A Vote for Murder (20 page)

“So,” he said, settling back, his hands on his corpulent stomach, “tell me about Oscar Brophy, and this lady who was murdered, the senator’s assistant.”

“I’m sure you know as much as I do about Oscar from reading the papers. I’ve been told I might have to come back to testify at his trial. Other than that, I’ve heard nothing. Oh, by the way, he didn’t have any bullets in the gun.”

“Glad to hear that. I assume he’s got a lawyer.”

“He’ll undoubtedly be appointed one.”

“I’ll want to speak with whoever that might be.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think I’m violating the doctor-patient privilege, speakin’ with you, Jessica. I know it’ll stay right here in this room.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been treatin’ Oscar for over a year now for his depression. Severe depression. Every time he came to my office, he’d go off on a rant about the senator and the power plant. Truth is, I should have recognized he was about to go off the deep end and had become even more quee-uh than anybody realized. Might be that an insanity defense is in order for poor old Oscar.”

“You should offer that information to whoever represents him. But don’t blame yourself, Seth. No one could have foreseen Oscar doing something this drastic. I wonder how he managed to get into that Senate office building carrying a gun. Security seems pretty tight there.”

“Sounds like somebody fell down on the job. Now, Jessica, what about this Nikki lady?”

I knew I could count on Seth’s discretion, and told him everything I knew—which wasn’t that much—and everything I was thinking, which took considerably more time. He listened passively, taking small sips of beer, and occasionally muttering his understanding of what I said. When I was finished with my recounting of events since arriving in Washington, he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, muffled a discreet burp behind it, and said, “Want my advice?”

“You know your advice is always welcome, Seth.”

“My advice, Jessica Fletcher, is to spend what time you have left here promoting the literacy program, and leave solving this Nikki lady’s murder to the proper authorities. From what you’ve told me, it seems entirely possible that our junior senator from Maine might be a murderer. I don’t think you want to be the one to expose him.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” I said.

“Why would that be?”

“It shouldn’t matter who the murderer is, Seth. If it was Warren Nebel, senator or no senator, he should be brought to justice.”

“That’s right,” said Seth, “but it doesn’t have to be you who does it. Leave it to the police.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I’d heard this lecture from my dear friend before, but it ran contrary to what I’d already decided, which was to do what I could to help identify Nikki Farlow’s murderer.

“Another drink, Jessica?”

I heard Seth, but my mind was on something else.

“Jessica? Another glass of water?” he repeated

“What? Oh, sorry, Seth. I was someplace else.”

“Where might that be?”

“I was thinking of my dinner tonight with the lobbyist Walter Grusin. Something bothers me about our conversation, but I can’t pinpoint it.”

“It’ll come to you, Jessica, probably in the middle of the night. Dreadful thing, that terrorist attack in London. You say your friend the inspector is up to his ears in it?”

“Yes. Which reminds me, I want to call him. Mind?”

“Not at all.”

I hesitated pulling my cell phone from my purse. I’d developed a true aversion to people who use their portable telephones in public places, including bars and restaurants, and on trains and buses. I checked our immediate vicinity, decided that my voice wouldn’t disturb others, and made the call.

It took a few moments before George answered.

“I’m here at the Willard with Seth Hazlitt,” I said. “You remember him.”

“The good doctor from Cabot Cove. Of course I remember him. Say hello for me.”

“I will.”

George filled me in on the latest from London, ending by saying that it looked as though he might have to return home at any moment. I understood, of course, but that didn’t ease my disappointment.

“If you’re here in the morning, George, perhaps we could have breakfast.”

“A splendid idea,” he said.

We chose a time to meet in the hotel’s dining room, and ended the conversation.

I covered a yawn with my hand and announced it was time for bed. Seth paid the bill, and we went to the lobby. As we waited for an elevator, one of the hotel’s assistant managers, who’d personally greeted me when I’d checked in, hurried in our direction.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “I was on my way to your room to deliver this.” He handed me a small, sealed envelope. “We just received it. The person who dropped it off said it was urgent that you get it right away.”

“Thank you,” I said, opening the flap.

“What is it, Jessica?” Seth asked.

“A note from Senator Nebel. His wife attempted suicide tonight.”

“Gorry,” Seth said, using an all-purpose Maine interjection.

“I’ve been asked to go to the house.”

“For what purpose?” Seth asked.

“I’ve been spending time with Pat since arriving in Washington. The senator asked me to. She’s not well, Seth.”

“Anything I can do?” he asked.

“Yes. Will you come with me?”

“Ayuh,” he said without hesitation.

We climbed into a waiting taxi, and were on our way to the stately home of Senator and Mrs. Warren Nebel, the site of a lavish dinner party—and a murder.

The Washington press corps had established a seemingly permanent camp outside the grounds of the Nebel house. A contingent of reporters and technicians sat in director’s chairs along the side of the narrow road leading to the property, lights run by generators providing illumination. A uniformed security guard stopped our cab.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I announced.

“Yes, ma’am,” the guard said, shining the beam of his flashlight on Seth’s face.

“This is Dr. Seth Hazlitt,” I said.

“No one said anything about him,” the guard said. “They told me you’d be coming, but—”

“Please call the house and tell them I have Dr. Hazlitt with me.”

The guard did as I asked, and we were told we could pass. I paid the cabdriver, and Seth and I went to the front door. Christine Nebel opened it.

“Hello, Christine,” I said. “Nice to see you again. This is Dr. Seth Hazlitt, a friend from home.”

“Please come in.”

Christine disappeared immediately, but I no longer needed a guide to the house’s first floor. I led Seth to the large room at the rear, whose windows overlooked the terrace and river. Jack Nebel was there with press secretary Sandy Teller, attorney Hal Duncan, and a man I didn’t recognize. They turned at our entrance.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Teller said, closing the gap between us and extending his hand.

I introduced Seth. The man I didn’t know turned out to be the family’s Washington physician, Dr. Morris Young, a middle-aged gentleman with a burr haircut, large tortoiseshell glasses, and wearing a blue blazer, gray slacks, and a white shirt open at the neck.

“How is Mrs. Nebel?” I asked.

“She’s resting comfortably,” Dr. Young answered.

I wanted to ask the details of what had happened, but doubted the doctor would give them to me.

“Is Senator Nebel here?” I asked Teller.

“On his way,” he replied. “Could I have a word with you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Of course.”

We went outside to the terrace.

“I’m sure you’d rather be someplace other than here again,” he said.

“Not at all,” I said. “Was it you who dropped off the note at my hotel?”

“Yes. The senator asked me to. He didn’t want me to do it by phone. Too many potential ears.”

“I’d like to know what happened with Mrs. Nebel,” I said.

“It’s not what people thought at first.”

“Meaning?”

“Somebody here panicked and told the senator Pat had attempted suicide. Not true.”

“It’s not?”

“No. She accidentally took too many sleeping pills.”

“ ‘Accidentally’?”

“That’s right.”

I read the small smile on his face; he was lying. An attempted suicide by the senator’s wife would only add to media speculation about his alleged affair with Nikki Farlow and his possible involvement in her murder. Teller was doing what he was paid to do; put the best possible spin on a bad situation.

“May I see her?” I asked.

“Doc Young says she shouldn’t have any visitors.”

“Then why am I here?” I asked, not bothering to keep the pique out of my voice.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Teller said. “The senator told me to deliver his note to the hotel. But since you are here, it gives us the opportunity to talk more about the press and how we’ll handle this.”

“Mr. Teller,” I said firmly, “I have had quite enough of you telling me how
we’ll
handle the press. I am not interested in the press or any problems you and the senator might be having with it. I came here as Patricia Nebel’s friend, nothing more. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back inside.”

“Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, calm down, huh? I’m in a very tenuous position, with Nikki being murdered here at the house, the damn rumors about the senator and her, and now this. Senator Nebel is in a tight race for reelection. This sort of stuff can sink a candidate.”

His voice trailed behind as I reentered the house, where Seth was off to one corner with Dr. Young. Duncan, the attorney, had left the room, but the two Nebel children, Jack and Christine, stood near the fireplace. I wasn’t sure where to go, but Jack spared me that decision by coming to me.

“It’s good of you to be here,” he said. “I’m sure Mom will appreciate it.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“Okay. Dr. Young wanted her to go to the hospital, but people overrode him.”

“What did your mother want to do?” I asked.

“I don’t think it mattered to her. She was out of it.”

“Who discovered that she’d taken the pills?”

“I did,” Jack said. “It was an accident.”

“Was it, Jack?”

My challenge caused him to fidget, and to shift from one foot to the other.

“I understand the political ramifications of a tragic suicide attempt,” I said, “but it seems to me—and I admit being politically naïve—that some simple honesty would go a long way.”

He looked wounded.

“Was it an accident, Jack,” I repeated, “or did your mom try to take her own life?”

“Mom is—”

“I’ve heard her described as ‘delicate’ and ‘fragile.’ I don’t believe she’s either of those things. At least, that isn’t the woman I’ve always known.”

Christine, who’d come up behind Jack, joined us. “I heard you asking about Mom,” she said.

“That’s right,” I said. “If she tried to take her life tonight, she needs more than a stomach pumping. She needs psychiatric care, even if what she did was nothing more than crying out for attention.”

Brother and sister looked at each other before Christine spoke. “This isn’t a family home,” she said. “This is a political campaign headquarters. Nobody cares about what happens to people here, as long as my father’s political career is protected.” There was unmistakable bitterness, wrapped in sadness, in her quiet voice.

“Christine—” Jack started to say.

“No,” Christine said sharply. “Mrs. Fletcher is right. It’s time we had some simple honesty.”

“Chris is upset,” Jack said, trying to explain away his sister’s comment.

Christine’s eyes welled up, and tears followed. She walked away, past Seth and Dr. Young, who saw the state she was in, and went through the doors to the terrace. I followed, hoping Teller had left. He had. Christine went to the head of the stairs leading down to the dock, placed her hands on the railing, and sobbed. I placed a hand on her shoulder. “This has been such a difficult time for you and your family,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

She turned. Her face was blotchy and wet, but her eyes were angry. “My mother knows about everything,” she said.

“What does she know, Christine?”

“About my father and Nikki, about the money, about all of it.”

“Christine, don’t fall victim to the rumors concerning your father and Nikki Farlow. It may not be what you or your mother think.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“I don’t believe that your father and Nikki Farlow were anything but professional colleagues.”

“How would
you
know?”

“Let’s just say that I’ve learned some things since I’ve been in Washington that lead me to believe that—to
know
that.”

“
Because
he
told you?”

“He?”

“My illustrious father, the United States senator. He’s a politician. Lying comes easily to him.”

I realized I’d created a difficult situation for myself. I’d made a representation to Christine without being willing to back it up with the facts—that Nikki was not a woman who would be interested in an intimate relationship with a member of the opposite sex.

“No,” I said, “your father hasn’t told me anything. I’m not at liberty to break a confidence, but I think you and your family have been pained by something that isn’t there.”

She let that noncommittal comment pass and said, “Do you know what she did to Joe?”

“Joe? Your fiancé?”

“That’s right.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Nikki. She didn’t like Joe from the first time she met him, and poisoned my father about him. She was good at that, poisoning people, setting them against one another. My father was nothing but a pawn in her hands. She ran his life, and our lives, too.”

“That’s a pretty harsh indictment of her,” I said. “I’m not challenging you, but I didn’t realize how vehemently you disliked her. Does Joe feel the same way?”