybody’s
lines.”

Rehearsal commenced and went surprisingly smooth considering the last-minute substitution of Chip Tierney. Sy Fletcher was impressed. Chip had natural stage presence and delivered his lines with conviction and controlled emotion. His romantic scenes with his sister, which would be played the next day on one of two raised platforms near Lafayette Park, avoided anticipated awkwardness. And, as far as Fletcher was concerned, Chip’s dying techniques when gunned down by Sickles were considerably more convincing than Carl Mayberry’s had been.

The rehearsal ended at midnight. Wendell Tierney had left at eleven after coming to the stage and congratulating Chip on a superb acting job and telling Fletcher, “Chip will play the role on Saturday if he has to.” He didn’t bother confirming it with his son.

As the cast and crew stood around and critiqued the evening, the tech director, in real life a computer programmer at Agriculture, asked Fletcher a series of technical questions, most having to do with sound effects that were recorded on tape. Cuing the many cuts had been an ongoing thorn in Fletcher’s side. Guns went off when it was supposed to thunder; thunder boomed from
speakers when birds were to be chirping. “Do your best,” Fletcher said. “Stay awake and anticipate.”

“That one mike is still giving me trouble,” the programmer-cum-tech-director said.

“Fix it.”

“I’ll try. Maybe we should test-fire the weapon that Sickles uses.”

“No need,” Fletcher said, envisioning the pistol being discharged in the confines of the basement, shattering eardrums and putting a hole through a mural depicting the Last Supper. Not that blanks would do such damage. But it was the sort of creative visual that Sy Fletcher often had and convinced him he was in the right business. “It’ll work,” he said. “Mr. Tankloff’s weapons always work.”

He asked for final comments. There were a flurry of them, most of which were ignored. “Shouldn’t I fit out Mr. Tierney in Sid’s costumes?” the costume lady asked. “Just in case?”

Fletcher said, “Good idea,” and Chip followed her to a room where he tried on the black cutaway coat and black bowler hat worn by Philip Barton Key in the murder scene. They fit perfectly. He was almost the exact height and build and even head size as Carl Mayberry.

“Drink?” Chip asked his sister after returning to the stage.

“Can’t. Have to catch the first shuttle to New York in the morning.”

“Another lesson with the guru?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t decide whether his tone was mocking or questioning.

“Well, don’t get weathered in up in New York,” he said.

“Little chance of that unless a freak storm hits. By the way, you did a great job. Maybe you should become an actor.”

His laugh was hardy and genuine. “That’s for you, toots. On a list of a thousand things I’d like to accomplish in my life, being an actor ranks at the bottom.” He kissed her on the cheek and left.

The stage was cleared of props and furniture. The two pistols provided by Sam Tankloff were locked in the costume room by the costume lady, who handed the keys to Sy Fletcher.

“Hello, Alicia,” Mac Smith said after picking up the phone in his study. “How are you?”

“Fine, Mac. Tony asked me to call you.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

Buffolino’s wife laughed. “Tony’s always a mystery to me. He’s not here. He called from a booth and asked me to get ahold of you. He wants you to meet him tonight if possible.”

“Where? Why?”

“I can answer the first part of the question. The small bar in the Watergate.”

“Hmmm. No idea why?”

“Nope. He told me to tell you that it was very important and that it would be worth your while.”

“When is this clandestine meeting supposed to take place?”

“In an hour. If you can make it, of course. Tony said he’d wait awhile.”

It was eleven. Annabel had gone to bed early; she felt a cold coming on and wanted to nip it in the bud.
“Okay,” Smith told Alicia. “I’ll head there in a few minutes.”

He let Rufus out the back door into their small fenced yard for a time, then whistled him inside. He plopped a sausage-flavored dog treat into the beast’s gaping mouth—you look like you need root-canal work, Rufe, he thought, I’ve got just the man—patted him on the head and said, “Don’t wake the mistress. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.” He scribbled a note on a yellow legal pad, the house stationery, and left it on the kitchen table:
Had to run out for a few minutes to meet Tony. No idea why. It’s now eleven. Back ASAP. Love, Me
.

Buffolino was at a table when Smith arrived. He looked exhausted. A heavy day’s growth of beard might have been a month’s worth. He wore a green-and-black flannel shirt, baggy black pants, and a stained tan windbreaker, not quite appropriate for a D.C. power bar where men in dark suits drank and slapped backs and told jokes while women, Nautilus-sinewy and eyes blazing with ambition to be one of the dark suits, laughed too loudly.

“You look like hell,” Smith said, greeting the investigator. “Probably why they gave you this good table between the rest rooms.”

“The pressure, Mac. Makin’ sure guys show up for their shifts is a royal pain in the butt. And Alicia is drilling away at me like a woodpecker. Too much pressure can kill a man.”

“Maybe you need a vacation,” Smith offered.

“That’s what Alicia says. Maybe when the Tierney assignment is over. Drink?” A bottle of Rolling Rock and a half-filled glass were already on the table.

A waiter appeared, reassured by Smith’s shirt and tie. Smith ordered a Remy. “So?” he said.

Buffolino’s smile was crooked, smug. “Yeah, right. How come I get you out in the middle of the night like this? Right?”

“Right.” Smith lifted his snifter. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Buffolino picked up a manila envelope that rested against his chair and held it above the table like an offering.

“What’s that?” Smith asked.

“A present.”

“A present? For me? Is that why I’m here?”

“Right on, Mac.” Smith reached for the envelope, but Buffolino drew it back. “First, I have to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Lemme see how to put this.” He frowned. “You’re a straight arrow. Right?”

Smith shrugged. “Not in all things.”

“Legally, I mean. You wouldn’t break the law—even bend it a little. Am I right?”

“Go on. I have the feeling I’m about to be placed in a compromising position.”