A Quiet Death (22 page)

At a summons from one of her well-coifed minions, who had been hovering nearby like a bodyguard, Doro breezed away in a cloud of Shalini perfume – a gorgeous mélange of bitter orange, coriander and ylang ylang with undertones of sandalwood and vanilla. I'd been squirted with eau de Shalini at Bergdorf Goodman the previous summer and loved it, but when the saleslady told me it cost $900 for a two-ounce bottle, I knew I had to pass. Doro could afford luxuries like that. I wondered what would happen if something threatened that cash flow and suddenly she was reduced to buying Chantilly at WalMart like the rest of us?

Back in the ballroom for a coffee refill (my fifth!), I saw Doro at a distance, standing near the podium conferring with an attractive dark-haired woman wearing black slacks and a lavender brocade jacket, who I took to be our speaker
du jour
.

‘Lilith?' somebody said.

I turned. It was Jeannette Williams, chugging toward me like a woman on a mission, holding a white carnation in one hand and a large, pearl-headed corsage pin in the other. ‘We like to present our newcomers with a little something special,' she said as she pinned the flower to my lapel.

‘Thank you.' I cringed inwardly, knowing it would mark me as Someone You Must Talk To and Make Feel Welcome, when all I wanted to do was fade into the woodwork.

The effect was almost immediate. Like moths to a flame, club members fluttered over.

‘Jeannette! Please introduce us!'

‘Ah! I saw you talking to Helen Sue earlier and thought you might be new!'

‘Lilith. What an unusual name. Is it French?'

I was the quarterback in the middle of the huddle, except everyone else was calling the plays.

‘No, yes, not French, but Biblical . . .'

Whirr, click, click, click
. I turned my head and found myself face to face with a photographer as she aimed her Nikon D80 and its periscope-like flash attachment in our direction. My heart flip-flopped.

Whirr, click, click, click
. At the first flash, the women with me slapped on their perma-grins, sucked it in, posed prettily, while I was caught, wide-eyed, temporarily blinded, like a deer in the headlights. The photographer had a sidekick, I noticed, a buzz-cut reporter with a notebook, steadily advancing. ‘Excuse me,' I managed to blurt out, panic seizing my vocal cords. ‘I think I'd better visit the powder room before the lecture begins.' Ducking, I hurried off before the reporter could sidle up to us, ask for our names and how to spell them.

I could see it all. A spread in the
Washington Post
Style Section: Pictured left to right, Lilith Chaloux and . . . and . . . oh shit, those women knew ‘my' name!

I was doomed.

Several minutes later, I found refuge in the powder room. I plopped myself down in one of a pair of Louis XVI, striped silk-covered dining chairs in front of an enormous gilt mirror, foxed with age, where I was taking deep, steadying breaths. When the door to the powder room creaked open behind me, I knew it couldn't be the reporter – unless the guy got off on crashing ladies' restrooms in search of a story – so I ignored the newcomer and began rummaging through the dribs and drabs at the bottom of my handbag, an expedition to lay hands on the tube of lipstick and the stub of an eyeliner pencil I knew was in there somewhere, so I could repair the damage done to my make-up by my crocodile tears.

‘Who the
hell
are you, anyway?'

I nearly jumped out of my pantyhose. I looked up and into the mirror. Dorothea Chandler stood directly behind me. She wasn't wearing her happy face.

‘I beg your pardon?' In the mirror, my eyes looked enormous, innocent, even to me.

‘Is this some kind of sick joke? Just what are you playing at?'

I simply stared at Doro's reflection, letting it do all the talking.

‘I don't know who you are, but you are
not
Lilith Chaloux.'

I opened my mouth to claim that she must be mistaken, she must be thinking about some other Lilith Chaloux, but I knew from my searches of the Internet that the Lilith Chaloux of this world were thin on the ground. I was well and truly busted.

‘I owe you an explanation,' I said, swiveling around to face her, rearranging my features into the reasonable facsimile of an apologetic smile. ‘Aliens occasionally take over my body, I'm afraid. I came here today because I wanted to talk to you. I should have just introduced myself and asked you right out, rather than playing at silly games.'

Her green eyes narrowed. ‘Asked me what?'

‘If you knew about Lilith Chaloux.'

‘My husband's mistress? Of course I know about her. But all that ended more than twenty-five years ago.'

‘I realize that, but—'

Doro raised both hands, palms out, cutting me off. ‘Then what are you on about? Do you know who my husband is?'

Even though she managed to make it sound like a threat, I smiled, nodded. ‘John Chandler. Lynx News.'

‘John confessed ages ago,' Doro said, folding her arms across the shelf of her bosom. ‘I forgave him. We moved on.'

We glared at each other without speaking for several long moments, like gun molls in a spaghetti western; a Mexican stand-off that would only be resolved by diplomacy, surrender or a pre-emptive strike. I tried to put myself in Doro's patent leather pumps. What would I do if some crazy bitch came up to me at a social event and informed me that Paul had fathered a child by another woman? Would I have ‘moved on' quite so gracefully? And if Doro didn't know about Nicholas, I decided I wasn't the person to rock her world with the bad news.

I was the first to blink, rejecting the pre-emptive strike scenario and choosing diplomacy, not normally one of my strong suits. ‘I'm working on my PhD in Political Science at Georgetown,' I lied smoothly. ‘I was researching Jimmy Carter's Peanut Brigade for my thesis when I stumbled across a folder containing some old correspondence between a woman named Lilith Chaloux and your husband, back when he was still calling himself Zan. I was able to track Lilith down for an interview – that's when I learned about their affair – but your husband was always too busy to see me. I thought I might be able to get to him through you.'

Doro raised an eyebrow. ‘You're a fool if you think I have any say-so where my husband's calendar is concerned.'

‘I tried that route, too, but Jud Wilson certainly earns his salary, doesn't he?' I tipped an imaginary hat. ‘Great gatekeeper.' I sighed, looked away, pensive. ‘Maybe if I had been able to talk to Meredith Logan it would have been a different story.' When Doro didn't react, I swooped in for the kill. ‘My daughter was a classmate of your husband's production assistant, Meredith Logan. I knew her, too, although not as well.'

‘John had always been discreet,' Doro mused, sounding distracted. ‘I appreciate discreet. One of the seven virtues, in my opinion. Meredith understood that, too.' There was cold, hard steel in her gaze, a warning, perhaps: I expect you to be discreet, too, or maybe I'll shoot you.

She who must be obeyed.

‘How did you know I'm not Lilith?' I asked, genuinely curious.

‘I found a photo in John's wallet. I admit that you – rather,
she –
could have changed, but . . .' Doro looked me up
and down, smirked. ‘But not that much.' Like a sudden rainstorm, Doro's face turned cloudy, dark with fury. ‘Look, whoever the hell you
really
are, I'm asking you to stay out of my life.'

‘My name is—'

She held up her hand, cutting me off in mid-sentence. ‘Shut it! I don't want to know your name because I'm quite sure I'll never see you again.'

‘I . . .'

‘Isn't that right?' Doro glared. She must have had practice at issuing threats. I bet she ran though housekeepers like Congress ran through money.

Thoroughly cowed, I nodded.

‘I see we understand one another.' Doro executed a neat about-face, nearly yanked the powder-room door off its hinges and stalked out, leaving me alone, still clutching a tube of NARS lipgloss in a too-pink shade called Easy Lover that a saleswoman at Nordstrom had once talked me into. I had painted the color on my lips and dropped the tube back into my handbag when I heard a toilet flush.

I froze, hardly breathing, waiting to see who it was who had overheard my argument with Dorothea Chandler.

The door to the stall eased open. A woman emerged. She wore the blue and white uniform of one of the kitchen staff. A Bluetooth wireless cell phone was clamped to her ear. ‘I told you and told you, Mama, don't you go listening to that woman. She's so full of shit she could fertilize the whole state of Maryland,' the woman said as she twisted the taps and began washing her hands.

I realized I was still holding my breath when I let it out. I'd caught one of the workers sneaking off to make a personal phone call, that was all.

Sometimes, I thought, it's better to be lucky than smart.

I'd read Woythaler's book, I'd seen her on Oprah, and I wanted like crazy to stay, but Dorothea Chandler had rapped my knuckles, hard, planted her size-eight Cole Haans firmly against my butt and pretty much booted me out. As I skulked out of the powder room, however, I caught sight of Doro at the podium, leaning into the microphone, calling the members to order, preparing to introduce the speaker. ‘Ladies, ladies. Take your seats, please.'

Sensing that the coast was clear, I slipped into a chair at the back of the ballroom and was just settling in when that damn reporter spotted me. As he homed in, I shot out of my chair, made a U-turn and headed for the cloakroom where I'd left my coat. Five minutes later, I was back on Newport Place, peeling a parking ticket off the windshield of my car. Sixty damn dollars fine.

Eight-five dollars down the tubes, and I never got to hear what Susan Woythaler had to say.

TWENTY-THREE

I
waited patiently for a story about Aupry and Hoffner to break.

In-between meal prep and laundry and watching my grandkids, I logged so many hours watching Lynx News that Paul cheerfully concluded that I must have gone over to the dark side and joined the Tea Party Patriots. As if.

I checked the
Washington Post
daily, Style section, too. After a week went by with no story about Susan Woythaler's appearance at the Women's Democratic League, illustrated by a photograph featuring me masquerading as Lilith Chaloux, I began to relax.

Chandler was keeping a low profile. A full-page promo for his upcoming four-part series
Stand by Your Man?
appeared in prime real estate on the inside back cover of
TV Guide
and promos for the show were running 24/7 on all the major networks.

I couldn't wait to tell Paul. ‘Seems our boy is going to be interviewing political wives who've been dumped by their husbands.' I did an arm pump. ‘Or vice versa.' Chandler was hitting all the biggies – Elizabeth Edwards, Jenny Sanford, Silda Spitzer, even Dina McGreevey who had stood on the dais wearing a sky-blue suit and a stoic perma-grin, while her husband, then governor of New Jersey, confessed to a long-time affair with another guy.

I telephoned Jud Wilson and left a message, but when he didn't call me back, I took it as a sign that John Chandler was still covering his ass.

Until my brother-in-law gave me a call. ‘Hannah, this is Dennis. Just thought I'd give you a head's up.'

‘On what?' I'd been washing a wool sweater in the kitchen sink. I reached for a towel.

‘We've just arrested a suspect in the jogging trail attacks.'

‘We? Does that mean
you
?'

‘The guy attacked another woman on Bayside Trail near Pearson's Corner early this morning. But he definitely picked the wrong victim this time. She's a former army helicopter pilot. She saw him coming, ducked, turned the tables on the sonofabitch big time. Broke the guy's collarbone in two places.'

‘Good! I hope it hurts. Who is the creep, anyway? Can you say?'

‘It'll be all over the news shortly. As soon as he gets out of the ER, he'll be our guest in the Chesapeake County lock-up. I'm not sure where he'll be heading eventually. Everybody wants a piece of this guy. DC, Maryland, Virginia. The murders took place in the District and in Virginia, so I imagine they'll have first crack at him.'

‘Go for Virginia,' I urged. ‘They still have the death penalty in Virginia. DC doesn't.'

‘Hard-hearted Hannah, the hanging judge.'

‘Damn right. Meredith Logan deserved to live a long, happy life, and this creep deprived her of it. Some criminals commit crimes so heinous that they forfeit their right to live, Dennis. I truly believe that.' After a moment of silence, I added. ‘Has the guy confessed?'

‘It's early days yet, Hannah.'

‘Do this right, Dennis. Please. Make sure your people don't mess up.'

‘Since I know you and Emily are close to this, I'll let the implied criticism slide.'

‘Sorry. I didn't mean to sound snarky. So I guess Nicholas Aupry is off the hook?'

‘Maybe.'

‘How about Hoffner?'

‘We'll see.'

But . . .' I began. Something was niggling at me. The Jogging Trail Murders, the press was calling them. But, unlike the other girls, Meredith Logan hadn't been attacked anywhere near a jogging trail.

‘Hannah, the only “but” I need from you is this – butt out. Let the police do their jobs.'

‘Dennis . . .'

‘Hannah, you have to trust me on this.'

Leaving the sweater to soak in the sink, I tuned the television to Lynx News where a reporter I didn't recognize was conducting an Up Close and Personal with a baseball player who had blown the whistle on steroid use in the major leagues, a program timed to the release of his tell-all book on the subject. I switched to CNN in time to catch a ‘Breaking News' bulletin.