A Vote for Murder (19 page)

“Be that as it may, Jessica, you’ve landed yourself in a dangerous situation.”

I started to respond, but he continued: “I know you’ve got Mr. Sutherland there at your side, but I wouldn’t count on him alone to keep you safe.”

I had to smile. Although Seth had been courteous and friendly the few times he’d met George, I was aware of a certain edge on Seth’s part, the reason for it escaping me. Did I dare think it was jealousy at George’s having entered my life and occupying some of my time and thoughts? I hoped not. I treasured my long friendship with Seth, and would hate to see anything taint it.

“Seth,” I said, “it’s so good of you to call, and I hate to cut our conversation short, but someone is waiting downstairs in the lobby for me.”

“Who might that be? Mr. Sutherland?”

“As a matter of fact, it isn’t. George is very busy because of the terrorist attack in London today.”

“Ayuh. Saw it on the TV. Whole world’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket, including Washington.”

“Be that as it may, Seth, I really must run. It was good of you to call. I’ll keep in touch.”

“What time will you be getting back tonight from—Where is it you’re goin’?”

“I’m going to dinner with someone, Seth. A friend I’ve made here.”

“Got something to do with the murder?”

“Ah, no.”

“Have time when you get back for a nightcap?”

“What?”

“Buy you a nightcap?”

“You’re . . . ?”

“Ayuh. I am right here in Washington, D.C., Jessica, in the Willard Hotel. Fancy place.”

“Seth, I know that you’re concerned about me, and I appreciate that. I truly do. But have you noticed that I’m all grown up now, and—”

“Now, now, Jessica, don’t be getting on your high horse. And don’t think I came all the way down here to Washington just to keep an eye on you. Fact is, I intend to visit with a doctor friend of mine over at the National Institutes of Health. A fine fella doing some very impressive research.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said.

“I’ll be visitin’ him tomorrow. Meantime, I’m in room six-twelve. Intend to have some dinner here in the hotel and watch the ball game. So you go on and enjoy your dinner. I’ll be here waitin’ for your call when you get back.”

Walter Grusin enthusiastically greeted me in the lobby.

“Sorry I took so long,” I said. “The phone rang as I was walking out the door.”

“Not a problem,” he said. “Like Italian food?”

“Very much.”

“Great. My particular favorite in Washington is i Ricchi, on Nineteenth. It’s Tuscan. They make the best bread in town.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

He’d parked his car directly in front of the hotel. After a tip to the doorman for keeping his eye on it, we drove to the restaurant, where Grusin was greeted warmly by name and led to a relatively quiet table in the busy, bustling establishment, decorated with terracotta tiles, cream-colored archways, and large floral frescoes.

“The usual, Mr. Grusin?” the maître d’ asked.

“Please. Jessica?”

“A glass of white wine. Chardonnay?”

“A lady after my own heart,” Grusin said. “I drink chardonnay during the week, martinis on the weekend, unless I’m out during the week with clients or politicians. When in Rome . . .”

I remembered back to the ill-fated Nebel dinner party, when I’d noticed Grusin order a chardonnay at the bar.

“I had the impression that alcohol wasn’t alien to most of the guests at the party,” I said lightly.

He laughed heartily. “Lots of drinking goes on in Washington, Jessica. You don’t mind if I call you Jessica, do you? Politics and booze seem to go together. Of course, there are newcomers who bring with them their love affair with bottled water, tofu, and sprouts. But the old-liners stick to their bourbon and gin.”

Our wine was served, and Grusin held out his glass. “To a pleasant evening, Jessica Fletcher. I was beginning to believe you when you said you wouldn’t have time for me.”

“I spoke too soon,” I said. “But I decided that since the nuclear power plant might well end up in my backyard, it made sense to learn all I can about it. You seem to be the primary source.”

“That’s flattering,” he said, “and I hope I can put your fears about the plant to rest.”

I took in the others in i Ricchi. It was obviously an expensive restaurant, popular with the expense-account crowd—lobbyists and politicians—this lobbyist and a writer of murder mysteries. I suppose I should have felt important, being wined and dined like a politician, but I didn’t. I was there under false pretenses, pretending to be interested in learning about Sterling Power and the nuclear plant it intended to build in Cabot Cove. The truth was, I was there because I wanted to pump my host about what he knew about Nikki Farlow and her murder. As that thought moved in and out of my mind, it struck me that I might be having dinner with her murderer—unlikely, of course, but possible.

“So,” he said, “tell me all about Jessica Fletcher.”

“Maybe we should look at a menu before I do that,” I said. “To be honest, I’m famished.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” He motioned to a waiter who’d been hovering nearby.

Orders placed—skewered shrimp for me, a house specialty pasta for him, and soup for both of us—I tried to get him to talk about himself, but he kept shifting the conversation back to me. I wasn’t sure whether he did that because he was truly interested, or was practicing a learned conversational gambit. Either way, I decided to go along with him for a while and talked of my early years as a teacher, how I got started as a writer of crime novels, and other aspects of my life that I found interesting, but doubted whether many other people would. I was grateful when our meals arrived, interrupting my monologue. Grusin was right; the homemade bread was heavenly.

A few times during dinner, men and women stopped by to say hello to my host. At one point after two of them had left, I said, “You’re a popular fellow.”

“I hope so,” he said with a pleasant, easy laugh. “An unpopular lobbyist is like a blind boxer, doomed to fail. Ready for a lecture on why the Sterling Power Company’s plan to build a nuclear plant near Cabot Cove makes sense?”

“I’m all ears,” I said.

Although I was certain his minilecture had been given to others many times before, he presented it as though it were spontaneous, customizing it to make it personal to me. It was a compelling, well-shaped argument in favor of the power plant, and I listened with intense interest.

“Any questions?” he asked when he was finished.

“I’m sure I’ll have many,” I said, “but none at this moment. What I’m thinking is how difficult it must be for a politician like Senator Nebel to make important decisions that impact so many people.”

“I agree,” Grusin said. “People have negative views of us lobbyists, but we serve an important purpose. We help get the facts to elected officials to help them make difficult decisions.”

Self-serving facts,
I silently added.

“Do you work with Senate staff much?” I asked.

“Depends. Most senators and House members designate someone to be the point man on a given issue, like the power plant.”

“Was Nikki Farlow the point man—the point
woman
—on the power plant project?” I asked.

“No,” Grusin said. “Carraway is.”

“Hmmm.”

“You look surprised,” he said.

“Oh, no. It’s just that I assumed a senator’s chief of staff would be intimately involved in something so important.”

He shook his head. “Nikki ran things for Nebel, but that didn’t include many legislative matters. She was more an administrator.”

“So sad,” I said.

“Her death? Yeah, it sure was. They say it was murder. You buy that?”

“I see no reason not to.”

“Seems like an accident to me.”

“What do you base that on?” I asked. “Did you know her well?”

“Barely knew her at all. My dealings were almost exclusively with Carraway.” He looked around the restaurant, leaned close to my ear, and said, “If Nikki
was
murdered, I’d vote for Carraway.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He’s a strange duck. I know one thing: He didn’t carry any grief for her.”

I nodded. “I gathered the same thing from the few conversations I’ve had with him. Did you see anything the night of the party that was suspicious?”

“Suspicious? No. I was having too good a time to look for anything like that.”

“Someone took the Nebel family boat during the party, probably during dinner. Did you hear it at all?”

“No again. You sound like you’re investigating the murder—if that’s what it was—along with the police.”

I laughed. “No, just the natural curiosity of a mystery writer. Mind if I display that curiosity with you again?”

“Shoot.”

“Senator Nebel invited two members of the House of Representatives to his party, the congresswoman from California, Ms. Marshall-Miner, and the Ohio congressman, Mr. Barzelouski.”

“Barzelouski!” Grusin said with a chuckle. “The madman of the House of Representatives.”

“He does seem volatile. I’ve seen him speak on occasion on C-SPAN. A fiery orator. I admit to being a neophyte when it comes to politics, but was wondering why certain politicians end up friends. I mean, why would someone like Congressman Barzelouski be invited to Senator Nebel’s home for a dinner party celebrating a national literacy drive?”

“Purely politics,” Grusin replied. “As off-the-wall as he can be, Barzelouski chairs the House Energy Committee. I’ll level with you: I urged Nebel to invite him.”

“I suppose my next question is why?”

“Again, purely politics. Barzelouski supports putting the power plant in Cabot Cove, and I thought it was a good opportunity to get him together with Nebel outside Congress. I convinced Barzelouski to champion the literacy program in the House, which endeared him to Nebel.”

Obviously the man sitting across from me at the table was good at choreographing relationships to suit his own purposes.

“What about Ms. Marshall-Miner?” I asked.

His response was a low rumble of a laugh, dripping with meaning. He waved for the waiter, who brought dessert menus.

“Not for me,” I said. “Coffee would be nice.”

While waiting for our coffees, Grusin added a few additional facts to his presentation of why locating the power plant in Cabot Cove would be good for the area’s economy, and generate plenty of jobs. I was impressed with his knowledge of where I live, the median income of residents, the pattern of economic growth over the past ten years, the educational level of the town’s citizens, and the array and number of jobs the plant would produce. We drank our coffee, and a check was presented to Grusin, a house account that he signed with a flourish.

“Mind another question?” I asked.

“About the power plant?”

“No, about Nikki Farlow.”

“Sure you’re not working undercover for the Fairfax police?”

“You have my word.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“I wondered why an attractive, bright, and capable woman like Ms. Farlow never married.” Of course, I already knew the answer, but wanted to see what he knew about her sexual orientation.

“Never found the right guy, I suppose,” he said. “I really wouldn’t know. Ready to call it a night?”

“Yes.”

“This was a nice surprise, having dinner with you,” he said as we prepared to leave. “I hope my little spiel didn’t bore you, and I hope even more that I can count on your support.”

“Bored?” I said. “Hardly. I found it fascinating. My support? I’ll have to think about that.”

“Well,” he said, “if you do decide the plant is a good thing for Cabot Cove—and all of Maine, for that matter—I’d appreciate your sharing with Senator Nebel how you feel.”

“All right.”

“And maybe you’ll pass along those feelings to the good folks back home who haven’t made up their minds.”

We got into his car and he drove me to the Willard. I’d forgotten during the evening that Seth would be waiting for me, and while his unexpected arrival had earlier bothered me, I now looked forward to seeing an old and dear friend.

“Thanks for dinner,” I told Grusin as the doorman opened my door.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said.

I was about to step from the car when I turned and said, “When I asked why Congresswoman Marshall-Miner had been invited to Senator Nebel’s party, your only response was to laugh.”

“Was it?” he said. “Well, let’s just say that when it comes to Congresswoman Marshall-Miner and Senator Nebel, the less said the better. Thanks for lending an ear tonight, Jessica. Love to do it again sometime.”

Seth was sitting in the Willard’s lobby reading a newspaper when I walked in. He struggled to get out of the large, comfortable chair, his arthritis in evidence, and I reached him before he stood. I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“You
are
here,” I said.

“Ayuh, I certainly am, Jessica. Pleasant evening?”

“Yes, pleasant enough, and interesting, although I’m not sure why.”

He pushed himself to his feet and said, “Nightcap? The bar is right elegant.”

“I know. I was there last night.”

“Seems like you’ve been doin’ your share of ramming since you got here to D.C.,” he said as we headed for the Round Robin Bar.

I laughed at his use of the Maine colloquialism for being out on the town. “Yes, I have been”—I slipped in the Maine phrase for being busy—“all drove up.”

I took his arm as we entered the bar and were directed to one of only a few available tables. Seth, who was a moderate drinker—although he has always enjoyed his Manhattans and ward eights—had recently developed a taste for imported beers, and ordered one. I was thirsty and asked for a sparkling water with a wedge of lemon.