Mortal Friends (19 page)

I was beside myself.

“Jesus…I’m gonna buy a gun,” I said.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. They changed the law, and you can’t stop me.”

“You still need a permit. I don’t recommend it.”

“Great. So what happens if he comes after me?”

“He won’t. He doesn’t go after women he knows well. And he doesn’t go after blondes. Poll didn’t date any of these girls. He only knew them casually, if at all.”

Gunner left in a hurry after that, leaving me to cope with the idea that I’d not only dated a serial killer, I’d been jilted by one.

A
fter I told Violet about Gunner’s reaction to the green mink blanket, she was convinced that Bob was the Beltway Basher. We fantasized about the day Mr. Poll was charged, and Melody had to stand by her man in court, wearing a tailored pastel suit, the preferred uniform of wives with publically disgraced husbands. It would be one of the biggest cases ever, Bob was so rich and so high-profile.

Violet said he kind of reminded her of Jack Unterweger, yet another sexually sadistic psychopath I’d never heard of. She gave me an article on the charismatic Austrian journalist and darling of Viennese society who turned out to be a serial killer of prostitutes. Unterweger denied his involvement in the crimes right up until he hanged himself in his prison cell. In a creepy twist, he left proof of his guilt by using the same complicated slipknot on his own noose that the murderer had used on his victims. It was a good grisly read.

“Jack couldn’t admit it, but he still wanted everyone to know he’d done it because serial killers are such narcissists at heart—just like Bob,” Violet explained. She was the expert. Too much of an expert, in fact.

Much as I appreciated her hospitality, it seemed like every conversation we had wound up with Violet referencing some ghoul who’d taken multiple lives. You try being fed a daily dose of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Ed Gein, Andrei Chikatilo, Charles Manson, David Berkowitz, Gary Ridgway, the Zodiac. And lest we forget the ladies: Aileen Wuornos, Nannie Doss, Belle Gunness, Marybeth Tinning, and Sister Amy. I began to have more sympathy for
Grant. I finally put my foot down and told her: “Tell me about deadheading roses, not people, for a change.”

It was as if Violet needed to surround herself with darkness in order to feel better about her own life. I think that’s called depression. She was only making things worse by tormenting herself.

I tried hiding the Style section of the
Post
and the various social magazines so she wouldn’t see all the parties to which she was not invited. But, perversely, she wanted to know all the stuff that was going on without her so she could wallow in her own exclusion. She went ballistic if she saw a picture of Grant and Cynthia. She kept track of all the hostesses who invited them and not her. She drew up two lists, one headed “The Quick,” comprised of friends who kept in touch; the other headed “The Dead,” made up of friends she never heard from again.

There were those who tried to maintain friendships with both Violet and Grant during this dicey period—the “Independents,” I called them. Some were people I’d always suspected of courting Violet simply because she was married to Grant. Having made such a big effort over her, they were now kind of stuck with her. She clung to them fiercely, like a candidate making sure of her super delegates, calling them up to remind them that they owed their allegiance strictly to her.

Meanwhile, Cynthia made it clear that whoever saw Violet would never see her or Grant again. It didn’t take a genius to see that Violet wasn’t going to win that competition. President of the Potomac Bank plus major philanthropist versus dumped-on middle-aged housewife…? You tell me.

One of the things Violet was most worried about was being kicked out of her International Club. The International Clubs are basically tony welcome wagons for the wives of ambassadors, senators, congressmen, cabinet members, and important government officials who arrive in Washington and don’t know a soul. They give influential newcomers an opportunity to mix and mingle with others of their ilk. The clubs are mainly for out-of-towners. However, they also include a handful of prominent Washington women. It was a reflection of Grant’s high status in the community that Violet had been invited to join. She was in the best club, too—the International Neighbors Club Number One, which had the most important ambassadors, or at least the ones with the showiest embassies.

How Violet exulted in being a member of this elite little group! She loved the perks and special excursions, like the private tour of Blair House or brunch at the White House. Members were urged to supply some form of entertainment for the group. Thanks to Grant, Violet took everyone to New York for a private tour of the gold vault of the Federal Reserve Bank. I hinted that I would love to see the ninety billion dollars worth of gold bullion glinting away in cages eighty feet below the streets of lower Manhattan. Friend that she was, she let me tag along. When certain people protested that I was not a member, she ignored them.

She knew that after Grant divorced her, she’d be asked to resign, and there’d be no more social perks and private trips.

“They’ll kick me out as soon as the divorce is final!” she confided to me tearfully, citing the wife of a famous journalist who was asked to resign after her husband died suddenly.

Violet had pretended to poo-poo the whole notion of Washington society when she was quietly at its pinnacle. But now I understood just how much it really meant to her. Her desire to hang on to the top rung increased exponentially as she felt herself falling down the ladder.

I felt so sorry for her. I urged her to quit tormenting herself and focus instead on her son and her charity work and particularly on the upcoming twenty-fifth Wheelock reunion, which Violet had agreed to host a long time ago. Many girls who hadn’t clapped eyes on each other since graduation were coming to Washington for this monumental occasion.

Over the years, Violet had hosted any number of small events connected with the school—fund-raisers, lectures, musicales, and things of that nature. Why she, of all people, who had loathed and despised Wheelock, would have been the one to carry the torch of school spirit with such enthusiasm was a testament to revenge as much as anything else. These gatherings were opportunities for Violet to show her old classmates how well she had done in life despite her famously rocky start.

But now she was threatening to call the party off. She blamed it on the fact that her plans were up in the air, but I knew it was because she didn’t want anyone to see how her brilliant life had suddenly tarnished. After all those stellar entries in the alumnae bulletin, I cer
tainly understood her predicament. It was humiliating. But so what? We all get humiliated at some point or another during our lives. The trick is not to let it make you resentful or defeatist. I told her she absolutely couldn’t cancel, that it would be a selfish act.

“Listen to me, Violet. People have made plans, booked flights, hotel rooms, arranged tours of the city. They’re looking forward to this event, and there isn’t enough time to change the venue. Your life can’t stop just because Grant’s being such an asshole. And you can’t expect other people’s lives to stop either,” I said.

She was adamantly opposed at first, but after many a long heart-to-heart, she finally agreed to go through with it—on one condition. If I came.

“I don’t do reunions,” I said flatly.

“Well, I won’t do this one without you,” she countered. “I need you there to hold my hand.”

I reluctantly agreed, figuring I could always back out at the last moment. But I did begin to wonder if what upset Violet most was not that she had lost her husband, but that she had lost her social standing.

After two weeks I felt strong enough to go back home. That’s when Violet gave me the gun. Grant had a big collection that he used to keep in their country house in Virginia. He had all kinds of guns—everything from antique muskets to modern handguns. Mr. Bolton Sr. had always given Grant a gun for his birthday ever since he was a boy. He took Grant on hunting trips because that’s what “real men” did, according to the elder Bolton.

The den of their sprawling house near Middleburg had four Revolutionary War muskets and three eighteenth-century powder horns hanging above the stone fireplace. When they sold the house a few years back, all the guns got packed away and stored up in the attic on Q Street until Grant figured out what he wanted to do with them. Even though guns had been illegal in the District at that time, I doubt Grant or Violet ever gave it a second thought. What were the odds the police would bust in and search the house of a prominent family?

Violet and I went up to the attic, and she opened a small cherry-wood case, where an ornately engraved, pearl-handled gun nested on a bed of blue velvet.

“The Boltons gave this to me two years ago for my birthday,” she said with evident pride.

I didn’t want to take it at first—not just because Gunner had told me I needed a permit, but because I’d never shot a handgun. I wasn’t particularly afraid of guns. My dad taught me to handle a shotgun when I was fourteen. He used to take me skeet shooting at a range on Long Island. I got so I was hitting more clay pigeons than he was. Mom hated guns, and she hated the fact that I liked to shoot skeet. For a while she called me her “little killer,” until Dad told her to quit it.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said, as Violet continued to press the gun on me.

“How’d you like to wake up some dark night with Bob Poll creeping up the stairs and you without any protection? This is a good gun. Grant’s practiced with it.”

That did it. I took the case with the gun inside and put it in my suitcase, along with a handful of cartridges.

My first night home, I got the jitters. Even though we’re all packed in closely in our little Georgetown row houses, I was still nervous about someone breaking in. Amend that: I was nervous about the serial killer breaking in. I’d installed an alarm system once upon a time, but cancelled the monitoring service a year ago to economize. The alarm might go off, but no one would come to my aid because it wasn’t connected to a central station. I lay awake in bed, glad I had that gun.

At breakfast the next morning, I began the tedious process of going through the stack of mail I’d neglected since Amber’s death. Among the bills and circulars, one letter stood out. The second I saw the ecru envelope with the congressional seal on it, I suddenly remembered that I’d stood up Senator Grider! The letter inside consisted of a single scrawled line: “You missed a good show.” It was signed, “Zachary Grider.”

I felt bad. I really did. But it was an honest mistake. I’d completely forgotten about his invitation in the wake of the murder. I found his card and called to apologize. I left a message with some aide, hoping it would eventually get passed up the ranks, never really expecting to hear from him again.

S
pring was here at last, and there were signs that things were picking up in the trade. Just as life was kind of getting back to normal, Rosina called and told me she and Martin were going to stay in Uruguay a while longer, and when they came back, she was going to work for her husband’s contracting firm. I was heartbroken, but I wished her luck and sent my love. I couldn’t help wondering if Amber’s death had been a factor in her decision. She recommended a friend of hers to take her place.

Polo Martinez arrived at the shop one cloudy morning and immediately brightened my day. Polo had been working in an art gallery on Connecticut Avenue, and he wanted a change. I spoke to him for five minutes and hired him on the spot. Like Rosina, Polo was born to sell. There’s nothing like a puckish, raven-haired gay guy with a Spanish accent to charm the ladies and the gents. He was a natty dresser in his designer jeans, driving shoes, Turnbull shirts, and a rainbow collection of cashmere sweaters that he wore slung around his shoulders. He was always on time and always in a good mood—which is more than can be said for myself. It was a pleasure to come to work every morning and see his smiling face.

As I got to know him, I learned that Polo was the Scheherazade of gay Washington. He loved regaling me with endless tales of his illicit trysts and descriptions of the male strip clubs around town, along with the prominent men who frequented them. Even I had no idea how many people led double lives around this town—men and women alike. Polo was not discreet, which I loved.

I was beginning to feel a little more hopeful about life, less appre
hensive. Then one evening, I was home alone when the phone rang around nine. I picked it up, but no one was there. I figured it was a wrong number or a computer. It rang again about five minutes later, and the same thing happened. My phone didn’t register a number. It just read “Private Caller.”

A thought flashed through my mind. What if it was the serial killer, trying to find out if I was home?

It happened a third time, and I just let it ring. When it rang a fourth time, however, I’d had it. I picked up the phone and yelled, “Listen up, you bastard, whoever you are, you better quit calling me or I’m gonna sic the police on you!” I hung up. A few seconds later the phone rang again. I picked it up again and yelled, “
Whaddya want from me?
”

After a slight pause, I heard a soft raspy voice say, “Ms. Lynch?”

“
Yes?
”

“Zack Grider.”

I gasped. I was so embarrassed. “Senator! I’m sorry! I’ve been getting these crank calls, and I thought it was another one.”

Without missing a beat, he said: “You don’t like politics. You don’t like theater. You like Asian art?”

“I
beg
your pardon?”

“You familiar with the Freer and Sackler Galleries?”

“Of course.”

“They’re having a shindig there tomorrow night. I’m dropping in for a look-see. Like to have you on my arm if you’re free.”

“Listen, I have to explain about the theater, I—”

“Explain it to me tomorrow night,” he interrupted. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll pick you up. Not taking any chances this time,” he said with his rusty-hinge laugh.

“Do you know where I live?”

“Yup. Got all that information. Wrote you a card, remember? Just need your e-mail address or fax machine number.”

“Why?”

“Gonna have my secretary send you a copy of the invitation with all the particulars.”

I gave him my e-mail address.

“Pick you up at seven sharp. Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the
bedbugs bite,” he said.

I hung up, somewhat amused. The phone didn’t ring again.

The next morning I opened the e-mail from Senator Grider’s office and found a nice note from his secretary, along with an electronic copy of the invitation for that night’s party. It read, “Cynthia Rinehart invites you to a special night at the Freer and Sackler Galleries to celebrate the birthday of Grant Bolton Jr….” Or words to that effect.

I simply couldn’t believe it. It was my impression that Senator Grider didn’t know Cynthia or Grant. And what in God’s name was Cynthia doing, giving a birthday party for Grant in the first place? And in a museum of Asian art, of all places! How this venue related to a man whose main passions in life were his bank, his fishing camp, and golf was anybody’s guess. To Grant, the Far East was the tip of Long Island, and his idea of Nirvana was a hole in one. Was this the hidden Grant—the Grant I didn’t know? Or was it simply a vast miscalculation on her part?

And there was another thing: how Cynthia got permission to give a dinner in those galleries was a mystery. Years ago, Violet had tried to organize a dinner there for the head of the Osaka Bank, who had done business with Grant. She even got the Japanese ambassador to intervene on her behalf, but there was just too much rigmarole with the board and everything, so she finally gave up and instead held the dinner at Evermay, a pretty little landmark estate in the heart of Georgetown available for rental. I suspected that Cynthia had once again pledged a ton of money to the galleries, a persuasive tactic that works far better than diplomacy in today’s world.

I called Violet, told her about the invitation. I offered not to go if she didn’t want me to. Much to my surprise, she was ecstatic. She’d heard about it already. She said: “Go! Wear a videocam and report
everything
back to me!”

Still, I was a little nervous. What would Cynthia do when she saw me there? Not to mention Grant.

Senator Grider rang my doorbell at seven o’clock. I invited him in for a drink, but he declined.

“I’ll take a rain check, if I may. Don’t want you to miss the exhibition.” He paused. “Like that outfit,” he said pointing to my midnight blue silk dress.

“Thank you. An effort was made.”

“Well, then, thank
you
.”

He showed me to his car, an old gray Buick, natch.

“I pretend this car is a red Porsche convertible,” he said as he started the engine.

“Why don’t you just
buy
a red convertible? It doesn’t have to be a Porsche.”

He cranked up a laugh. “Oh, you’re funny, you are.”

We started off down the block.

“Senator, let me explain about the theater, okay?”

“Only if you call me Zack.”

“Zack…”

I told him about Amber. He glanced at me as he drove.

“Oh, yeah, I think I read something about that crime. You’re saying that young girl worked for you?”

“Just for a week or so. My assistant left to get married, and she filled in. It was such a shock.”

“Oh, I can b’lieve that. Scary thing, murder. ’Specially when it comes close.”

“Has it ever come close to you?”

“Well, let’s see now…. I remember this minister shot his entire family when I was a boy.”

“Did you know him?”

“Nope. He lived in another town. But I never forgot it. Man of the cloth doing something like that makes you realize there’s real evil in the world.”

“Well, they think she was murdered by the Beltway Basher. You’ve heard of him, right?”

“Who hasn’t? I’m not as much of a one-tracker as people think.”

“What’s a one-tracker?”

“Person who keeps his mind on one track to the exclusion of everything else.”

“Well, anyway, I’m sorry I stood you up. I just completely forgot. I’ve been a little out of my mind.”

“Understandable,” he said with a nod.

“You should know something else too.”

“What’s that?”

“About tonight. Cynthia and Grant are
not
going to be pleased to see me there. In fact, she may ask me to leave.”

“’Cause she fired you, right?”

“Right. I didn’t know you knew Cynthia.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh. Do you know Grant?”

“Nope.”

I looked at him askance. “Then how come you were invited to this party?”

“I’m a United States senator. I’m invited places all the time by people I don’t know. This Rinehart gal’s invited me to a whole mess of things. She wants to give me some award—a brass ring or something like that.”

“A golden key?”

“That’s it…. Never went to anything of hers before ’cause it didn’t interest me. Now I’m interested.”

“Why?”

“Oh, just interested to have a look-see, is all. Maybe run into a few elephant bumpers.”

“What are elephant bumpers?” I asked, amused.

“People who think they’re big shots and only wanna hang out with other big shots…. ‘Babylon endures wherever human folly shines or human folly lures,’” he said with a chuckle. “Elephant bumpers are always fun to see.”

“Well, I warn you. Cynthia’s not going to be at all happy to see me. And Grant will probably bust a gut.”

“Both of ’em can bust away. Long as you’re with me, they’ll have to stick it,” he said, giving my arm a solid pat.