A Vote for Murder (7 page)

“You seemed interested in that boat down at the dock. Are you thinking it might have had something to do with her death?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I found it strange that it wasn’t tied up properly, and that the engine was left in the water. Whoever had taken it out was either an inexperienced sailor, or was in a very big hurry when he or she brought it back.”

“Any ideas who that might have been?”

“Someone involved with the household, I would imagine. Then again, I’m assuming the boat belongs to the house. Perhaps it doesn’t. It’s possible whoever docked there had nothing to do with Senator Nebel or the party. I’ll ask at some point.”

George drew on his pipe, his face set in deep thought.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

He removed the pipe from his lips, sighed deeply, and said, “I wish the detective hadn’t so quickly come to the conclusion that this was an accident. I’d feel better if it were being treated as a crime scene until proved otherwise. That’s the way we would have handled this in England—assume a crime has been committed until the facts put you in another direction.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, “but absent any evidence of a crime having taken place, I suppose his protocol dictates that he make the decision he did. Still, he seems to be leaving his options open. After all, he made sure to get the names of everyone who is here, and had some of his people examine the scene as carefully as if he suspected a crime.”

A sudden gust of wind blew a speck into my eye. “Ouch,” I said.

“What is it?”

“My eye,” I said, clapping a hand over it. “There’s something in it.”

George pulled a fresh handkerchief from his pocket, tucking it into my hand. He leaned close and placed fingertips next to my closed eye. “Maybe we should go back into the house,” he said, “and take care of that.”

I blinked rapidly and opened my eye, dabbing tears away with his handkerchief. “It feels better now.” George’s face was close to mine. We looked into each other’s eyes. “We probably should go back anyway,” I whispered.

“In a minute,” he murmured.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” The voice came from the direction of the French doors. George and I jumped apart.

“You didn’t,” George said, clearing his throat. “Mrs. Fletcher had a mote in her eye.”

Although most of the exterior lights on that side of the house had been turned off, I could see that the woman was Patricia Nebel, the senator’s wife. Dressed in a faded pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, she stood and looked left and right, as though unsure what to do or where to go next. I led George to her. “Pat?” I said.

She jerked; my voice had startled her.

“Jessica?”

“Yes. And this is my friend George Sutherland, visiting from London. He’s with Scotland Yard.”

She offered her hand; it felt cold and clammy, and her grip was weak.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Jessica,” she said. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you ever since Warren said you’d agreed to come for the week.”

“It’s such a worthwhile endeavor, Pat, and was a lovely evening until—”

“Until this unfortunate thing happened with Nikki,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself as though a blast of cold had engulfed her. “I couldn’t believe it when Warren told me what happened.”

“It must have been a particularly nasty shock for you,” George said, “considering you’re feeling under the weather.”

“Yes, it was,” she said. She was a small woman with soft features, which now reflected her mental state. She looked drawn, exhausted. Large black circles defined the area beneath each eye, and there was a slight but discernible tremor in her lips. Were I describing her in a book and had to sum up what I saw in one word, it would have been
frightened.

She walked away from us, went to the head of the stairs, and looked down, her hands grasping the railing. We came up behind her.

“It happened down there?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “At the very bottom of the stairs. She evidently lost her footing and fell.”

“I suppose she’d been drinking again,” Patricia said.

George and I glanced at each other before I said, “I know she was served a glass of something at the party, but I didn’t see her drink it.”

Patricia’s laugh was rueful. “Oh, Nikki enjoyed her liquor.”

George offered, “The autopsy and toxological exam will determine how much she’d had to drink.”

“I don’t know what this will do to the rest of the week,” she said, her voice heavy with despair.

“Hopefully,” I said, “things can go forward as planned. Are you feeling up to continuing, Pat?”

“I think I’d better be,” she said, offering a thin smile. “It’s such a worthwhile program, promoting literacy in America. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, I certainly do,” I said. “You look cold. Would you like to go back inside?”

“And face all those people?” she said.

“I think most of them are gone by now,” I said.

“I know that the detective, whatever his name is, wants to speak with me, but I’d just as soon do it in private.”

“Perfectly understandable,” said George, tamping down the ashes in the bowl of his pipe and placing it in his jacket pocket.

As we entered the room in which the cocktail portion of the evening had taken place, Detective Moody was in the process of allowing others to leave after having gathered information from them. The only ones left in the room were the Nebels’ son, Jack, and daughter, Christine, her fiancé, Joe Radisch, and members of the catering team, who were cleaning up. I was surprised that Senator Nebel wasn’t there.

Moody came to where we stood just inside the French doors and said to Patricia, “Feel up to a few minutes with me, Mrs. Nebel?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.

Jack Nebel jumped up from a chair and said, “Mother isn’t feeling well. Can’t this wait?”

“It could,” Moody said, “but sometimes it’s better to get these things over with right away.”

“I agree,” Patricia said. “Would you mind coming into another room with me?”

“No, ma’am, not at all,” Moody said, and they went through a door leading to another portion of the house.

They’d been gone for only a minute when Senator Nebel made an appearance in the room. He was accompanied by two men, one an older gentleman wearing what might be termed a dark gray power suit, the other, younger man dressed in slacks, a blue button-down shirt, and a pale blue sport jacket.

“Where’s that detective?” the senator asked.

“He’s gone off to speak with your wife,” I replied.

“I told him Mom wasn’t feeling well, but he insisted,” Jack said angrily.

“Hello, Jack,” the older man in the suit said.

“Hi, Mr. Duncan,” Jack replied. He said to the younger man, “How are you, Sandy?”

“Okay. I came as soon as I heard.”

I suppose the look on my face and George’s indicated we were wondering who these newcomers were, and the senator responded, “This is Hal Duncan, my attorney. Sandy Teller is my press aide. I called them as soon as I learned what happened.”

I introduced us, wondering why the senator felt the need to immediately call in legal and public-relations help. But, I silently reminded myself, the world of a United States senator was undoubtedly different from the world most of us experience. Having someone die at a senator’s home—and a close, trusted aide, to boot—would surely pique the interest of local media. That would explain the need to have someone familiar with handling the press at your side. As for Mr. Duncan, the attorney, I could only speculate that Nebel was concerned at being drawn into the case, perhaps even as a suspect, should the ruling of an accidental fall prove false.

Nebel instructed Duncan and Teller to go to his study, where he’d meet them in a few minutes. He said to me, “May I have a word with you privately?”

I looked at George, whose raised eyebrows indicated he was as interested in why the senator wanted to speak to me as I was.

“Of course,” I said.

I followed him through doors to a kitchen that at first glance appeared to be bigger than my entire house back in Cabot Cove. Kitchen help was busy cleaning up under the direction of the household cook, Carmela Martinez, with the East Indian houseman, whose name I didn’t know, lending a helping hand.

“Please leave us for a few minutes,” Nebel told them.

As they left, two observations came and went. The first was that Mrs. Martinez was considerably younger than I envisioned she would be. For some reason I expected an older woman. The second observation had to do with the houseman. Don’t ask me why, but I noticed that although he wore the same uniform, he’d changed shoes since the cocktail party.

When they were gone, Nebel leaned against a massive granite-topped island, his hands gripping the edge, leaned forward, and said, “I’m about to ask you a very big favor, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“It’s Jessica,” I said.

“Yes, I know. You and Pat are friends. Unfortunately, I never got to spend time with you back home, but Pat thinks so highly of you. She’s loved her time with you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” I said.“You mentioned a favor?”

“I don’t know whether I’m entitled to ask you for one. I don’t even know if you voted for me. But not only do I know a great deal about you through your books and the publicity surrounding them, but Pat tells me how sensitive and caring you are.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” I said.

“What I’m asking you to do is to help Patricia get through this week.”

“Oh? I’m not sure I understand.”

“Pat is fragile, Jessica. You might have noticed that. She puts up a good front for my sake, being the wife of a United States senator, and I’ve always known how difficult it is for her to do that. Believe me, I appreciate it more than she or anyone could know. This week is vitally important to her. She’s poured her heart and soul into it, and I intend to do everything I can to ensure that despite the tragedy here tonight, things go forward as planned, and that the week is as much of a success as she and I envisioned.”

“That’s admirable,” I said, “but I still don’t understand how I can help.”

“Be with her, that’s all. She needs a friend like you at a time like this. Support her. I’ll do what I can, but this is an insanely busy week in the Senate. She’ll need somebody at her side, someone who understands what she’s doing, and why she’s doing it. I think you’re the perfect person. Will you help me?”

I didn’t feel I had a choice, and said, “Of course.”

He pushed himself off the island, took one of my hands in both of his, smiled, and said, “Thank you, thank you. If I can ever do anything for you, and I mean
anything,
all you have to do is call my private line. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” I expected to be handed that private number, but wasn’t.

I returned to where George was engaged in conversation with Jack and Christine Nebel, and her fiancé, Joe. We bade them good night and went to where a limousine waited to take us back into downtown Washington. The driver opened the door for us when Detective Moody came from the house. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he called, “I didn’t want to miss you before you left.” He handed me his business card. “If you or the inspector should remember having seen anything, please give me a call. I’d like to stay in touch while you’re in Washington.”

“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll call if we have anything that might interest you.”

“Good,” he said, stepping back as we entered the limo and settled in the rear seat. As we pulled away, I looked back at him and thought that he wanted us to stay in touch with him whether we remembered anything specific or not. I decided I’d do just that.

During the drive, I told George of my kitchen conversation with the senator.

“I’d be flattered,” he said.

“Oh, I am,” I said, “and I intend to do whatever I can to help his wife get through the week. Still, I wonder at the necessity of it.”

“Take it at face value, Jessica, and do your usual outstanding job, no matter what you’re called upon to do.”

I fell silent.

“What’s going through your mind at this moment?” he asked.

“That conversation we overheard.”

“The person we heard was angry. No question about that.”

“It was the East Indian houseman, I’m sure.”

“Speaking with whom?”

“I saw the senator’s son, Jack, walking away from the area. I wonder . . .”

“Yes?”

“There was a footprint where they were standing. It appeared that someone had stepped in mud or something dark. I saw the same thing near the top of the stairs.”

“You might mention that to the detective next time you speak with him. What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure. I have it in a folder back at the hotel. What about you?”

“A morning meeting, but free after that. In fact, free for most of the rest of the week. The conference planners scheduled just enough official business for participating organizations to justify sending people from all over the world, and then frees them up to play golf and do whatever else pleases them. So I’m available to help you in any way I can.”

I placed my hand on his and squeezed. “I appreciate that, George. I’ll just wait to hear from the senator or his people about what they would like me to do with Mrs. Nebel. And I’ll let you know where I’ll be.”

“In the meantime, get a good night’s rest. You said you were fagged back at Senator Nebel’s house—before we came upon the unfortunate Ms. Farlow.”

“I know, and the shock of that certainly woke me up, but it’s now worn off.”

He kissed me lightly on the cheek as we pulled up in front of the Willard, handed me a slip of paper on which he’d written the phone number of his hotel, and encouraged me to stay in touch. “If you’re free tomorrow evening, we can have dinner.”