Murder in Moscow (7 page)

I leaned across the table and, keeping my voice down, too, recounted what had happened at the Jefferson Memorial. When I was finished, he sat back, rolled his eyes up, and slowly shook his head.

“I know,” I said. “Here I go again, tripping over a body. I think I’ve come across more dead people than characters in my books have. But there’s obviously more to it than simply the murder of an ordinary citizen. The news report said Mr. Wenington worked for the State Department. He asked me at lunch to ... well, in effect to spy for him. Not, for him personally, but for whatever agency he represented.”

Vaughan came forward again. “The State Department.”

“According to the newscast. But the State Department doesn’t have people debriefing American citizens who happen to travel to Russia, does it?”

“I don’t know,” Vaughan said. “If you mean that all such activities are confined to an agency like the CIA, I think you’re wrong. As I understand it, virtually every agency of our government has an intelligence component. It wouldn’t surprise me if this Mr. Wenington worked for the State Department in some aspect of intelligence gathering.”

“But don’t you think it’s strange that he followed me into Lafayette Park this afternoon, and now is found murdered at a place where I just happened to end up tonight?”

“Probably coincidence. Look, Olga and I were approached tonight by someone asking us to do the same thing that this Wenington fellow asked you to do. We were told that because the chances were good we would have private conversations with leading Russian officials, we might pick up information that would be useful to this country. They said we’d be debriefed when we came back.”

“Was it Wenington who told you that?” I asked.

“No. Someone else, who said he worked for one of the Senate subcommittees having to do with international trade.” A small smile crossed Vaughan’s face. “I must admit he was smooth. He put it in terms of the need to gather as much information about Russia’s industry and commerce in order to help the Russian people develop their democracy. Olga and I accepted what he said. I don’t consider myself naive, Jess, but I did buy it. Maybe you should, too. Of course, there is the added complication of this Wenington chap being murdered.”

“Just an ‘added complication?’ I’d say it represents more than that.”

“I didn’t mean to minimize it.”

“I know you didn’t. My question is this: Should I go to Mr. Roberts, or some other high official involved with the trade mission, and tell him about my lunch with Wenington and what he asked me to do?”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Vaughan replied. “Chances are the press will report that you were there, which will undoubtedly prompt Roberts, or someone else from Commerce, to bring it up.”

I sat back and chewed on my cheek. “I hadn’t even thought of the press reporting that I was there. Do you think that once they do, my participation in this trade mission will be compromised? Maybe I should offer to drop out, go back home to Cabot Cove.”

“Absolutely not. All you’ve done is to be the victim of bad timing. Wrong place, wrong time. I wouldn’t give it a second thought as far as the trade mission is concerned. How you handle your personal reaction to such an upsetting event is another question. Would you prefer to go home?”

I’d thought about that ever since the incident at the Jefferson Memorial, and had come to the conclusion that I would not leave the group unless asked to. I told Vaughan this.

“Good. We have one more day here in Washington before leaving for Moscow. As trite as it may sound, I suggest you try to put this thing out of your mind and focus on why we’re here, and that we’ll soon be climbing on a plane for Moscow.”

“How do I handle the press if they try to communicate with me?”

“A-ha.
That
is something I think we should discuss with Sam Roberts. I suspect the Commerce Department, and any other involved agency, would prefer that you not speak with the press about this. But we can get a reading from them in the morning.”

The barman served Vaughan’s drink and my tea, and we sipped in silence.

“Feeling better?” Vaughan asked.

“Yes. More relaxed. Hot tea always does that for me.” I smiled. “Talking to you tends to have the same effect.”

He placed one of his hands over mine on the table and said, “Glad I’m a therapeutic force in your life. Shall we meet for an early breakfast?”

“The earlier the better. I didn’t check the itinerary. What are we doing on our final day in Washington?”

“A meeting at ten at the Commerce Department. Some sort of a briefing before we head for Moscow.”

“The Russians will be there, too?”

“I don’t think so. Just the American contingent.
USA
Today is hosting a luncheon for us across the river in their corporate offices. And, let’s see ... the Russians are giving a press conference in the afternoon at the Russian Embassy. I don’t think we’re required to be there, although maybe we should. A cocktail party at five at the Four Seasons Hotel, hosted by some group that fosters American-Russian relations. Dinner, I don’t know about. I’ll have to check.”

“I’ll do that when I get up to the room. Thanks, Vaughan, for spending this time with me.”

“Would you expect less from the publisher of the world’s greatest mystery writer?”

“You’re right. If I were the world’s greatest mystery writer, I would expect it. The fact that I’m not—and you do it anyway—makes me feel good. Give Olga a kiss for me.” We stood. “Seven? In the restaurant?”

“See you then. And try to get some sleep. A busy day ahead of us.”

When I arrived for breakfast the next morning, I was surprised to see that Olga wasn’t with Vaughan. I asked why.

“Running a little late, Jess,” he said. “Not unusual for her when there’s an early morning getaway. How did you sleep?”

I slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Pretty good, considering what might have kept me awake.” I looked across at him. Generally, Vaughan Buckley has a pleasant expression on his face, no matter what the time of day. But this morning I sensed something was wrong. “You seem upset,” I said.

He reached down to the floor and picked up a copy of that morning’s
Washington
Post. “I hate to be the one to deliver bad news to you, Jess, but better me than someone else.” He handed the paper to me.

The lead story on the front page was about the death of Ward Wenington. There was a murky photograph of the crime scene with Mr. Wenington’s partially obscured body in the center of it. I looked up at Vaughan. “Why is this upsetting? It’s not news to you.”

“Read on,” he said, as a waiter came to our table. “Your usual?” Vaughan asked.

“Yes, please.” I continued to read.

“Orange juice, dry English muffin, and coffee, half regular, half decaf, for both of us,” Vaughan said.

I now saw what Vaughan wanted me to see. The article mentioned that the body had been found by mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, who was in Washington as part of a trade mission sponsored by the Commerce Department, and who was scheduled to leave for Moscow later that night.

“Any calls from the press?” Vaughan asked.

I shook my head.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “The
Washington Post
is right across the street.”

“Let’s just count our blessings,” I said, dropping the paper to the floor.

Our juice had no sooner been served when a young man entered the dining room, crossed it, and stood above us at the table. We looked up. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Bob Woodstein.
Washington Post.”

Vaughan and I looked at each other. If this young reporter’s arrival weren’t so annoying, we might have smiled at the timing of it.

“I’d like a few words with you,” Woodstein said. He had an open, pleasant face, with hair a little shaggy around the ears and neck. He had on a well-worn green corduroy jacket, brown-and-white checkered shirt, and skinny maroon tie that was too short for his torso.

“We were just having breakfast,” Vaughan said, indignation in his voice. “Perhaps—”

“No, it’s quite all right,” I said, smiling at the reporter. Please, join us.” Vaughan’s expression indicated he was not happy with my invitation.

Woodstein sat.

“Would you like some breakfast?” I asked.

“No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

“Well,” I said, “I suppose you want to talk to me about having been the unfortunate one to stumble across a body last night near the Jefferson Memorial.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pulling a reporter’s notebook from his inside jacket pocket, uncapping a pen, and preparing to write.

“There really isn’t much to tell you,” I said. “I was being taken on a short tour of Washington at night. We stopped at the Jefferson Memorial. I got out of the car and went up into the rotunda for a better look. I stayed a few minutes. As I was leaving, I heard a woman say something like, ‘Oh, my God,’ and then she screamed. She’d been the first one to see the body. My driver came to where we stood. We went back with him to the car and called the police, using nine-one-one, I presume. The police came. I gave a statement. And then I was driven back here to the hotel where I went to bed.”

“Were you with the deceased last night?” Woodstein asked.

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Well, it seems that since you had lunch with him yesterday, you might have—”

“How did you know I had lunch with him yesterday?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

“I don’t know the source, but someone at the paper told me that. Since you knew him, I thought you might have been together last night.”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t,” I said, now regretting I’d been so quick to invite him to join us.

“Mr. Ward Wenington was with the Defense Intelligence Agency,” Woodstein said matter-of-factly, continuing to write.

“I thought he was with the State Department,” I said.

“There’s some debate about that,” the reporter said. He stopped writing and looked up. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

Vaughan sighed and summoned the waiter.

“You say there’s some debate about where Mr. Wenington worked. Why would that be?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be common knowledge? Public record?”

Bob Woodstein hadn’t smiled since arriving at our table, but my question elicited a tiny movement of his lips into what might be considered a smirk. “This is Washington, D.C., Mrs. Fletcher. Things aren’t as clear-cut as they might be where you come from. Where do you come from?”

“Cabot Cove, Maine.”

He wrote it down.

“Mr. Woodstein, may I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”

“How did you know to find me in this restaurant this morning?”

“I knew you were part of the trade delegation to Russia. I checked with Commerce, and they told me just about everybody in the group was staying here at the Madison. I went to the desk and asked them to ring your room. When there was no answer, I figured you might be having breakfast. I know what you look like because I’ve read a couple of your books, saw your photo on the cover.”

“Next question,” I said. “Why are you bothering to interview me? What I’ve told you is exactly what I’ve told the detectives who were on the scene last night.”

“Just hoping, I suppose, that you could tell me something you
didn’t
say to them. Murder isn’t unusual here in Washington, but it is when you have a world-famous writer—especially a murder mystery writer—be the one discovering the body.”

“As I said, I actually didn’t discover the body. It was—”

“What was the woman’s name who screamed?” Woodstein asked, not looking up from his pad.

“I have no idea,” I answered. “You can get that from the police.”

“I suppose I should be a little more honest with you Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “The police aren’t being very cooperative. Not that that’s unique, but in this case there seems to be a real clamp on things. No one will talk about it. Wenington’s connection with the Defense Intelligence Agency—”

“Or the State Department,” I said.

“Yes, or the State Department, adds a certain mystery to all of this. What’s really strange is that nobody seems to know what killed him.”

Vaughan, who’d said nothing as he listened to my conversation with Woodstein, now injected himself. “Does that mean he might have died of natural causes?” he asked.

A shrug from the reporter. “I suppose so,” he said. “By the way, who are you?”

He’d put the question bluntly, which visibly annoyed Vaughan. Still, my friend and publisher did not vent his pique. He simply answered, “Vaughan Buckley, of Buckley House in New York. I’m Mrs. Fletcher’s American publisher.”

Woodstein dutifully noted that in his pad, and again turned to me. “What did you and Mr. Wenington talk about at lunch?”

“I’m afraid that is none of your business, Mr. Woodstein.” I didn’t want to sound too harsh, but at the same time wanted to get across that I was not about to have my privacy invaded by him, or anyone else.

He held up his hand. “No offense, Mrs. Fletcher, but it’s my job. You had lunch with someone from the Defense Intelligence Agency—”

“Or the State Department,” I said.

“Yes, or the State Department. You had lunch with this person. You’re part of a trade mission on your way to Russia. You have lunch with this man from the Defense Intelligence—or State Department—and then you stumble over his body by the Jefferson Memorial that same night. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not trying to make anything of this. But you have to admit, especially because you create plots and stories for your novels, that it does seem sort of ... well, sort of
mysterious.”

Vaughan said, “Let’s get back to what you said about the cause of death not being determined. There was nothing obvious? No bullet hole, or knife sticking out of his back?”