Murder at the Kennedy Center (3 page)

By the time he returned to the stage, the party had gained momentum.

Ewald was delighted to see Paul. His son’s successful import-export business had kept him in the Far East for two weeks, and there had been a question whether he would make it back in time for this salute to his father. Ewald had to smile as he thought of the telephone conversation they’d had a few days ago. Paul had called from Hong Kong, and after some talk about how well the campaign was going, he’d concluded with, “Dad, you know I’ll be there if I have to rent a Chinese junk and row it all the way back myself.”
Ewald often told his friends that if you were only going to have one child, you were lucky to have one like Paul.

His daughter-in-law was another story. Small and slender, lips abstemious and poorly defined on a pinched face, Janet was a moody young woman—at least when Ewald was around her, which, he was grateful, wasn’t often. What his handsome, successful son saw in her was beyond him, although he’d settled long ago on her superior bosom, surprising for such an otherwise meager frame.

Ed Farmer joined him. Ewald grinned, nodded, and said, “She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she?” referring not to Janet but to Roseanna Gateaux, surrounded by a group of admirers off to the side of the sixty-four-feet-deep stage, a stage almost as large as the Metropolitan Opera House at New York’s Lincoln Center, or Russia’s Bolshoi.

His campaign manager said nothing.

“Just lusting in my heart,” Ewald said, his smile expanding at the corners of his mouth. That smile, and the form it took, was part of the boyishness that balanced the crags and lines in his tan face. Soft, curly brown hair helped, too. He was forty-six, one of the youngest presidential candidates since John Kennedy.

Farmer looked meaningfully in the direction of a Washington columnist, stationed nearby behind a glass of champagne. “Keep those lines to yourself until after you’re president … 
Senator
,” Farmer said sharply. “Come on, we need photos.”

Ewald watched Roseanna Gateaux move gracefully to where a pianist, bassist, and violinist recruited from the National Symphony played show tunes, their melodies floating harmlessly up into a canyon of lights, pipe battens, grids, fly lines, and counterweight pulleys.

“Let’s do some photos,” Farmer repeated.

“Now?”

“Yes. How often are all of you together? We’ll pose you with some of the stars, then do the family.” Farmer gripped Ewald’s arm and guided him to where his family stood with a few of the artists who would appear later that night. Ewald extended his hand to the pianist Oscar Peterson. “I’ve been
collecting your records ever since they came out of Canada on ten-inch discs,” Ewald said.

Peterson shook Ewald’s hand and smiled. “That’s nice to hear, Senator Ewald. You’re talking about a long time ago.”

“Yes, I know,” Ewald said. “I was turned on to jazz in my early teens. I remember very well the first two records I ever heard. Really heard, that is. One featured you—it might have been your first recording—the other was a Dixieland album led by Muggsy Spanier.”

“That’s an eclectic beginning,” said Peterson, considered among the greatest pianists in the history of jazz. Leslie Ewald joined them.

Ewald turned next to Sarah Vaughan. “I’ve been a fan of yours for almost as long, Ms. Vaughan. I still say the record you cut for Emarcy when you were nineteen—the one with Clifford Brown, Herbie Mann, and Jimmy Jones—is the finest jazz vocal album ever recorded. My wife will testify to the fact that it’s played loud and often in our house.”

She thanked him. “How nice it will be to have a president of the United States who appreciates American music.”

Ewald laughed. “More than just appreciates it. Devoted to it is more like it. I plan to have regular jazz concerts at the White House.”

“Provided you get the nomination and are elected, Ken,” Leslie Ewald said. His smile never broke, but there was a fleeting anger in his eyes as he looked at her.

Peterson graciously excused himself.

Sarah Vaughan turned to Ewald and said, “I understand one of your favorite songs is ‘Lover Man.’ ”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll be singing it tonight just for you.”

“Wonderful! I can’t wait.”

The singer walked away to join trumpeter Ruby Braff, bassist Ron Carter, and drummer Mel Lewis, who were laughing at a joke one of them had told.

Farmer had collared the campaign photographer and set up shots of Ewald and family with some of the jazz musicians. When they were through, Ewald turned to his son.
“I’m very happy you could make it back, Paul. This whole thing wouldn’t have meant nearly as much without you.”

“Well, I have to admit that rowing that junk took something out of me, but here I am.” They both laughed. Ewald turned to his daughter-in-law and asked how she was.

“Just fine,” Janet replied. To Paul, she said, “Let’s go.”

“They want a picture of us, son.”

Paul looked at his wife. “Two more minutes, Janet. I want my picture taken with the next president of the United States.”

Janet tugged Paul’s arm. “Please.”

“Take the picture,” Leslie Ewald said to the photographer. She moved close to her husband; Janet was at Ewald’s other side.

“Big, happy smiles on everyone,” Farmer said. “This is a gala.”

Ewald put his arm around his wife and smiled, exposing a solid set of white teeth. Leslie’s smile matched his in intensity and attractiveness. As the photographer tripped the shutter and the strobe went off, Paul turned to look at his father. His expression was one of sincere admiration. Janet Ewald, her delicate clasped hands a fig leaf below her waist, managed to look as though she suffered only minor pain.

After a dozen more shots had been taken of the family, Ken and Leslie posed together, just the two of them. Having their pictures taken obviously caused them no discomfort. Every shot was quick, smooth—candidate and wife at a celebrity cocktail party at the national arts center named after John F. Kennedy, whom Ewald frequently quoted in his speeches. He was a “Kennedy man,” part of the cosmetic as well as ideological legacy, cut from the same political cloth, tailored and barbered to heighten the effect, and every bit as handsome and charming. After eight years of a conservative administration, the country seemed ready for a return to Camelot. Ewald felt confident that in the general election in November he could defeat the current vice-president of the United States, Raymond Thornton, the obvious Republican nominee.

For a time, he’d been less confident about the Democratic Convention in July in San Francisco, where he would have
to bring in enough delegates to defeat his chief opponent for the nomination, southern senator Joseph “Jody” Backus, the leader of the conservative wing of the Democratic party, preferably by the second ballot, after the favorite sons—and daughters—and such.

Backus had started strong in the early primaries, but had fallen behind. Still, the party had changed dramatically as the nation shifted into a more conservative stance. Liberal Democratic beliefs had been denigrated again. There were still some powerful Democrats who were convinced that a candidate like Ken Ewald, with his well-documented commitment to the sort of social programs that seemed to scream of big government expenditures, was anathema to the majority of the electorate, Republican and Democrat alike. It needn’t be that way—not all progress and programs required billions. But Jody Backus, even though the numbers coming out of the primaries had placed him behind Ewald in Democratic voter preference, retained considerable clout within the party. Now, with the latest changes in regulations, you could win the primary battle—and lose the war.

Yes, Ken Ewald was confident he could defeat Raymond Thornton in November. But first he would have to work down to the wire to ensure his nomination in July. Tonight’s televised gala from the Kennedy Center would help.

Gerry Fielding, a congresswoman from northern California and an ally, walked up, smiling. “What are you going to do for an inaugural gala, Ken,” she said, “with this big production number tonight for a mere candidacy? Remember, for one event Bush had Sinatra and Baryshnikov and Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Ewald said, “We’re doing
The Messiah
and I’m singing the title role.”

A white-jacketed waiter carrying leftover hors d’oeuvres passed the Ewalds. The senator picked a
spanakopita
from the silver tray and popped the phyllo pastry filled with spinach and cheese into his mouth. Leslie started talking with other people, freeing him to wander away, Farmer at his side, Agent Jeroldson maintaining his usual watchful but discreet distance behind. Ewald stopped to exchange banalities
with friends (“Looks like campaigning agrees with you, Senator”; “Your wife looks as lovely as ever, Ken—and you seem to be holding up, too, ha-ha”), or to be gracious to strangers who wished him well in his pursuit of the nomination (“No, Jody Backus and I work closely together in the Senate. It’s just that we see things a little different sometimes”).

He left the theater, stood on the landing, and looked out over the red-carpeted grand foyer, longer than two football fields (“You can lay the Washington Monument in it and still have room to spare,” the tour guides all said). Eighteen Swedish crystal Orefors chandeliers, each weighing a ton, cast uncertain light over the expanse. Ewald saw through floor-to-ceiling windows that a jet aircraft, its whine snuffed out by the building’s impressive soundproofing, was making its approach to National Airport, just across the Potomac.

He started down the stairs when a “Good evening, Senator” stopped him.

Ewald turned to face Mackensie Smith.

“Be back in a minute,” Farmer said.

“Hello, Mac.” Ewald extended his hand.

“You look bored,” Smith said.

Ewald laughed. “I can’t be bored at my own party, can I? Even if it’s just another excuse for photo opportunities. I think the bash after the show will be a hell of a lot pleasanter. I assume you know, Mac, how much I appreciate your efforts in helping to put this night together.”

Smith shrugged. “I always wanted to rub shoulders with the stars. Now, I’m getting my chance.”

“And?”

“It was less exciting than my mother told me it would be. You should be in your element tonight, Ken. Lots of good jazz to be heard.”

“Yes, I love it. Of course, you’ll have your addiction to opera satisfied, too.”

“That’s true, although as with any addiction, the craving only grows stronger after each ‘fix.’ How’s Leslie?”

“Fine. Under some strain, but still comes up smiling.”

Smith was two years Ewald’s senior. His body was cubelike, not fat but square, solid; he’d been a star linebacker
at the University of West Virginia. Ewald’s tall, slender physique was more that of a basketball player; indeed, he’d been enough of a court performer at Stanford to make the Pacific Coast all-star team, second string, with the “second string” usually omitted from biographies prepared by his office.

Smith had shaved just before coming to the party, but a heavy five o’clock shadow said he hadn’t. His head was covered with a close crop of salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes were the color of Granny Smith apples. The nose was prominent, his chin jutting and strong. He looked at Secret Service agent Jeroldson and said to Ewald, “I could never get used to that.” When Ewald didn’t respond, Smith added, “Spending my life being watched.”

Ewald had been distracted by a couple who’d carried their drinks to the grand foyer and stood gazing up at the seven-feet-tall, three-thousand-pound bronze Robert Berks bust of President Kennedy. He gave his attention back to Smith. “I agree, Mac. Having these guys sleep with me is the only reason I ever considered not running.”

Smith smiled and looked down at his empty glass. “Think I’ll get a refill before the show starts.”

“That’s three hours away. You must be getting desperate. Where’s Ann?” Ewald asked. Annabel Reed had been Smith’s companion for a number of years.

“Out of town, Ken. The irony of it. Here I am involved with my first and last television extravaganza, and she picks tonight to be away on business. She’ll be watching at her hotel. See you later. And—break a leg.”

Ed Farmer, the rest of the Ewald family in tow, came to where the candidate stood alone. “Time to go to the hotel, Senator,” Farmer said. It was now six o’clock; the performance would begin promptly at nine. They’d taken a suite at the Watergate across the street rather than have to return home to kill time.

“Okay,” Ewald said. Then, almost to himself, he added, “I wish he’d change his mind.”

“Who?” Farmer and Leslie asked in concert.

“Mac Smith. He’d be a tremendous asset to us.”

“He already has been,” Leslie said.

“I know, I know,” Ewald said as they walked down the
stairs to the foyer. “I was surprised he agreed to get involved at all, considering his disdain for vulgar politics. Maybe it will give him a taste of campaign excitement and he’ll decide to get more active with us. He’d make a hell of an adviser on drugs and other crimes. And a great attorney general.”

In another suite at the Watergate, Sammy Davis, Jr., was playing Pac-Man. The electronic game traveled with him wherever he went. A quart bottle of strawberry soda with a straw was at his side; half a case of it sat in a corner of the living room.

“I know how last-minute this is, Sammy,” Georges Abbatiello said from where he sat on a leather barstool, “but I really would like to accommodate Mrs. Ewald. She’s a nice lady. She called me a half hour ago and asked if you and Roseanna Gateaux would do a duet. She remembers seeing you do one at some benefit in Vegas a year or two ago. She said she was reluctant to ask because Roseanna had requested a last-minute change in the schedule and we turned her down, but then she figured nothing ventured, nothing gained. Would you be willing to come on again and do a duet with Roseanna? We’ll find time by shortening up on the jam sessions.”

“Hey, man, happy to. The lady’s a gas.” He continued to play the game.

Abbatiello smiled. He knew Davis’s reputation was that of easy cooperation, but he didn’t expect him to be
this
easy.