Murder at the Watergate (9 page)

“Mexico.”

“Yes?”

“He’s making the Mexican government’s slow progress
on corruption, especially where it concerns drugs, his cause célèbre.”

“Quite at odds with your president.”

“Glaringly so. Of course, he’s managed to keep his disagreement with the administration’s Mexico policy—which has worked so well—pretty well under wraps, at least until now. But lately I fear his rigid views on the subject will soon become more public.”

Starkgrave chewed his cheek and dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin he’d spread across his stomach. “Awkward situation, I’d say,” he said. “We can’t very well have a country’s two top leaders bickering over foreign policy, can we?”

“ ‘Awkward’ is a gentle way of putting it, Laughton. You do know of my love for Mexico and its people.”

He maneuvered himself into a less slouched position. “Of course I do. Spending enough time there, I trust.”

“There’s never enough time. I’m leaving for Mexico from here in a few days. Now that British Air is running direct flights from Heathrow to Mexico City, it’s almost easier going from London than the States.”

“Yes, quite. The last time we had the pleasure of tea, Elfie, we discussed your thinly veiled aspirations to be ambassador.”

“I remember that conversation.”

“It was at that party given by your ambassador, Brown.”

“Yes.”

“Still angling for that post?”

“Angling?” A soft laugh. “I don’t angle, Laughton. I curve. But yes, that is my goal.”

“If Aprile is elected next November, your chances are good.”

“What I’d like to do is improve the odds.”

“Always a prudent approach to anything we covet. But it seems to me that Vice President Aprile’s breach with his administration on Mexico could toss the proverbial monkey wrench into things, including your things.” His raised eyebrows asked whether he was correct.

Her nod silently affirmed.

“I think you’d make a splendid ambassador to Mexico, certainly better than that insufferable man they sent to us. You speak the language fluently, already own a home there, have a unique understanding of the people with whom you’d be interacting.”

“Can I hire you to make my case before Congress?”

“What would you like me to do, Elfie?”

“I’m not quite sure. Nothing specific. By the way, I’ll be seeing Senor Hurtado tomorrow. A social visit.”

“Give him my best. Having you do it will spare me the unpleasant chore of needing to spend time with him myself. Surely, Mexico could have come up with a better candidate for ambassador to the Court of Saint James.”

“Laughton, would you be good enough to speak to a few people, indicate to them, casually and subtly of course, that you think I would be an effective ambassador to Mexico? Sort of begin to grease the skids, as it were. That would be especially helpful if such sentiment were to meander its way back to Washington.”

His smile was wise. “It would be my pleasure, Elfie. You and—you’ve been so helpful to me over these many years.”

“No need to ignore my husbands, Laughton. They were helpful, too.”

“But not nearly as winning. Especially the German chap. Never did feel especially comfortable around him. The war and all, I suppose. I really must go. Tea was excellent, and the pastries.”

He struggled to his feet, using the chair’s arms to help him up. “When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“We’ll chat again before then. Oh—what was that messy situation I read about in the press, your friend the vice president being spirited out of the Watergate because of a threat on his life?”

“Nothing, really. They found a man murdered in one of the underground parking garages and thought he might be part of some assassination attempt.”

“Was it?”

“No. An unfortunate coincidence of timing. Thank you for coming, Laughton. It’s always such a pleasure seeing you.”

Were a survey taken of the hundreds of people who’d been close to Elfie Dorrance over the years, it’s doubtful that any of them would have used terms such as morose, melancholy, introspective, or sorrowful to describe her. And for good reason. She was perpetually upbeat, positive, the wide smile always there, the animated conversation, the enthusiastic outreach to everyone around her. But like many such people, there were private moments for reflection, not all of them uplifting.

She sat in the library, twilight diminishing the outside light through the mullioned windows, while the housekeeper cleared the tea service.

“Would you like something, ma’am?” she asked.

“Thank you, Julie, no,” Elfie said. “I think I’ll just sit here a bit.”

She thought less about her marriages than did her friends. The past was just that, and the present and future were consuming enough to avoid squandering emotions on what had been. But when she did find her thoughts drifting back to the men in her life, particularly her husbands, it was always the ends of those marriages that provided the most interest, that were the most memorable.

Wayne Robinson, her first, had been the obvious mistake of impetuous, rebellious, and, yes, romantic youth. She thought of their final night together when she announced she was returning to the United States and would divorce him. At first, he’d laughed, told her to hurry up and do it because he couldn’t stand the sight of her. But as the evening wore on—she packed, he drank and smoked marijuana—he became abusive, struck her repeatedly, then tried to strangle her. Fortunately, his drunken state allowed her to fight him off and to leave the apartment for a hotel, then a plane the following morning to New York. Remembering his blows as she sat in the library in Belgravia caused her to wince, as though being struck again.

But it was Laughton Starkgrave’s mention of Dieter that caused her greatest preoccupation that waning London afternoon.

By 1969, theirs was a marriage in name only. He spent little time in London. When he did, they occupied separate rooms in the house. Few knew of their situation, although the long absences naturally caused speculation.

Dieter had grown chronically depressed during their last year together. His company was under intense competitive pressure and was losing heavily. Too, a recurring series of brutal, lingering headaches had prompted him to seek medical advice in Munich. The news wasn’t good. It was an inoperable brain tumor; he was given six months to live.

He shared his illness and prognosis with few people, and certainly not with Elfie, most pointedly not with her. In April of that year, he traveled to London and stayed at the house. A succession of small dinner parties was carried off with the usual equanimity, although Dieter often excused himself because of the headaches.

One morning, as he and Elfie had breakfast, he told her he was going to New York to seek American refinancing for his firm. He suggested that she accompany him.

She readily agreed, suggesting that they travel by steamship, make a holiday out of it. The thought of days at sea wasn’t appealing to Dieter, but he didn’t argue. Elfie had read recently that Cunard’s magnificent new ship, the
Queen Elizabeth II
, would be making its maiden voyage from Southampton to New York on May 2. It wasn’t easy obtaining reservations, but she’d made friends with two of Cunard’s board members, who happily accommodated her.

“Are you feeling ill?” she asked Dieter as they waited to board the newest and grandest ship ever to ply the waters of the North Atlantic. He looked sick, was listless and distracted.

“Yes,” he said. “Just tired. A few days of sea air will make all the difference.”

As they left Southampton and began the crossing, with a stop in Le Havre before heading for New York, Elfie found herself wanting the cold distance between them to thaw, at least for the days they’d be at sea. The first night out, as she sat up late in their stateroom after a lavish dinner and round of dancing and watched him sleep, a profound sadness came over her. This was a good and decent man. She was lucky to have found him, and she silently wished that by the time they returned from New York, they might pour a new foundation upon which to base a more congenial relationship. It was not to be.

After one relatively smooth day, the weather turned violent. Forty-five-foot waves buffeted the huge ship, sending any furniture not nailed down across rooms, and tossing elderly passengers against walls. The captain repeatedly announced that no one was to venture outside to the decks until they’d ridden out the storm.

At noon, Elfie made her way to the elegant Queen’s Grill for lunch. It was half empty; many passengers had opted to remain in their cabins rather than risk injury. Dieter had gone to the ship’s library but said he would meet her in the dining room. He never arrived.

By two that afternoon, the ship’s crew had been alerted, and a discreet search was under way, without success.

Elfie stayed in the stateroom throughout the day and into the early evening, receiving periodic calls to report that Dieter had not been found. By this time, the assumption was that he’d disobeyed the captain’s orders, had ventured to an outside deck, perhaps lost his balance when close to a railing, and gone over. What other explanation could there be?

Elfie spent the evening in the captain’s private quarters being comforted by his wife, and other senior members of the ship’s staff, including a chaplain. At midnight, she excused herself and went to her stateroom with the hope of sleeping, if only for a few hours. She opened a built-in dresser drawer in which she’d put her nightclothes. Resting on top of a favorite lacy pink negligee was an envelope with her name written on it in Dieter’s hand. She removed it from the drawer, sat on the bed, opened it, and read its contents:

By morning, the storm had abated and the decks were awash with brilliant sunshine. Elfie exited to the boat deck, stood at the railing, and looked to the limitless horizon. Had his death been quick, or had he struggled once in the water? Was it cold enough to numb him? Was his last thought of her? Would his insurance policies be invalidated by suicide?

She pulled the note from the pocket of her coat, tore it into a dozen pieces, and released them into the wind, watching them flutter toward her husband’s final resting place until they were no longer visible.

The arrival of the
QE2
in New York Harbor was greeted with dozens of fireboats spraying water into the air from their fire pumps. Two U.S. Navy ships rode proudly on her port and starboard sides. The trip from Le Havre to New York’s Ambrose Light Tower had taken four days, sixteen hours, and thirty-five minutes, the average speed 28.02 knots.

Journalists covering the maiden voyage now had a second story to pursue. Reporters on the ship had used its communications technology to inform their colleagues in New York of the tragic death of German industrialist Dieter Krueger, and that his wife, the socially prominent Elfie Dorrance-Krueger, was aboard.

“What would have possessed your husband to venture out on deck in a bad storm?” she was asked.

“Dieter was an adventurer,” she replied. “He thrived on challenge, on facing danger. I wish he hadn’t done what he did, but wishing will never bring him back. He’s at peace somewhere in that vast ocean, and I have his memory to sustain me for the rest of my life. Excuse me. There’s a memorial service to be planned and so many other matters to attend to. Thank you so very much for your courtesies.”

And in the weeks to come, she made careful lists of those who sent condolences and those who didn’t.

Mac Smith left the building with his friend from State’s Latin American division, Herman Winkler, after he and four others designated to travel to Mexico as election observers had been briefed by the Mexican desk’s chief, Craig Verplank. Winkler had sat in on the meeting as an observer.

“Lunch plans?” Winkler asked.

“No. I thought I might swing past Annabel’s gallery to see if she’s hungry. She won’t be.”

“Then have lunch with me.”

They walked to the Foggy Bottom Cafe in the River Inn, on Twenty-fifth Street, steps from where Mac and Annabel had lived until moving to the Watergate. After ordering chicken Caesar salads and a bottle of sparkling water, they settled into the sort of comfortable conversation friends of long duration are capable of having—who’ll play in the World Series, the improving state of the District, whether the coming winter would be more severe than the one past, and their wives. It was over
espresso that their topics turned to more substantive matters—aside from their wives, of course.

“Anything new on the murder at Watergate?” Mac asked.

Winkler sat back and glanced left and right.

Mac said, “I take it there is, and it’s not for public consumption.”