Murder on the Potomac (8 page)

“Just curious. I never knew she was married until Wendell told me yesterday.”

“Kept it a secret, huh?”

“Yes. Well, she evidently didn’t talk about it to many people.”

“Tierney’s sons? Daughter?”

“What about them?”

“You know them?”

“Yes. They’re evidently good citizens.”

“Citizens, maybe. But the daughter, Suzanne, has been at war with her father for years.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Anything else you might
know
about?” she asked.

“Not at the moment. But if I think of something, I’ll certainly call. More coffee?”

“Thank you, no, but it was delicious. Where do you buy it?”

“Various places. I mix it myself, a little of this, a little of that, some decaf, some regular. What you’re drinking this morning has a hint of amaretto.”

She laughed. Even her teeth were perfect, he thought. “More than a hint, I’d say,” she said. “What a wonderful flavor. And what a wonderful side to you.”

“Meaning what?”

“To care that much about coffee.”

“I’m a coffee snob.”

“I like that in a man. Little pockets of snobbery, but not the whole person.”

Smith got to his feet in the hope that it would signal an end to what had become awkward. Eikenberg didn’t move. “Anything else you wish to ask me?” he said.

“Lots of things, but not at the moment. I would like to get together with you again. I promise not to unduly intrude. Is that all right with you?”

“Why, yes—I suppose so.”

She stood, straightened her skirt, which had developed wrinkles across her thighs, and bent to pick up her briefcase from the floor. “I wish all my interviews were this pleasant.”

“Nothing pleasant about an interview when it involves murder,” he said.

“Well, as you know from all your years of criminal law, Mac, you find pleasantness where you can. You and your wife have been extremely cooperative this morning. I hesitate …”

His expression invited her to continue.

“I’d like to spend more time with you, pick your brain a little—a lot.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t be so quick to agree. I’m known in the department for my ability to reach pest status once I get started.”

“I’ll let you know when you get there. Become a pest.”

“Fair enough. There are elements of this case that I really can’t go into at the moment, but that I’d like to discuss with you in a less formal setting.”

Smith looked left and right. “You call this formal? My kitchen?”

She laughed. “You know what I mean. I need—and I won’t be coy about it, I need—I’d appreciate being able to run things by you. Not necessarily specifics of the case but … more your general thinking about it. Maybe about murder in general.”

“You should consider joining Scarlet Sin,” he said pleasantly.

“That’s always a possibility.…”

“Or taking another of my classes. That’s what I’m paid for at GW.”

“Maybe we could consider lunch a seminar of sorts. An extension course. Could we?”

“Well, maybe.”

“I’ll call. Where’s your wife? I’d like to say good-bye.”

“I’ll find her,” he said.

“Not necessary. Just thank her for me. She’s a very nice woman.”

“I’ll pass along the compliment.”

As he opened the front door for her, she said, “Please ask Mrs. Smith whether she overheard that conversation at the board meeting between Mr. Tierney and Ms. Juris about Seymour Fletcher. It had to do with budgets, I believe.”

“I will.”

He watched her descend the few brick steps in front of the house, turn left, and stride confidently up the street until out of sight. When he turned, he faced Annabel. “You snuck up on me,” he said with a smile.

“You know I wouldn’t do that. How did it go?”

“I think Wendell might be in for a long, tough run. He’s made a lot of enemies over the years, people who wouldn’t mind taking him down. By the way, why didn’t you tell her about a conversation between Wendell and Pauline at the end of the board meeting?”

“Conversation?”

“Something to do with budgets.”

“Oh, right. I did hear them talking. He wanted her to confront someone about money. I never gave it a thought—until now. Sort of like Leona Helmsley.”

“Who’s like Leona Helmsley?”

“Wendell. She crossed a lot of people, made a lot of enemies. Just as he has. That’s why she ended up in jail.”

“She’s a convicted felon.”

“People didn’t like her. Nice doctors get sued less than nasty ones. Did she get what she wanted from you?”

“Leona?” He laughed. “Oh, Detective Eikenberg. Probably not. I don’t have anything to give her.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Are you upset about something?”

“You asked me that yesterday. I told you I was upset about Pauline’s murder.”

“And I also asked if you were upset with me. I’ll ask that again, too.”

“No.” She smiled and said, “She’s an impressive woman. Hardly the stereotypical cop.”

“I suppose so. I’m sure you’re glad this morning is over with.”

“I certainly hope it is, Professor Smith.”

The Next Day

When Mac Smith walked into the faculty cafeteria the following morning, he found Monty Jamison hidden behind the morning newspaper. The history professor suddenly realized Smith stood over him, glanced up, grunted a greeting, and went back to reading. Smith took a seat across the small table.

“Damn shame what happened to that young student last night,” Jamison said.

“But fortunate it turned out the way it did.”

A freshman at the university had been attacked on a side street on the fringe of the campus. Using a can of mace she always carried, she’d subdued her attacker and attracted the attention of a passerby, who called the police.

“No young woman is safe these days unless armed,”
Jamison said. He put down the paper and stared at Smith through Coke-bottle glasses. “Another example of society gone to rot. Have you read the story this morning about poor Pauline Juris?”

“Most of it. I was interrupted. Excuse me.”

Smith returned from the serving line with a lightly buttered bagel and cup of tea. His feeling for coffee was sufficiently strong to preclude, unless the circumstances were dire, drinking coffee brewed anywhere but in his own kitchen.

“Here. Finish it,” Jamison said, turning the paper and sliding it on top of Smith’s plate. Mac retrieved his bagel from beneath the paper, bit in, rearranged things, and quickly finished the article. It was primarily a profile of Pauline Juris culled from various sources, including interviews with several people who’d requested anonymity. A significant portion was devoted to her former husband, Lucas Wharton, a thoracic surgeon in New York City. According to the reporter, Lucas and Pauline had met while undergraduates at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Wharton’s hometown. The marriage had lasted eleven months. No children. Dr. Wharton, the article said, had been contacted by the police and would be questioned in Washington. Pauline’s relationship with Wendell Tierney was also explored. In the best tradition of innuendo journalism, it hinted—but only hinted—that the bond between Tierney and Pauline Juris might have exceeded the boundaries of business.

Smith folded the paper, sighed, and took another bite of bagel.

“I find the name of her former husband interesting,” said Jamison.

Smith looked up. “How so?”

“Wharton. I think I’ll do a little research into his family background.”

Smith couldn’t help but laugh. “Why?”

“To see whether he might be related, no matter how tangentially, to the infamous and stylish Elizabeth Wharton.”

Bagel poised halfway between plate and mouth, Smith said, “Someone I should know?”

Jamison’s chuckle was mildly scolding. “There you have it, Mackensie Smith, a prime example of what you miss by not joining Tri-S.”

Here we go again. Smith sat silently; the bagel proved a useful shield.

“Surely, Mac, you must remember Elizabeth Wharton.”

“Not personally. Yes, in fact I do know a little about her. Sort of Washington’s early 1870s Lucrezia Borgia.”

“Exactly. That’s why you should join us. A remarkable story. Mrs. Wharton was a society lady from Philadelphia who settled in Baltimore—interesting coincidence that Dr. Lucas Wharton hails from that same city—and glided easily through the upper strata of Baltimore and Washington. Problem was, she had a habit of borrowing money and not paying it back.”

“That doesn’t make her unique,” said Mac.

“It does when coupled with a tendency to murder those who asked for it back. Their money, that is. Those unfortunate souls would visit Mrs. Wharton at her home in search of repayment, be served tea, and die mysteriously.”

“Black or …?”

“No, they were white. Upper crust.”

“I meant what kind of tea did she serve, black, green, or oolong?”

This time Jamison’s laugh was defensive. “Kind of tea? How would I know that?”

Smith shrugged and smiled. “If you were a modern French historian, you’d know that everyday details are important. Or a detective. Go on, Monty. Just kidding.”

“I should say,” Jamison said. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, it seems Mrs. Wharton eventually befriended a famous Civil War general, W. S. Ketchum of Georgetown, and borrowed twenty-six hundred dollars from him. She never repaid it, not even the interest. When he learned she was planning an extended European stay, he and a lady friend paid her a visit, a kind of reminder about the I.O.U. Became weekend guests, as a matter of fact, and were elegantly entertained. But after breakfast and a cup of Mrs. Wharton’s tea, the general fell ill. A few days later, after he’d been served a large glass of lemonade in the same house, he took to what would be his deathbed.”

“Lemonade?” Smith said.

“Yes, lovingly prepared by Mrs. Wharton herself.” Jamison stopped talking to finish his scrambled eggs.

Smith said, “And Mrs. Wharton was accused of murder. The case is coming back to me.”

“She certainly was. One of the most celebrated trials of Washington. Of course, it would be more than a vague memory for you if you were with us at Tri-S. We’ve devoted a considerable number of evenings to discussing Mrs. Wharton and her lemonade.”

“I see what I’ve missed.”

Jamison leaned on the table. “You do?”

“Yes. Go on, Monty.”

“She was judged innocent by a jury of her peers. It
was one of the first cases in which forensic medicine was used in a trial.”

Smith nodded. “You’re absolutely correct. There was confusion over whether the general died of a dose of tartar emetic or some natural disease like meningitis.”

“Exactly. Both produce the same symptoms. The autopsy on General Ketchum revealed a large amount of tartar emetic in his stomach, certainly enough to kill him. And it was proved that Mrs. Wharton had purchased a supply of it just days prior to the general’s visit.”

“Open and shut, you might say.”

“Not in that era, Mac. There were only two types of woman back then, weren’t there? A virtuous lady or a whore. Everyone knew that virtuous ladies did not go around serving poisoned lemonade to distinguished generals.”

Smith dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin and pushed back his chair. “I really have to run, Monty. This was fascinating.”

“I’ve only skimmed the surface, of course. There are myriad provocative details. Perhaps one night when you attend a meeting of Tri-S, I’ll reopen a discussion of this case. Say, how come you know so much about this, when you said you didn’t?”

“A good lawyer searches for precedents, Monty. And conveniently forgets cases, as well.”

As Smith was about to walk away, Jamison said, “Oh, Mac, I understand you were summoned to Wendell’s house the day Pauline’s body was discovered.”

Smith frowned. “ ‘Summoned’ isn’t the word I would use. I did meet with him that afternoon.”

Jamison’s arched eyebrows asked, And?

“Wendell is naturally concerned about the ramifications of this. He asked my advice.”

“Cherchez la femme,”
Jamison said.

“Why look for the woman? What woman?”

“Mackensie, you sly devil. You aren’t fooling me one bit. You are going to become directly involved in this case, most likely as Wendell Tierney’s legal counsel. And I have a feeling that when all is said and done, it will be a woman who takes front-and-center in this tragic melodrama. Will make for a tremendously interesting case for a future Scarlet Sin session—say, in the year 2500.”

“My class is waiting,” Smith said.

“So are we, Mac.”

That Afternoon

Sun Ben Cheong left Gary’s Restaurant on M Street NW, where he had lunched with a large pension fund’s investment manager. It had been pleasant enough. Although the manager, whose name was Barrenstein, seemed enthusiastic about the investments Cheong had outlined for him, Cheong instinctively knew nothing would come of it. He judged Barrenstein to be a man who enjoyed being wooed but who would act upon only the most conservative opportunities. What Cheong had suggested—using money from the fund to buy and rehabilitate a block of downtown buildings that had fallen into decay—did not fit into that category.

Outside and away from his lunch guest, Cheong enjoyed the sun on his face. The day had started gray. When he’d arrived at the restaurant, cool, moist air was
one step removed from outright rain. But a front had arrived during lunch, dragging behind it a broom of cool, sunny weather.

He looked at his watch: ten minutes past two. Lunch had lasted too long, but the Norwegian salmon had prospered at the hands of the anonymous chef.

He adjusted the lapels of his black Armani double-breasted suit and watched a tall, statuesque blond woman walk past. Well, saunter by, to be precise. As his eyes lingered on the seductive sway of her body, a smile of appreciation formed on his lips. Cheong’s face seldom displayed thoughts and feelings. When describing him, friends and colleagues often said, “Not very expressive.” One said to him, “You ought to enter the World Poker Championship. You’d win hands-down with that face of yours.”

He checked his watch again. Almost an hour before the call would come. He walked at a leisurely pace, stopped to admire offerings in the windows of men’s shops, bought a vanilla frozen-yogurt cone from a sidewalk vendor, and eventually reached Judiciary Square, yet another Washington monument, this to the nation’s law-enforcement officers who’d fallen in the line of duty. The square sat between D and F streets, a Metro entrance in its center. Lining the D Street side were courthouses: the United States Court of Military Appeals, the Superior Court of the District of Columbia, and other granite halls of justice and otherwise.