Murder on the Potomac (2 page)

Physicality aside, Annabel found Pauline Juris to be
pleasant but businesslike.
All
business. She had little doubt Pauline kept Tierney’s ship running on an even keel.

The other woman, Hazel Best-Mason, an accountant who specialized in nonprofit institutions, Annabel had seen a few times, too. Hazel was the museum’s controller. She was short and borderline chubby, a chocolate sundae away from spilling over the edge into outright obesity. Unlike Pauline, Hazel enjoyed makeup and was adroit in its use. Black hair flecked with gray was worn short and neatly styled. Her orange oval glasses made a fashion statement, as did her clothing—suits with vivid splashes of color provided by a blouse, sweater, or scarf. Nicely manicured hands were a fleshy display case for a multitude of rings; hand-hammered gold earrings dangled to her shoulders.

Neither woman appeared to have been hurt by Tierney’s acknowledgment of Annabel’s indisputable raven-haired, creamy-complexioned beauty. Of course, they might have been but simply repressed it. Unstated truths. It would have been professionally indiscreet to show annoyance. Another unstated truth, Annabel knew, was that all things considered, Tierney would have preferred that her husband be seated in the chair she occupied. He’d asked Mac on several occasions to join the board but had been politely turned down. Annabel represented second choice.

But so be it. She was pleased to have been invited to help guide the fortunes of the National Building Museum, whose mission it was to recognize and celebrate America’s historic achievements in building and to encourage excellence in the building arts. With her art gallery humming smoothly and demanding less of her
time, she’d found freedom to pursue academic pursuits for purely personal enjoyment, and the architecture of Washington had become a favorite subject. She’d joined groups that studied and fostered public interest in the diverse, often startling, sometimes inspiring, occasionally distressing architecture of the nation’s capital. It all tended to heighten her interest in how things were built, old and new. Her seat on the Building Museum’s board was a natural extension of that interest.

As the new kid on the block, Annabel contented herself with listening for two hours as Tierney ran through the agenda. She was impressed with the way he maintained control. No heavy-handedness. No surprise. Tierney Development had made him one of the richest men in Washington, and he conducted himself with the natural assuredness of a man secure in his success. Handsome, elegant, with patrician features, Tierney bore all the vestiges of someone who takes care of himself—and who takes himself seriously. A personal trainer came to his home gym early each morning to help his client stay fit. His tan bloomed perpetually, thanks to a tanning machine also located in his home. Grooming was impeccable—hands painstakingly manicured, a full head of gray hair bordering on white, always in place, even on windy days. A rich and successful CEO and chairman of the board from the files of Central Casting.

Across the table from Annabel sat another man, not as rich as Wendell Tierney but not missing any meals, either: Samuel Tankloff, the New York investment banker who, ten years ago, aware that his primary source of business was Tierney Development, opened a Washington office, bought a second home in Virginia,
and now found himself spending most of his time in D.C., leaving the running of the New York operation to trusted lieutenants. Tankloff lacked Tierney’s smooth demeanor or smooth features. He was short and squat; his nickname in school had been “Tank,” which fit his name as well as his build. He was, indeed, tanklike.

Swarthy skin did not need artificial sun to give it a burnished sheen, nor was a trainer necessary to pump up his muscles. Frizzy tufts of black hair fought a losing battle to cover the broad expanse of his bald pate. His eyes were almost black, his ears large. Annabel had never seen so much hair sprouting from anyone’s ears before.

Tankloff bought his suits from the same tailor as Tierney, and expensively, but they didn’t look as good on the shorter, stouter man. What file in Central Casting would Tankloff occupy? Annabel wondered. Mafioso underboss? Arab deal-maker? Turkish dictator?

He was none of those things, of course. He was Sam Tankloff, investment banker and Wendell Tierney’s best friend. And likable, Annabel had decided. Behind his scowling, often menacing facade was a surprising warmth. Tankloff gave you the feeling that he was deeply interested in everything you thought and said; nothing else mattered while you expressed yourself. Mac and Annabel knew both Tankloff and Tierney socially. Although Annabel respected Tierney, she preferred Tankloff’s company, and that of his wife, Marie, a woman bemused at everything her husband did and said.

As the meeting neared conclusion, the final business was a reassignment of committee memberships. Annabel had replaced a departed member of the board who’d
served on the finance committee and its compensation subcommittee. She was assigned to both. Laughing, she said, “Me on the finance committee so soon? Wouldn’t happen that way in the Senate. Mac isn’t happy with the way I balance my own checkbook.”

Hazel Best-Mason, finance-committee chair, offered pleasantly, “Balancing a personal checkbook is hard. Being on the finance committee is easy. Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks,” Annabel said. “But I’d still better brush up on what is an appalling lack of knowledge about money.”

“And I can’t think of anyone better to teach you than Hazel,” Tierney said.

Pauline Juris chuckled softly and said, “Better that Hazel teach you than Wendell, Annabel. He’s a brilliant businessman, but his own checkbook will never qualify as a model.”

Tierney laughed loudly. “She should know,” he said. “Pauline’s been balancing my checkbook for years.” He surveyed the faces at the table. “Well, shall we adjourn?”

While the board members stood and chatted, Annabel went to where she’d draped her raincoat on a chair in the corner. She paused before picking it up as a hushed conversation between Tierney and Pauline Juris reached her ears: “I’m pretty goddamn fed up with Seymour’s temperamental outbursts and disregard for budget,” Tierney said. “Straighten him out when you see him tonight.” Annabel slipped into her coat and headed for the door. Suddenly, Tierney was at her side. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said. “A hell of a building, but not the best neighborhood.”

They descended to the first floor over a wide, redbrick staircase grooved by a century of shoes and stepped into the Great Hall, the scene of inaugural balls dating back to 1885 and Grover Cleveland. Harrison, McKinley, Teddy Roosevelt, and Taft had also feted their elections there. Woodrow Wilson chose not to have a ball in 1913, and it wasn’t until after World War II that such gala events again lit up Washington’s social calendar. One of Richard Nixon’s three 1968 balls was held in the National Building Museum. Presidents Carter, Reagan, Bush, and Clinton had also used it as a setting to celebrate their elevation by voters to the White House.

The building’s architect and chief engineer, Montgomery C. Meigs, quartermaster of the army, had been mandated in 1881 to find a suitable site and to design a fireproof building for a centralized Pension Bureau. Originally created in 1792 to serve disabled veterans and dependents of the Revolutionary War, the Pension Bureau had facilities scattered all over Washington and had become overwhelmed as the War of 1812 and the Mexican and Civil wars created new generations of needy veterans. Meigs’s budget was not to exceed $300,000.

After researching Renaissance architecture around the world, including the Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli of Rome and the Temple of Jupiter at Baalbeck (Meigs was determined that
his
columns would be larger than those at Baalbeck) and Palazzo Farnese of Rome, whose basic design would be his inspiration, he submitted his plans. Ground was broken in 1882, construction completed in 1887. The central section of the Great Hall was the largest of three courts separated by
two screens of four huge Corinthian columns, each constructed of seventy thousand bricks and rising seventy-five feet into the air, their bases eight feet in diameter. It was the largest brick building in the world—more than fifteen million of them at a cost to the taxpayers of $886,614.04, testimony to the fact that government cost overruns are not a contemporary phenomenon.

The huge hall now was in virtual darkness as they walked together, talking. Small perimeter lights dimmed to conserve electricity provided only faint, ethereal illumination. Annabel leaned against the hall’s central fountain and looked up to the gabled roof, 160 feet above. One of the many swallows that were the bane of the building’s management flew over her head, soared upward, and disappeared into the center bay’s cornice.

“This has to be the most unusual building in Washington,” she said.

“No argument from me,” said Tierney.

“I’m just beginning to learn about it,” Annabel said. “I suppose being on the board will hasten the process.”

“Heard all the ghost stories? Heard about the canaries?”

Annabel laughed. “Ghost stories? Yes. Canaries? No.”

“When Cleveland held his inaugural ball here, the roof wasn’t completed, so they draped the hall with a tarp. Then they released a cage full of canaries during the festivities. Up they went, straight to the tarp, where they immediately died from the cold and fell at the feet of the gathered.”

“How terrible,” Annabel said.

“It was—for the birds.”

“Oh, my.”

“Sorry. But true story.”

When they reached her car, Tierney said, “Be sure to say hello to Mac for me.”

“Of course.”

“Shame what happened to the child up at the falls. You say Mac saw it happen?”

“Horrible. Mac had driven up to get away for a few hours and was about to leave when it happened. He can’t shake it, keeps seeing the child in the water.”

“I suppose we don’t easily shake such images,” Tierney said. “My foundation is setting up a scholarship fund in the girl’s name.”

“That’s good,” Annabel said.

“You do what you can do. See you and Mac on the cruise?”

“We’ll be there. Thanks, Wendell, for putting me on the board. I think it’s going to be extremely interesting and fulfilling.”

“A proper mix of both, I hope. Safe home.”

That Same Night

“No! No! No! No! No!”

Seymour Fletcher, director of the Potomac Players, flung his script across the room and stomped onto the stage. His baggy blue pants, unlaced white high-top basketball sneakers, khaki workshirt, and multicolored bandanna, tied around the neck to give the appearance of a bow tie, combined with long strands of colorless hair flowing down and around wire-rimmed glasses tethered to his neck by a pink-and-white string, gave him the appearance of a man coming loose.

“You are making a mockery of this script,” he shouted at actors and actresses on the stage.

Stuart, the young actor playing the role of Congressman Dan Sickles, swore under his breath. “You said we could take liberties with the dialogue, Sy,” he barked.

“That’s right,” said Carl, who played Key. “You did say that.” Key had been U.S. district attorney for the District of Columbia and son of Francis Scott Key, author of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“Liberties? Yes. Butcher it? No! No! No! Sickles and Key did not call each other ‘bastards.’ The dialogue is very clear and important. Key had been cuckolding Sickles for a long time. He’s been climbing under the sheets with his wife, and half of Washington knows it. That’s why when Sickles approaches Key with the revolver near Lafayette Square, he says, ‘Key, you scoundrel, you’ve dishonored my house.’ He didn’t say ‘you bastard.’ ”

A female voice offstage said, “Maybe this is a good time to discuss that line again, Seymour.” The voice was that of Madelon St. Cere, who had written the script. She stepped into the light. “ ‘House’ falls so flat,” she said. “Key hadn’t dishonored Sickles’s
house
. He’d been sleeping with Teresa Sickles for a year, waving his handkerchief to let her know he was on his way to that house they rented. He dishonored Sickles’s
bed
, not his whole house. Besides, ‘house’ is a weak word. Bed has strength. It says something. This was lust, not housebreaking.”

Fletcher fumed. “I thought we resolved this two weeks ago. I will not discuss it again.”

St. Cere went to the stage apron and looked out into the house. Scattered throughout the small auditorium was an assortment of onlookers, including “Chip” Tierney, son of developer and National Building Museum chairman Wendell Tierney; Chip’s fiancée of most recent vintage, Terri Pete; Sun Ben Cheong; and Monty Jamison, a professor of American history at George
Washington University. Jamison was unofficial historical adviser to the theatrical troupe rehearsing in the basement of a small, run-down church on O Street.

The Potomac Players had been performing in the D.C. area for ten years. As with most small, semiprofessional theater groups, its existence was perpetually precarious—an occasional handout from a Washington arts organization, ticket sales that rose, when they did, for Neil Simon, and were modest for Beckett, dinner-theater performances in which badly scripted murder mysteries competed with bad food for audience attention—until Wendell Tierney caught one of their whodunit dinner performances at a Maryland Holiday Inn and recruited them to reenact Washington crimes from the past for his Scarlet Sin Society, “the scarlet sin” being Shakespeare’s label for murder.

The society, commonly known as Tri-S, represented a special
agacerie
for Tierney. An inveterate crime buff with special interest in historical misdeeds, he often explained, “With all the crimes committed in D.C. these days, most of them connected with drugs or government or both, it’s nice to focus on what the man called a kinder, gentler time when crimes of passion and jealousy prevailed.”

Eventually, Tri-S developed into one of Washington’s premier fund-raising groups. The newspapers and TV programs enjoyed the recall of crimes less current than the Six O’Clock News. But Tri-S’s staged reenactments, despite patches of bad acting, were historically accurate and drew large audiences and generated considerable sums of charitable money. When not playacting, members of the society enjoyed lounging around Tierney’s
mansion in the Potomac Palisades discussing and dissecting crimes, old and new.