A Vote for Murder (15 page)

“How did you end up at the senator’s office?”

“Senator Nebel’s press secretary decided to not have breakfast at the hotel and took me to the office. I was about to leave when Oscar arrived.”

“The man must be demented.”

“He’s eccentric,” I said. “But I don’t think he would have actually harmed anyone.”

“An eccentric in a great deal of trouble.”

“Unfortunately true. I got a call from Detective Moody this morning on my cell phone.”

“What does he want?”

“He left a message saying it’s about Ms. Farlow’s murder.”

“No surprise. What other reason would he have to call you?”

“None. I haven’t returned the call yet. Maybe I should do it now.”

Detective Moody was summoned to the phone by the officer who answered, and thanked me for getting back to him. “I see you’ve had an interesting morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“One I’d rather forget,” I said.

“I’d like to speak with you. Any chance of meeting me at Senator Nebel’s house this afternoon?”

“At the house?”

“Yes. There are some things I’d like to go over with you there.”

“I suppose that would be all right. Have you informed the Nebels?”

“No, but I will. Can you be there at two?”

“Yes. I’ll be with Inspector Sutherland.”

Silence on his end either indicated that he’d lost his train of thought, or wasn’t pleased to hear about George.

“That’ll be fine. Two o’clock.”

“I take it we’re to meet with the detective,” George said after I’d clicked off the phone.

“I hope you don’t mind my committing you.”

“Not at all.” He smiled.

“You’re amused at something,” I said.

“I’m smiling, Jessica, because I sense you’re about to go to work.”

“Go to work?”

“Put on your sleuth’s hat and solve the murder of one Nikki Farlow.”

“Do you disapprove?”

“Not in the least, as long as you allow me to partner with you. My conference has wrapped up and I’ve put in for a week’s leave, so I have nothing but time on my hands. I don’t play golf, find most films these days to be sophomoric bores, and am not much of a tourist. Besides, the thought of you being left to your own devices here in Washington sends a chill up my spine.”

“Are you suggesting I’m not capable of solving a murder on my own?”

“Absolutely not. But we’ve paired up before in such situations and done quite nicely, you might remember.”

“Napa, California,” I said, not able to suppress a smile at remembering being together in that beautiful wine country when a former Hollywood director turned vintner was murdered.

“Scotland,” he said.

“Ah, yes, Scotland,” I said, recalling having visited George’s family castle in Wick, Scotland, with a contingent of friends from Cabot Cove and ending up smack-dab in the middle of a murder there.

“And London,” he offered, referring to when we’d first met. I’d become a suspect in the murder of a dear friend, and George had investigated the crime.

“We’re meeting Detective Moody at two, at the Nebel house.”

“Returning to the scene of the crime.”

“Something like that.”

“What about your obligations to the literacy drive? That’s what brought you here in the first place.”

“I’ll take part in what I can. Ready?”

“Where are we going?” he asked as we left the café.

“To Senator Nebel’s office.”

“Might I ask why?”

“I can’t think of a better place to start. As unpleasant a thought as it might be, Nikki Farlow was killed at the senator’s home, by someone he’d invited to his dinner party. Whether the motive was personal, professional, or political, that
someone
is linked to the—to
my
junior senator from Maine.”

Security at the Dirksen Building had been beefed up considerably compared to earlier that morning. There were twice as many security guards on duty, and bags and briefcases were thoroughly searched. We eventually passed inspection and rode the elevator to the floor on which Warren Nebel’s suite was located.

The office was a beehive of activity when we entered. I saw through the open door to Sandy Teller’s office that he had two phones in his hands, one pressed to each ear. Richard Carraway was hunched over a computer, his eyes focused on the screen. A half dozen young staffers seemed to be in perpetual motion in the large outer office, answering phones, working at computers, their expressions promising that the fate of the free world rested with them.

The senator’s personal secretary, who manned a desk just outside his private office, greeted me. “Good morning Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “Back so soon?”

“Good morning,” I said. “This is Inspector George Sutherland, of Scotland Yard.”

“Good morning to you, sir.”

“Is the senator available?” I asked.

She nodded toward the closed door. “He’s in there with investigators from the Capitol Police, and detectives from the Metropolitan Police Department.”

“Do you expect he’ll be with them long?” I asked.

“Hard to say. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

She buzzed his office and announced we were waiting to see him. She hung up the phone and said, “He said he didn’t think he’d be much longer. Have a seat.”

George and I sat in orange plastic chairs near her desk and continued to take in the activity around us. George seemed especially interested in Carraway, probably because I’d told him during the cab ride that the Senate aide gave me the impression during dinner that he was not particularly fond of his boss, Nikki Farlow. Not that that meant he’d murdered her. Lots of people dislike their bosses but don’t go to the extent of killing them. Still, when someone has been murdered, certain groups of people become prime suspects, beginning with spouses or lovers, followed closely by those who’ve expressed or were known to have a particular dislike for the victim.

Based upon my brief encounter with people at the dinner party, I’d tried to come up with my own shortlist of those who might have had a motive to kill Nikki. Besides Carraway, there was the senator himself. If he’d been having an affair with her—and was being blackmailed to keep the affair quiet—his anger, coupled with the threat she posed to his reelection bid, might be sufficient to have prompted him to take drastic action.

Too, as much as I hated to admit it, the hurt that Nebel’s alleged affair had inflicted upon his wife, Patricia, could well have brought her to the brink of wanting to see Nikki dead.

Of course, anyone present at the Nebel house the night Nikki died had to be considered a suspect, unless she’d been killed by someone with no apparent connection to the senator and his guests. I doubted that was the case. The dock was virtually unreachable unless you used the long set of wooden stairs leading from the house, and I hadn’t seen anyone who didn’t look as though they belonged at the party.

I was deep in those thoughts when the door to Nebel’s office opened and he stuck his head out. “Jessica, so sorry to keep you waiting. I wasn’t expecting you. I’m afraid I’m going to be in this meeting for a while longer.” He motioned for Carraway to come to where we sat. “Richard, I’ve kept Mrs. Fletcher and her friend waiting too long. Do me a favor and take these good folks for something to eat, coffee, whatever.”

“No, Senator,” I said. “We really don’t need to—”

Nebel closed the door in midsentence, leaving Carraway and us to decide what to do. It didn’t take me long to make a decision. This was a good opportunity to spend time with the aide, hopefully to learn more about just how deep his negative feelings about Nikki Farlow ran.

“I’d love a cup of tea,” I said.

Carraway, who was as pale and nervous as I’d remembered him from the dinner, asked whether we wanted him to have tea or coffee sent up.

“No,” I said pleasantly, standing and smiling. “I feel as though we’re in the way here. Besides, I could use a walk.”

“We’ll have to go the cafeteria downstairs,” Carraway said. “Staffers don’t have privileges in the dining room.”

“Sounds good to me,” George said.

The cafeteria was immense, brightly lit, and served a wide variety of foods, including hot dishes, a long salad bar, and a deli section where uniformed workers prepared sandwiches, hamburgers, and hot dogs. I placed my cup of tea and a bowl of rice pudding on the tray, alongside George’s coffee and slice of key lime pie. Carraway settled for an orange juice.

Once we were at a Formica table, I said, “I’m sure everyone is still upset about what happened this morning.”

Carraway managed a grim laugh. “That’s an understatement,” he said, dabbing at perspiration on his brow and cheeks with a napkin. “That crazy old man could have killed somebody. You really know him from back home?”

“Yes, I do. Oscar Brophy has always been a bit of a mystery in Cabot Cove, an eccentric who lives by himself. He may not have seemed it, but he’s an intelligent man, very well-read. I can’t justify his actions. The controversy surrounding the nuclear plant obviously caused him to go off the deep end.”

“It’s a good thing you were there,” Carraway said, “to talk him out of it. He might have shot everybody.”

“I’m just glad no one was hurt,” I said, tasting my rice pudding.

“Any further developments on Ms. Farlow’s death?” George asked.

“Do you mean have they found who killed her?” Carraway asked, guffawing. “The answer is no, and I bet they never do.”

His reply caused George and me to sit up a little straighter. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

He downed his orange juice in one continuous gulp before answering. “The Fairfax police don’t know what they’re doing. You don’t see a whole lot of murders in Fairfax County. Besides, lots of people wanted Nikki dead.”

“Is that so?” George said. “Why would many people want to harm a lovely young woman like that?”

“Nikki was not your nicest person,” Carraway said. “You know, one of those overly ambitious women who don’t care who they step on to get ahead. She’s made lots of enemies since coming to Washington to join Nebel’s staff, and you can count me among them.”

George started to say something but Carraway cut him off. “Yeah, I know, that makes me a prime suspect. Frankly, I don’t care whether I am or not. All I know is that Nikki had it coming, but I didn’t do it.”

George asked, “Have the police questioned you yet, Mr. Carraway?”

“Tonight,” he replied. “Detective Moody, or one of his cops, is coming to my apartment.”

“Have others in the office been questioned?” I asked.

“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t care about them.” His eyebrows went up and he came forward onto his elbows. “Oh, I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “If I talk this way to the police, they’ll probably lock me up, case closed. Not only did I not like Nikki; I benefit from her death. Senator Nebel is giving me her job, at least until he decides to hire somebody else. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about that, either. I hate to rush you, but I really have to get back upstairs. All hell has broken loose around the office, reporters calling, cops in and out, and all this on top of the vote coming up on the Maine power plant.”

His mention of the pending Senate vote on the Cabot Cove nuclear facility prompted George to ask, “What role did Ms. Farlow play in the debate over locating the plant in Maine?”

Another shrug from Carraway. “She had the senator’s ear, that’s for sure.”

George pressed: “Whose side was she on?”

Carraway pushed back his chair, indicating that our little get-together was over. He said, “Nikki had strong convictions about a lot of legislation that came through our office. The problem was, her convictions were based upon who had the most money to spread around. Ready to go? I really can’t be away any longer.”

Quite an accusation
, I thought. Could he back it up, or was it simply a nasty charge from someone whose dislike of her seemed to border on hatred?

The authorities with whom Nebel was meeting were on the way out as we arrived back at the suite, and the senator introduced us.

“A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher,” one of the MPD detectives said. “I’ve been meaning to contact you about what happened here this morning. We understand the assailant is a friend of yours.”

“Not exactly a friend,” I corrected, “but I did know him back home in Cabot Cove, Maine. I’ll be happy to talk to you any time you wish.”

“How about now?”

I looked at George, who nodded his approval. “Okay,” I said.

The detective turned to Nebel: “Got a private office we could use, Senator?”

“Of course,” Nebel replied, leading us to a cramped room at the rear of the outer office. It was a brief meeting: The detective asked me about Oscar’s background, and I told him what I knew, stressing that I doubted whether Oscar really intended to kill the senator, or anyone else, for that matter. Before the meeting broke up, he informed me that I probably would be called as a witness—which I’d already anticipated—and I assured him I would make myself available whenever I was needed.

As I stood to leave, he said, “By the way, Mrs. Fletcher, Mr. Brophy’s gun was empty. No ammunition in it.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said.

“A sharp defense attorney will make good use of it at his trial.”

When I returned, George was seated in the senator’s office. I poked my head in. “George, I think we’d better be going,” I said, realizing we needed to leave enough time to get to the Nebel house in McLean.

“Going to my house, are you?” Nebel said.

“Yes. Detective Moody from the Fairfax police is meeting us there. He said he intended to inform you.”

“He did,” Nebel said. “The problem is that Pat will be there.”

“Really?” I said. “I saw her early this morning at a meeting at the Library of Congress.”