A Vote for Murder (16 page)

“I know,” he said, “but she wasn’t feeling well and went home. Actually, I’m glad you’ll be there. She needs all the support she can get.”

We all turned at the sound of Nebel’s secretary telling someone that the senator was busy. That didn’t stop Congresswoman Gail Marshall-Miner from entering the office. “Oh, sorry,” she said at seeing us. To Nebel: “Warren, I have to talk to you.”

“We were just leaving,” I said.

She ignored us and sat in a chair, shapely legs crossed beneath a short tan skirt.

“I believe you met Mrs. Fletcher and Inspector Sutherland at the house the other night,” Nebel said.

“Yes,” the congresswoman said. “Warren, I—”

“It was nice seeing you again,” I said to Marshall-Miner as we left the office. I didn’t say to George what I was thinking—that Nebel and Marshall-Miner seemed to have a relationship beyond mutual political interests. Women seem to have a better-honed sense of such things than men.

But as we headed up the hall, George said casually, “Looks like the senator and the congresslady are quite cozy.” So much for my theory.

We’d almost reached the elevators when Sandy Teller, Nebel’s press secretary, came running after us.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I think I’ve convinced Senator Nebel to hold a press conference to head off the allegations that are flying around town,” he said. “I’m counting on you to be with him.”

“I really don’t think that would be appropriate,” I said.

“The senator is counting on you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Teller said, his tone more a command than a request.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said. “Right now, Inspector Sutherland and I are late for an appointment.”

“Where are you going?” Teller asked.

“Lunch,” George lied, taking my elbow and hustling me away. “Cheeky chap,” he said as we rode down in the elevator.

“Self-important, that’s for sure,” I said.

“There doesn’t seem to be a shortage of that in Washington,” George said.

“They’re all under tremendous pressure,” I said. “The senator has found himself in the proverbial kettle of fish.”

George chuckled as he said, “Why do I have the feeling we’re about to join those fish?”

An encampment of media vehicles, including two TV remote trucks, greeted us as our cab approached the house. They’d been corralled into an area to the side of the access road by a private security guard and uniformed Fairfax County officers. Before being allowed to proceed to the house, we were stopped to verify our identities. While handing an officer my passport (since I don’t possess a driver’s license, I always carry my passport for identification purposes), I spotted the reporter Natalie Mumford. She waved at me, called my name, and tried to approach the taxi, but an officer kept her from doing it and we drove away.

Jardine, the houseman, responded to my knocking and escorted us to the large room overlooking the terrace and river, where Detective Moody stood by the window. Standing next to him was the tall, slender, patrician Hal Duncan, Nebel’s attorney. They turned at our arrival.

“Lovely day,” Duncan said after greetings had been exchanged.

“A tad too warm for my taste,” George said.

“Enjoying your stay in Washington?” Moody asked us.

Duncan laughed. “After what happened this morning to Mrs. Fletcher with that madman, I’m sure she has ambivalent feelings about our city.”

“It hasn’t been boring,” I said.

“I would imagine,” said Moody. “First a murder here, and then—”

“An
alleged
murder,” Duncan corrected.

Moody, who wore a yellow Windbreaker over a blue button-down shirt and chinos, said, “The counselor here is with us to make sure no one says anything he doesn’t want to hear.” His sarcasm wasn’t lost on anyone, including Duncan.

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” I said to the lawyer.

“Just a formality,” Duncan said through practiced lockjaw and what was intended to be a reassuring smile. “After all, Ms. Farlow’s unfortunate death occurred here at my client’s home, who happens to be a United States senator. I think it’s appropriate for me to be present when the police question people about it.”

“Am I being questioned?” I asked Moody.

“No, ma’am.”

“Have you spoken again with Mrs. Nebel?” I asked.

“Is she here?” Moody asked.

“Upstairs resting,” Duncan said.

George had drifted away from us and stood in front of the massive fireplace. I wondered what he was thinking, whether he’d had second thoughts about becoming involved through me in a murder investigation. I wouldn’t have blamed him; at that moment I was suffering a serious case of second thoughts myself.

I was also resentful of Mr. Duncan’s presence, and his stated reason for being there. I had every right to speak with Detective Moody without an attorney present, especially one with whom I had no relationship.

“Detective Moody,” I said, “Inspector Sutherland and I came here this afternoon to speak with you. I’m not interested in having Mr. Duncan present.”

Duncan scrutinized me for a second, a frown on his brow, before saying with a smile, “I’ll be happy to absent myself, Mrs. Fletcher, while you and the good detective have your little talk. But I’ll be here in the house in the event you’d like my involvement. I know you’re not looking for legal advice, but you might keep in mind that you and your inspector friend were at the dinner party—along with all the other suspects.”

“
Suspects?
” George said, incredulous.

Duncan left the room without bothering to elaborate.

“Feel like some fresh air?” Moody asked, his tone blurring the difference between a simple question and an editorial comment about Duncan’s presence in the room. “I’d like to go with you down to the dock.”

“Fine,” I said.

“No need for you to come, Inspector,” Moody said.

I answered for George: “I’d like him with us, Detective.”

“If you insist.”

“I insist.”

We went through the doors to the terrace and headed for the wooden staircase. I stopped.

“Something wrong, Jessica?” George asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, retracing my steps and reentering the house, George and Moody following. I stood in the middle of the room and stared at the fireplace, my eyes focused on the elaborate set of antique brass fireplace tools.

“That’s one big fireplace,” Moody said. “Probably doesn’t get much use. We don’t get too much fireplace weather in Virginia.”

“But we do in Maine,” I said, approaching the tools and bending over to get a closer look. I ran my fingers over the shiny finish on each handle, straightened, and silently counted the tools. By this time, George and Moody had come to my side.

“There’s one missing,” I said flatly.

“Pardon?” said Moody.

“There’s a tool missing,” I repeated.

“A fireplace tool?” George asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Look. This wrought-iron stand has a slot for each tool. One of the slots is empty.” I faced him and said, “Obviously, if Ms. Farlow was murdered, the killer hit her with something. The gash in the back of her head could have been caused by a fireplace tool.”

George moved closer to the tool stand. “The logical one would be a poker,” he said. “But that’s here.” He picked up the poker and held it out for us.

“Logical,” I said, “but not necessarily the only tool that could have been used.” I did another count of the tools in the stand—a small broom, a shovel for taking ashes out of the fireplace, a brush used to clean the walls and grate, and the poker that George had replaced in the stand.

“I’m no fireplace expert,” Moody said, “but it looks to me like those are all the tools anybody would need.”

We turned at the sound of a door opening. Jardine, the houseman, entered the room carrying a vase of colorful fresh flowers. He set it on a table and was poised to leave when I said, “Jardine, do you have a minute?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“These fireplace tools,” I said. “Do you clean them often?”

His expression said he was concerned I’d found a tool he’d failed to clean properly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“I was wondering whether a tool is missing,” I said.

He approached the fireplace and scrutinized the tool rack. “No, ma’am,” he said, “I don’t think so.” His lips twitched, and he ran his tongue over them. His eyes went from person to person.

“Well,” I said, “it looks like I’m wrong.”

“Is that all?” Jardine asked, backing away from us.

“Yes, thank you.”

He crossed the room and was about to go through the door. Instead he stopped, turned, and said in a barely audible voice, “The blow poke.”

“The what?” Moody asked.

“The blow poke,” Jardine repeated.

“Come over here,” Moody said.

When Jardine was again within our circle, Moody asked, “What’s this about some blow poke?”

“It isn’t here,” Jardine muttered.

“What’s a blow poke?” Moody asked us.

“A fireplace tool,” George answered.

“It’s a combination tool,” I added. “You can use it to stir the fire, and you can blow through it to provide air to a specific area.”

“Come to think of it, I do know what a blow poke is,” Moody said. “I watch Court TV with my wife when I get a chance, and they covered a murder trial up in North Carolina a while back. As I recall, something called a blow poke was the murder weapon.”

“When did you last see it?” George asked Jardine.

The short, slender houseman shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

Moody grunted. “This blow poke,” he said. “It’s what, hollow so you can blow through it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have one at home.”

“Not solid,” Moody said.

“That’s right,” said George. “I have one, too. It’s quite lightweight.”

Another grunt from Moody. “That might explain it,” he said.

“Explain
what?
” I asked.

“Why there was no brain injury to Ms. Farlow. The autopsy—we got the results just before I came here—the autopsy showed no significant brain injury, no skull fractures. She died strictly from blood loss.”

George nodded. “A more solid instrument would likely have inflicted brain injury,” he proffered.

Moody realized Jardine was still standing with us. “Thank you,” he said, his unmistakable message that the houseman was free to leave. Once he was gone, the detective said, “This is all interesting, but it’s pure speculation. Let’s go down to the dock, if you don’t mind.”

We were almost to the door when Patricia Nebel and Hal Duncan entered the room. She looked drawn, her face even thinner than usual. She seemed shocked at seeing us there.

“Hello, Pat,” I said.

She avoided me and asked Moody, “Why are
you
here?”

“Didn’t your husband tell you I was coming?” he replied. “I spoke with him earlier.”

“No, he didn’t.” To me: “Jessica, what’s going on?”

“Detective Moody asked me to meet him here,” I said. “Frankly, I’m not sure why.” I looked to Moody for an answer.

“Just a routine follow-up,” he offered.

“Mrs. Nebel would like all of you to leave,” Duncan said.

“Perhaps we should—” George started to say, but Moody interrupted.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” the detective said, “but now that it’s been determined that Ms. Farlow’s death was a homicide, I have a need to spend additional time here at the scene. I asked Mrs. Fletcher to join me because I think she might be helpful in the investigation.”

“How could you be helpful, Jessica?” Pat asked. “You didn’t know anyone at the party. You didn’t even know Nikki.”

Before I could answer, Moody announced, “We were in the process of going down to the dock when you arrived, Mrs. Nebel. We’ll do that now and try not to disturb you any more than necessary.” His deep, rich baritone both soothed, yet established his authority.

I turned and asked Pat Nebel, “Was there a blow poke among the fireplace tools, Pat?”

“What?”

“The fireplace tools,” I said. “There appears to be one missing. Jardine said it was a blow poke.”

“A blow poke?” Pat said. “Yes, there was one, but—”

“Mrs. Nebel has nothing more to say,” said Duncan. “She’s not been well and—”

“I’m quite capable of speaking for myself,” Pat said, her tone causing the attorney to stiffen, his mouth a taut, straight line. “That tool set was a gift from Christine.”

“Your daughter?” Moody asked.

“Yes.” Pat went to the stand holding the tools, examined its contents, turned, and said, “You’re right. The blow poke is missing.”

“When did you last see it?” I asked.

“Please,” Duncan said, coming to Pat’s side and placing his hand on her arm as though to physically move her away. “I must insist that—”

“Shut up, Hal!” Pat said. “You may speak for Warren, but you don’t speak for me. I saw that tool only a few days ago. A visitor admired the set. It’s very unusual, an original designed by a Maine craftsman and artist. My visitor had never seen a blow poke before and took it out of the stand.”

“A few days ago?” George said.

“Yes. I can’t imagine why it’s not here now. My friend replaced it after looking at it.”

“Who was this friend?” Moody asked.

“Jean Watson. She’s on my literacy committee. Her husband, Jack, is a veterinarian. They’re neighbors.”

Moody jotted the name in a notebook and turned to me. “Coming?” he asked.

George and I walked away from Patricia and Duncan and followed the detective out to the terrace, pausing at the head of the stairs leading down to the dock.

“I have the feeling you asked us here for more than just a talk,” I told the detective.

He looked back at the house before saying, “I want your help.”