Murder at the National Cathedral (37 page)

“First, George St. James and his return to his relatively normal life as bishop of the National Cathedral. Of course, what he prayed wouldn’t happen did happen. One of his own was the murderer. Which proves that even for a bishop, not all prayers can be answered. He’s gotten some phone calls. One woman said she would no longer contribute to that ‘den of iniquity’ posing as a cathedral. But he—and the cathedral—will ride it out because they must. We need him, and the cathedral.”

“You bet. A great institution, some great people—and an eternally good cause. What’s the second thing we’re toasting?” Annabel asked.

“The end of a sad, nasty, and upsetting episode in our lives,” Smith said. The rims of glasses clinked together. “And,” Smith added, “I propose a toast to the National Cathedral getting back to its business at hand, namely setting the spiritual pace for this increasingly hedonistic slice of society.”

“Amen,” Tony said. “What’s that mean?”

“Hedonistic?” Smith said.

“Yeah.”

“Caring about your own fanny more than anybody else’s.”

“Makes sense to me,” Buffolino said, raising his glass again.

“What do you think will happen to Jonathon Merle?” Annabel asked.

“Hard to say,” Smith replied. “He was an accessory under the law, but I have a feeling they won’t go hard on him. He walked in on them right after she’d hit Paul with the candlestick, and bought her rationale that if the body were found in Good Shepherd, it would appear that someone from outside the cathedral had murdered him. He had finally found someone on earth to truly love. Also, Merle is a good soldier. Jonathon believes in the cathedral and what it stands for, and thought he was doing the ‘right’ thing. He wasn’t, of course, but he’ll have to answer to a lesser god than he’s been used to.” Smith shook his head. “Nickelson is a sad case. Because he was convinced his wife was playing around with Paul, he had good reason to think he’d be accused of the murder. Frankly, he’s better off in San Francisco, and the cathedral is better off without him.”

“His wife would be better off without him, too,” Annabel said, “but that’s another story.”

Buffolino gestured to the bartender. “Another rum and Coke.” He also ordered for Mac and Annabel, but they demurred. Buffolino said, “I really feel sorry for that kid, Joey. Man, he must be some mess, running away like that, having seen Merle dragging a body up the hall. Tough on a kid.”

“Yes, it is,” Smith said. “Interesting that Armstrong was convinced Joey had seen
her
moving the body, not Merle.”

“Do you think she would have hurt the boy?” Annabel’s concern, even after the fact, was etched in her face.

Smith shook his head. “I don’t think so. Killing Paul was not a premeditated act. She was the woman scorned, and she lashed out.”

“Whattaya think she’ll get?” Buffolino asked.

“I don’t know. Susan Kellman is a good attorney, a good
choice to defend Armstrong, if I do say so myself. I think they’ll probably do well, fairly well. Word of Peace is another matter.”

“I’m glad that the cathedral and the Mother Church have disassociated themselves from it,” said Annabel.

“I suppose so,” Smith said, “but it’s kind of a shame, too. We could use more effective peace organizations. Too bad a few factions decided to make use of it for their own purposes.”

“More ribs?” Buffolino asked.

“No, thanks. Not those ribs, anyhow,” Smith said. He took Annabel’s hand and asked, “Dance?”

She giggled. “Here? Now?”

“Yup. Excuse us, Tony.”

Buffolino smiled as he watched the Smiths take to the small dance floor.

“What would you like to hear?” the musician asked.

“ ‘Our Love Is Here to Stay,’ ” Annabel said.

They danced close, their cheeks touching, Annabel humming the melody along with the pianist, who seemed to have become inspired by two live, moving bodies. Halfway through the song, Mac whispered in her ear.

“No,” she said, pulling her head back and laughing.

“Why not?”

“Do you really think he’ll know the answer?”

“Bet you a hundred bucks.”

“You’re on,” she said.

Smith guided her close to the bandstand and said, “Excuse me,” to the musician.

The musician leaned over the keyboard, his fingers still working the keys. “What?”

“Do you know your fly is open?” Smith asked.

The pianist laughed. “If you can hum it, I can play it.”

Tony Buffolino suddenly appeared next to them. “Mind if I cut in?” he asked.

“Not if she doesn’t,” Smith said.

She didn’t. As they danced, Tony leading manfully, half as tall as she, he told her that he was out of the nightclub business for good, that he wanted to turn over a new leaf with Alicia, and that his best days—and nights—were spent working for Mac. She smiled. Even Tony was becoming nicer. But she hoped there would be few occasions for Tony to get assignments from Mac. Still, looking over Tony’s head at her husband, she wasn’t so sure.

Later that night, while they sat propped up in bed and browsed through the newspaper—Rufus providing a breathing footboard—Smith asked, “Say, did you really find that phony Frenchman Pierre Quarle handsome and charming?”

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

“No. He had bad breath.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“You were blinded by the accent, and your nose shut down.”

“I was not. Mac, are you jealous of me?”

“At times.”

“Don’t ever be. I am your woman, and will be for the rest of my life.”

“Then I won’t be … jealous. All the time. Just stay away from Frenchmen with halitosis. And especially from any man without it. If you don’t—”

“What will happen if I don’t?”

“He becomes a meal for the beast. Right, Rufus?” He cued the dog with his right foot.

The Dane growled and shifted position. Smith and Annabel turned off their reading lights.

“Good night, Professor,” she said.

“Good night, Patron of the Arts.”

“Never again.”

“Never
what
again?” Smith asked.

“Two never-agains. First, never hire an assistant who
thinks he’s smarter than you are but turns out to be merely impossible. And two, never get involved in murder.”

“You can count on that. I’ll never get caught up again in any murder in a national cathedral.”

“Yes, I’m sure you mean just that. Good night, Mr. Smith.”

“Good night, Mrs. Smith.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MURDER.

MARGARET TRUMAN.

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It is home to the powerful, the glamorous, and the politically connected. It has a gorgeous view and a notorious history. Now the Watergate, a vast complex of hotel rooms, apartments, health spas, and fine restaurants, is famous for something else: two shocking murders whose victims have ties to Mexico. As the case reaches from the Watergate into the White House, law professor Mac Smith and his wife, Annabel, set out to uncover the truth. Because the ultimate dirty trick is threatening a political career and a nation’s future. And the killer is already plotting his next lethal move.… 

“Truman’s inside knowledge adds
to the crisp plot, and her portrait of
capital people … is superb.
Who can you trust? In D.C. politics,
there’s no way to know.”
—
Atlanta Journal-Constitution

The chief engineer on Project Safekeep, an antimissile system under contract to the Pentagon, is murdered and a senior CIA official is accused of the crime. Major Margit Falk is a combat pilot and a lawyer with little trial experience who must defend the man accused of murder in the Pentagon. The closer Margit comes to the truth, the more she realizes that her career, her love of the military, and her life are in dire jeopardy.

“Margaret Truman has become a first-rate mystery writer.”
—
Los Angeles Times Book Review

During a gala benefit for the Democratic Party’s hottest presidential hopeful at the glittering Kennedy Center, a young woman dies a brutal death. The dynamic campaign of Senator Kenneth Ewald has collided with a tragedy that can send his son to jail—and wreck his own career.

George Washington University law professor Mac Smith comes out of the classroom to tackle this case, marching straight into the firing line of an unscrupulous TV evangelist who gets his orders from God and a dethroned Central American dictator who takes interference from no one.

“An exciting romp through the maze of Washington politics.”
—
The Dallas Morning News

Valerie Frolich, the beautiful twenty-year-old daughter of New Jersey senator John Frolich, was among the youngest guests at the elegant Georgetown party. Her provocative dancing raised a few eyebrows—but could someone have found it distasteful enough to kill her?

Assigned to report on her murder is Joe Potamos, of
The Washington Posts
police beat. What he finds out about Valerie—a top-notch journalism student as well as a heart-breaker of men young and old—leads to a number of startling questions about Georgetown’s most powerful men and women.

Someone from above does not like Potamos’s particular brand of reporting, and he is pulled off the case. But Potamos is in too deep to stop investigating. And as the smell of corruption in high places becomes stronger, he realizes that it’s not just his job that’s at stake. It’s his life.

“A smooth-running, fast-moving narrative.”
—
Chicago Sun-Times