Murder in the Smithsonian (26 page)

“Sure… right, I understand. You’ve been through more than enough. But if you get lonesome and want to change your mind—”

“I can stay with Chloe Prentwhistle if I get lonely, I stayed there last night. She’s quite a hostess.”

“You did?”

“Yes. It was a lovely evening. She put together a last-minute little do for me, just a few people. We had
cocktails and dinner and sat about and talked. I felt much better for it, at least until this happened.” She pointed to her foot.

Hanrahan put on his jacket. “Well, afraid I have to go. Duty calls, and so on. How’s the foot?”

“Not bad. Thank you for bringing me home. I felt very special. The others didn’t get such V.I.P. treatment.”

“You’ve got connections… well, be sure to call if… if you need anything.”

***

At MPD Joe Pearl had left a note about Janis Dewey. She’d told him Killinworth had wanted to know about the Gainsborough collection that was under her curatorship. Pearl said he’d pressed, but hadn’t come up with anything else. His impression was that she had more to tell but was afraid.

Reading Joe’s note, Hanrahan cursed the bomber’s timing. He was convinced that if he’d put a little more pressure on Janis Dewey she would have told more. He’d have to try again with her soon.

***

As he drove home he realized he was glad in a way that Heather hadn’t accepted his halfhearted invitation to the picnic. He would have felt awkward. Kathy would assume she was his girl friend; he could do without that.

At home he took a Welsh rarebit from the freezer, threw some bacon on his Jenn-Air grill and popped two halves of an English muffin in the toaster-oven. He poured a drink, turned on the TV and watched a report about the bombing.

“One of the injured was Heather McBean, who’d been engaged to marry Dr. Lewis Tunney. You will recall that Dr. Tunney was murdered with Thomas
Jefferson’s sword at the Museum of American History, a murder that has gone unsolved…”

The phone rang. It was Heather. “I don’t know how they found me here but I’ve been getting calls from the newspapers and TV people.”

“Don’t answer the phone.”

“I always answer the phone. I’m too curious not to.”

“Well, then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do… except invite you over for a little Welsh rarebit.”

“I’m tempted, Captain. I really am, but, well… I’m also exhausted. Can I, as they say, take a rain check?”

“You can, and I’m going to hold you to it. Good night. And for God’s sake don’t talk to any strangers, or
anyone
, for that matter.”

“I’m too tired to argue, Captain. I promise.”

***

Heather replaced the phone in its cradle and pressed her head into the couch pillows. Her foot throbbed, and so did her head. The phone rang and rang and rang. She didn’t answer. She was quite proud of herself. She hobbled over to it and took it off the hook.

Premature Fourth of July celebrants set off cherry bombs on the street. Heather started, then sank back into the cushions. She considered calling Chloe Prentwhistle, but the effort to get up and make the call was too much. Everything had started to ache. She closed her eyes and eventually dozed off, only to be awakened by a knocking at the door. She sat up and shook her head. “Who is it?” she called out.

“Evelyn.”

“Oh, I must have drifted off. Just a minute.” She sat on the edge of the couch and held her head in her hands, got to her feet and winced as pain from her injured foot sped up her leg to her head. She hobbled
to the door, stopping midway to steady herself on a chair and put the phone back in its cradle.

She undid the latch and stepped back. The door swung open and Killinworth stood in the backlight of a small hall lamp. He filled the open doorway. When he didn’t speak, Heather said, “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know what to say, Heather. I’m very disappointed in you.” He entered the room and looked down at her bandaged foot. “I heard about the accident.” He crossed the room, looked out the window, then drew flowered drapes across it. Heather turned on another lamp and sat on the couch. “Why are you disappointed in me?” she asked, having a good idea what the answer would be.

“Scotland Yard has contacted me concerning the death of an Arab in London.”

“Ashtat…?”

“You remember the name.”

“Well yes… it’s not exactly a common name.” She was feeling resentful of what seemed like an interrogation. And perhaps a little guilty too.

He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of single-malt Scotch whiskey from a bottle he’d given her when she had moved in, took a full swig and returned to the living room.

“Evelyn,” Heather said, “I can understand why you’re upset, but you must understand the position I was in—”

“I only understand, Heather, that your friend, the good Captain Hanrahan, told an Inspector Burns at the Yard that I was in Belgravia the night of the Arab’s demise. Obviously, he received that information from you.”

“Yes, he did, but under the circumstances—”

“You have a unique way of treating friends, Heather.”

“Evelyn, I—”

“I came forward in your hour of tragedy and befriended you, took you in, comforted you. My reward has been, how shall I put it? I am hurt, my dear. To use an understatement, of which, I realize, I am rarely guilty.”

Heather started to explain again but Killinworth was not having any of it. Instead he delivered a filibuster about friendship and its demands, about trust and honor and chivalry. When he was finished with his speech, and his Scotch, Heather said, “I’m
sorry
, Evelyn, but, well, I was led to believe that Captain Hanrahan already knew about our sharing a cab to Belgravia that night, and I was, I think, understandably upset by—”

“He tricked you.”

“Perhaps.”

“And you still trust him.”

“He’s investigating Lewis’s death, he’s a—”

“Remember the people who investigated Calum’s death?”

“Evelyn, I can’t distrust everyone. I need to believe in
someone
.”

“Have I ever given you cause for disbelief?”

“All right, Evelyn… let’s have it out… when I read about this Ashtat being murdered in Belgravia, I did wonder. I admit it. Can’t you understand that?”

“I am appalled.”

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s a bit late for
that
. It adds, I assure you, a terrible complication in my life at this moment. I’m not sure what I’ll do—”

“Why not just answer their questions truthfully? You didn’t have anything to do with that Arab’s murder…” She almost added, “
Did you?
”

He looked at her as though he had heard her unspoken
words. “Heather, I must be away for a day or two.”

“Because of this—?”

“Because of
business
. I expect to be back by the Fourth of July. Until I return, I suggest you remain here, admit no one. Do you understand?”

At least he and Hanrahan had that view of her future in common… “I don’t like being cooped up.”

“Heather, I insist that you follow my instructions—”

“I will do what I feel is best for me, Evelyn. I’ve been ordered about and allowed myself to act like a victim for rather too long now. Please go. I’ll be
fine
. Do have a pleasant trip.”

He was obviously angry as he left the room, which didn’t displease Heather at all. Damn all of them, she thought as she latched the door behind him. It’s
my
fiancé who’s dead, my foot that has daggers in it. A half hour later she heard him slam his downstairs door. She looked out the window and briefly watched him waddle up the street, a small overnight bag in his hand…

Evelyn Killinworth’s progress was observed by another, who sat in a car. The moment Killinworth turned the corner, the car door opened and the driver stepped out…

Heather put on her raincoat, slung her purse over her shoulder and left her apartment. Her foot still ached badly, but she needed to be out in the air where she could think, walk as far as her foot would allow, perhaps stop in for something to eat in a local restaurant.

She came down the stairs and opened the front door.

The driver of the car, who had slowly been approaching the house, stopped and turned away.

Heather breathed in the pungent, warm evening air and walked in the opposite direction.

She returned two hours later, soaked her foot and
went to bed, the sound of the pending Fourth of July celebration crackling outside her windows, the room’s darkness occasionally illuminated by a burst in the sky from a skyrocket or a Vesuvius Fountain.

The brisk breeze that ruffled the reporter’s hair had blown out the previous day’s oppressive heat and humidity and carried in with it a dry and sunny Fourth of July.

“I am standing on the west lawn of the Capitol, where tonight Mstislav Rostropovich will conduct the National Symphony Orchestra in a musical salute to the Fourth… In front of me, at the other end of the Mall, is the Lincoln Memorial’s Rainbow Pool, the site of this year’s fireworks display that is being called the most ambitious ever
…
”
She glanced down at her notes.
“Preceding all the nighttime activity will be the Annual Independence Day Parade down Constitution Avenue, from Seventh to Seventeenth Streets… The Jhoon Rhee Martial Ballet will kick off five hours of musical entertainment at the Washington Monument, beginning at two-thirty… there will be jazz and bluegrass and, of course, the continuing Folk Life Festival on the Mall
…
”
A particularly stiff gust of wind caused her to hold on to her hair.
“Well, it’s all part of this year’s gala Fourth of July festivities, which according to the National Park Service will draw more than three hundred thousand onlookers… Now, back to you, Ed.”

Ed Filler, Washington’s most popular morning TV host, said, “
Thanks, Elaine, for that live report… More in a moment
.”

A jeans commercial filled the screen with female posteriors. Heather yawned. She had had a fitful night’s sleep. Her dreams had been bizarre, menacing people with grotesque faces chasing her through fields of thistle into twisted forests where long black tree limbs groped for her. The worst was the dream she’d awakened from. It had seemed endless. She was attached by her waist to a long tether that suspended her in infinite space, spinning endlessly, the air cold and painfully dry, the light a monotonous bright glow without source. She had awakened shivering. The sun was already up, and the cool breeze rippled white curtains in the bedroom.

She had decided before going to bed that she would face this day differently, would immerse herself in this uniquely American holiday. No problems, at least for twenty-four hours. The TV report about the day’s activities reinforced her thought. She showered and dressed in light tan, close-fitting slacks, a salmon-colored blouse and walking shoes. She didn’t have much choice about the shoes. Her foot felt better, but still pained under sustained pressure.

She breakfasted on English muffins, which she never saw in England, and coffee, checked herself in the mirror, decided to carry a lightweight white cardigan with her and left the apartment. She reached the foot of the stairs and glanced at Killinworth’s door. It was ajar.

She wasn’t sure what to do. Had he come back and was now sleeping? She didn’t want to disturb him, didn’t even want to see him.

But she couldn’t ignore the door. She pushed it open and peered into the living room. Her first thought was
of looking into her room at the Madison the night it had been ransacked. Furniture was tipped over, drawers emptied, drapes torn from their fixtures. She listened, heard nothing except her heart that was performing a frantic paradiddle, stepped into the apartment and went to the bedroom, where the same wild sight greeted her.

“Tatty,” she called anxiously. She went to the kitchen where a paper plate of cat food had been kicked over. Tatty the cat wasn’t there. She opened the bathroom door. Tatty purred, caressed her leg. Heather picked the cat up and nuzzled her, trying to calm herself.

She returned to the kitchen, still carrying the cat, took a box of dry cat food from a cupboard. She left Killinworth’s apartment, carefully closing the door behind her, and went upstairs, where she poured a saucer of milk. She found a paper plate, put it on the floor next to the saucer and opened the flap on the box of food. She bent down and shook the box over the plate. A few pieces of dry meal fell from the opening. She shook harder. Something was blocking the opening, and she noticed that the top of the box had been slit open, then taped shut with transparent tape.

Heather carefully peeled the tape from the box, opened the top and looked inside. A chamois bag the color of burnt ocher filled the cavity above the foot. She removed the bag, filled the plate with food, then sat down on the living room couch.

She held the bag on her lap as though it might be radioactive and traced the outline of a heavy object through the leather. Slowly, deliberately she undid the drawstring and widened the bag’s mouth. She reached inside. Her fingertips touched metal, glass, a band of
silk. She closed her fingers on the object and slowly slid it from its nesting place.

“My God,” she said quietly. “It can’t be, but it is.
The Harsa
.”

She’d seen it in the museum. Seen pictures… She picked up the phone and started to dial MPD’s number, stopped on the third digit and hung up. Hanrahan wouldn’t be there. She found his home number he’d given her, dialed it. No answer. He’d left for the picnic.

She paced the room, the Harsa in her hand. Were there two Legion of Harsa medals? There must be… one in the museum… And Evelyn had the other one? How did he get it? Who searched his apartment? Did Lewis know there were two? Was it that knowledge that caused his murder? God… what should she do? She returned the medal to the sack, put it in her purse, picked up the cat and put him in Killinworth’s apartment. She left the house and walked as fast as she could, paying no attention to the direction, hoping that her mind would somehow clear.

She reached Georgetown Hospital, caught her breath and tried to take her weight off the injured foot for a few moments, then continued down Thirty-Seventh Street, past Georgetown University, to the Key Bridge and the Potomac. The breeze felt cool on her face; she’d started to perspire. She looked across the river and saw American flags flying, their red, white and blue fields slapping against a cloudless, azure sky. She reached into her purse and touched the chamois sack, thought of Evelyn Killinworth. “My God,” she said out loud, “what has he done?”