Murder at Ford's Theatre (27 page)

THIRTY-TWO

C
LARISE WAS DRAINED
of energy and emotion as she walked through the door of her home, locked the door behind her, dropped her bag and shed her shoes in the foyer, and walked numbly into the living room. Monday was the housekeeper’s night off. Although Clarise welcomed the solitude, the live-in maid’s absence cast a cold, empty pall over the house as though no one had ever lived there, an empty shell without the smell or heat of another human being. She looked at the furniture, and the drapes, down at the carpet and up to a chandelier. What were those things? They silently surrounded her, mute, inanimate witnesses to the hollowness she felt.

She fell on a couch and stared up at the ceiling. She’d dreaded the press conference but had managed to get through it. She resented her former husband’s aristocratic, staunch stance at the microphone, in charge and cocksure, the practiced inflection of his voice honed by thousands of speeches over the course of his political career. She was aware of Annabel’s presence but realized asking her to be there had wasted her friend’s time. No distant moral support could have helped ease her fears and anxiety, nor her anger at having been placed in such an untenable position.

Once they were in the house, she’d suggested to her former husband that they visit Jeremiah in the jail, but he dismissed the notion as having come from a demented mind. “That’s all we need,” he’d said, “having our pictures splashed all over front pages going into a jailhouse. Stop and think, Clarise. Damn it, stop and think before you say or do anything.”

Now, at home, she closed her eyes and was on the verge of unconsciousness when the phone rang. She hadn’t bothered checking the answering machine, although she’d thought about it. There would be dozens of messages, most from the press, and from others with whom she had no interest in speaking.

Her eyes snapped open, and she absently reached for an extension near her head.

“Clarise. It’s Sydney.”

She couldn’t stop the words: “Oh, my God, what do
you
want?”

“To see you.”

“Sydney, I—”

“Don’t put me off, Clarise. Do not do that.”

Was he drunk? She’d never heard him use that tone of voice.

“What do you want, Sydney? Can’t it wait?”

“No, Clarise, it cannot wait. Your confirmation hearing looms, does it not?”

“Wednesday.”

“I’m certain you don’t want to do anything to lessen your chances of confirmation.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m speaking common sense, Clarise, giving you good advice. Is anyone there at the house with you?”

“No. The maid is—”

“I will be there in twenty minutes.”

He hung up hard.

A sense of panic consumed her. She wouldn’t let him in. She turned off the lamp and stood in darkness, in the middle of the room. Lights from the street played on the drapes; muffled car horns could be heard—the nighttime sound of a freight train behind the family farm in Ohio came and went, as though she were a girl again lying in bed dreaming of being somewhere else.

A jolt of resolve replaced the panic. She turned on lights all over the house, frantically going from room to room, turning knobs and flipping switches, and listening for the doorbell to sound. When it did, she was in the foyer, a few feet from the door. She drew a series of deep breaths, unlocked the door, and opened it.

Bancroft entered without saying anything. He walked past her and went into the living room, where he went to the fireplace mantel on which photographs in oval frames were displayed along its length.

“What do you
want,
Sydney?” she asked from the doorway.

Bancroft picked up one of the photos: Jeremiah standing with his mother in a garden setting.

“How old was he in this picture, Clarise? Ten? Eleven?”

She said nothing. He replaced the picture on the mantel, turned, and said, “I need your help.”

“You have a strange way of asking for it, Sydney, barging in here like this. I’ve had a very trying day, and wish to go to bed. Now, what is it you need that couldn’t wait until tomorrow at the theatre?”

His smile was crooked as he sat in a red leather wing chair to the side of the hearth, crossed his legs, and motioned for her to take a matching chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. She hesitated, unsure of whether to leave the room or to take the chair. Her legs felt heavy, and her heart raced. Slowly, like an IV, the reality of why he might be there, and what he intended to say, dripped into her consciousness.

“Now, Clarise,” he said calmly after she was seated, “it is time for us to rearrange our lives and put them in order. I assure you I have nothing but your best interests at heart in coming here tonight and explaining why you should be open and generous to what I am suggesting.”

“Go on,” she said, not wanting to hear more.

“I met in London with my former agent, who is absolutely dying to represent me and my one-man show. He’s extremely excited, Clarise. He feels it will take the West End by storm. There’ll be a world tour, of course.”

“I—that’s wonderful, Sydney.” She relaxed somewhat. He was exaggerating, lying about his so-called show. What he was claiming was preposterous. Poor, demented Sydney. Was that his purpose for coming there, to spin his fanciful yarn about a one-man show that existed only in his imagination?

“I knew you would be thrilled for me,” he said. “In a sense, I have you to thank for this good fortune.”

“Oh?”

“I have no illusions, Clarise, about why you’ve kept me on at Ford’s. On the one hand, it has been demeaning to be patronized, to be the object of scorn by those inferior to me. I shan’t say it hasn’t hurt, Clarise, hurt deeply.”

She started to speak but he stopped her.

“On the other hand, ‘he is well paid that is well satisfied.’” He observed her for a reaction. “
The Merchant of Venice,
Clarise. Keeping me in pocket change must have given you immense satisfaction, my benefactor, my savior.”

Another attempt to say something was interrupted.

“Or should we more properly term it hush money? A bribe to poor, old Sydney Bancroft, to keep his infernal mouth shut.”

Clarise shifted in her chair. She had sensed he would eventually get to this, and deeply resented him for it. She said, “I suggest we drop this right now, Sydney. Right now!”

“Of course you do, dear, sweet Clarise. It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Makes you squirm a bit, hey? Well, a bit of squirming might be in order right about now. Of course, we can avoid all this by coming to a sensible agreement.”

“Get out!” she said, half rising from the chair.

His hand went up, then made circles in the air. “I suggest you relinquish your important, powerful woman stance for a moment, Clarise, and listen to me. Yes, you had damn well better listen to me.”

The force of his words pushed her down.

“What do you want, Sydney? Money?”

“Yes.”

“I have been giving you money for years. Your salary at Ford’s, the extras, paying for trips—”

“Trips for me to charm some rich, fat bloke into giving money to you and your precious Ford’s souvenir shop. How humiliating.” He leaned forward. “Don’t you realize how humiliated I’ve been all these years, or don’t you care?”

“I’ve done what I felt was right,” she said defensively. “I’ve done what I considered decent, considering the circumstances.”

“Oh, come now, Clarise, claiming patron saint status doesn’t become you. You define the word ‘pragmatic,’ and I respect you for that. The pragmatic, dynamic Clarise Emerson, formerly wife to a titan of government, and mother to a son named Jeremiah.” He paused and cocked his head; his smile said he considered himself on the winning side of the confrontation. “Did he ever know, Clarise? I mean, did your senator-sweetie ever really acknowledge what we know to be the truth?”

A sense of divine resignation set in. They hadn’t had this conversation for years. The last time was three years ago when she’d assumed the leadership of Ford’s Theatre, and she hadn’t heard from him for at least four years prior to that. He’d shown up unannounced at the theatre, gaudily dressed like a 1920s vaudevillian, a caricature of a British theatrical performer—comical, but not funny.

“C
ONGRATULATIONS,
Clarise, on your new post,” he’d said that day, only a few weeks into her new job.

“This is quite a surprise,” she said, not at all happy at seeing him.

“I flew here straightaway from London when I heard the news. My, my, I said to myself, my favorite lady is giving up the glamour of Hollywood for the staid, stodgy world of live theatre.”

“I’m excited about it, Sydney. Ford’s Theatre has a rich history, but not only because a president was killed here.”

“I suspect I know a great deal more about that than you, Clarise. Yes, indeed. John Wilkes Booth has been a passion of mine for years. Don’t you remember when we were in London together? I talked your ear off about him.”

“Vaguely. Well, Sydney, it was good of you to come all the way from London to congratulate me.”

“And you now wish me to leave.”

“I—”

“Clarise, I need a favor, a big one from you. Things have—how shall I say it?—things have slowed down for me in England. Professionally, that is. I fired my agent, Quill, that bloodsucker. Absolutely worthless, he was, out of touch with the theatre scene there, a bumbler of the first order. He’d make a better fishmonger than theatrical agent.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sydney. Now, what’s this favor you’re asking of me?”

“You will admit that I’ve been admirably discreet all these years.”

“Sydney, I—”

“
And,
I might add, have been noticeably absent from your life.”

“Yes.”

“Well, dear girl, as that famous line in
My American Cousin
went when Mr. Booth put a bullet into Honest Abe’s head, ‘Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap.’”

She stared at him.

“I’d like to bring my considerable theatrical talents here to the good old U.S. of A., to this venerable theatre known as Ford’s.”

He didn’t let her respond.

“You owe me, Clarise. I’m sure you agree with that. I shan’t need much, just enough to find an agreeable flat, buy a new suit now and then, enjoy what culinary arts are practiced here in your nation’s capital, and to be kept in good scotch whisky. I’m a modest man. I assure you that once those needs are met, I shall never again raise the little secret we both hold so dear.”

Her anger was expressed in her mouth, drawn tight, a slash.

“Now, don’t be angry, Clarise. Actually, I think you’ll find me quite useful around here. Oh, and with your considerable political connections, arranging for the proper paperwork to allow me to stay here shouldn’t be a problem. I’m staying with an old friend, Saul Jones. He lives over in Alexandria or Arlington or one of those bloody places across the river.” He wrote out Jones’s phone number and handed it to her. “Don’t keep me waiting long with the good news, Clarise. I’m afraid my patience has worn thin with age, to say nothing of other things wearing thin, or out. Planned obsolescence by the man upstairs. Cheerio. It is wonderful seeing you after so long. And again, congratulations on your new post. Well deserved, my friend, well deserved.”

C
LARISE STOOD
and looked at the array of family photographs on the mantel. Fury was what she now felt. Had she a weapon in her hand, she would have gladly turned it on him.

She faced him; he cocked an eyebrow and smiled.

“What do you want?” she asked, working to keep her voice from quavering.

“A contribution to the arts, Clarise. Soon—very soon—you will have at your disposal a large sum of money, compliments of your taxpayers. You’ll sit at the head of America’s preeminent arts funding agency.”

He stood and approached, reaching out a hand to touch her. She recoiled: “Get away from me,” she said.

“I see you haven’t lost your sense of the dramatic,” he said. “I am not asking for anything illegal or unethical, Clarise. Your NEA is in the business of funding worthy artists. I am a worthy artist. All you need do is fund my show, give me enough money to launch it in London. You might even justify it as an example of hands across the sea.”

“And if I don’t fund this one-man show of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a possibility, Clarise. By the way, I must have your answer no later than tomorrow evening.”

“Why?”

“Your hearing. Bad enough that your son has been accused of murder. If the distinguished men and women sitting in judgment of you were to learn that your equally esteemed husband, the senator from Virginia, isn’t even the boy’s father, that would really send them into a tizzy, wouldn’t it?”

“And you think anyone would believe you?” she asked, now more in control of herself. “You’ve never been sure, nor have I. Bruce has never questioned it. Jeremiah looks like Bruce.”

“I’d say he looks like you, Clarise. And will I be believed, you ask, in this day of DNA testing? Come, come.”

He made another attempt to close the gap between them and to touch her. This time, she allowed his hand on her shoulder.

“This never should have come to this, this—this adversarial situation between us. I’m not asking you to rob a bank. The NEA’s money will be put to good and proper use, to fund an important artistic undertaking: Sydney Bancroft, alone on the stage, regaling audiences with his insights into the great Willie B.”

A second hand reached her, on the opposite shoulder.

“There’s no need for rancor between us, Clarise. We loved each other once, at least for one night, and what a joyous night it was, glowing and warm from all the good wine we consumed, the silly giggling—remember the laughter?”

“Yes,” she said. “I remember.” She offered a petite smile.

“Of course you do.”

He stepped back and rubbed his hands together.

“I would say that things are in jolly good order, wouldn’t you?” he said.

She nodded.

“I promise you, Clarise, that I will put your NEA’s money to very good use, very good use indeed. You shall be proud of me, Clarise; front-row center seats shall be yours at my London opening, and the bubbly shall flow afterward.”