Murder in the Smithsonian (12 page)

This time Hanrahan used his shield to gain entry to the exhibit. He and Heather admired the medals. When they were leaving the exhibit he asked if she’d like a cup of coffee.

“No, but tea would be fine.”

They took a table in the public ice cream parlor
attached to the old-fashioned ice cream factory exhibit. She ordered Darjeeling tea; he had a butterscotch ice cream soda.

“I’d like to hear more about the papers,” Hanrahan said.

“There’s not much to tell. Actually they aren’t very important, not at all, compared to the main body of documents my uncle sent to the museum when he donated the Harsa.”

“Did you make copies?”

“I thought of it, then decided not to bother.”

“Did anyone know you had those papers the day you were attacked? That was the same day your hotel room was broken into and searched—”

“My Lord, I can’t see there’d be any connection… I mean, as I told you, those papers aren’t important, they have no value.”

“But someone who knew the papers existed might have assumed they were important.”

She thought of mentioning Chloe, but decided not to… Hanrahan would jump to conclusions, and she simply wasn’t going to be responsible for putting Chloe through needless grief, however momentary. She’d had enough, and she’d been very kind… Mac Hanrahan was doing his job and she respected him for it. Indeed, she was grateful to him for it… they both, after all, were after the same thing, and besides, except for his occasional grumpiness, he really was quite a decent man… very decent… but she was a big girl, it was her fiancé who was dead, and there were some things she could and would use her own judgment about… She finished her tea. “I suppose you could be right, Captain, and I’m certainly not trying to tell you how to run your investigation… though”—and she smiled—“at times I suspect you think otherwise, but I honestly doubt it.
Anyway, the tea was delicious. How is your ice cream soda?”

He looked at her. She was a difficult lady to stay mad at.

“It’s very good… it’s tough finding a good ice cream soda these days.” Along with, he thought, a good five-cent cigar and a good woman…

They left the museum through the Mall entrance. Outside, workmen were erecting sound stages and booths in preparation for the opening of the Smithsonian’s annual Festival of American Folk Life, which would run from June 24 through the Fourth of July weekend. This year’s festival was a salute to the artists, musicians and craftsmen of the British Isles and the state of Arizona. A strange twofer, Hanrahan thought.

“It’s exciting,” Heather said.

“Yeah, this is a good time to visit Washington.” Hanrahan pointed to the 556-foot-tall Washington Monument. “You ought to go up in it while you’re here. You ride an elevator up and walk down. They say that in really hot weather there’s so much condensation that it actually rains inside, but you can’t prove that by me. I went up in winter…”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and there was a catch in her voice.

“Tallest building in Washington. Well, I’d better get back. Can I give you a lift?”

“No, thank you…” And there were tears in her eyes. Hanrahan wanted to put his arm around her, but held back. “I’m sorry, I should be past tears by now… it’s just something that takes over and… I know you understand…” She turned, hurried down the steps and headed east along the Mall.

Hanrahan went inside the museum, and on to Chloe’s office. She was on her way out when he got there.

“It’ll only take a minute,” he told her.

Back in her office, he said, “Miss McBean told me she gave you some documents or papers that related to the Harsa. I’d like to see them.”

Chloe looked annoyed. “You know, Captain, we
are
all on the same side here. Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t feel that way.” She picked up an envelope from her desk and handed it to him, obviously trying to hold back a blast of her indignation. “I just went through them. They’re quite meaningless, sad to say, although it’s always nice to have anything connected with a display.”

“Can I take these with me?”

She gave him a look. “
Certainly
. May I also copy them first? It will only take a minute. I shan’t smuggle them out.” She told her secretary to make the copies. “Anything else, Captain?”

“Well, I know you’re annoyed with me, Miss Prentwhistle, and maybe I even sympathize with how you feel. In my work you do and say things that don’t win popularity contests. Anyway, yes, there is something else…” And he proceeded to tell her about his confusion over the number of mannequins in the First Ladies’ Gown exhibition the night of Tunney’s murder.

She laughed a genuinely hearty laugh. “I don’t wish to make light of your powers of observation, Captain, but I assure you that there have never been more than seven first ladies behind that glass since Margaret Brown Klapthor put the whole concept of the exhibition into motion.”

Hanrahan smiled more pleasantly than he felt. “I guess you’re right, Miss Prentwhistle. It’s been driving me crazy, that’s all. I’m usually pretty good at counting heads.”

The secretary returned with the photocopies for
Hanrahan. He quickly compared them to the originals, handed them back to Chloe Prentwhistle and left the museum, feeling frustrated, vaguely angry, and a little foolish.

“How are you this morning?” Hanrahan asked Heather. He’d called her at the hotel and from the sound of her voice had apparently awakened her.

“Fine, thank you…” She yawned. “I don’t much care for your television but stay awake until ungodly hours watching it.”

“Join the club,” Hanrahan said. “By the way, I hear you raised so much hell with Officer Shippee she’s about to ask to be relieved from her guard duty.”

“It all seems so
silly
. Things have calmed down now. No sense spending your taxpayers’ money needlessly, and I honestly do feel uncomfortable with her being about—no reflection on the woman, of course.”

“I’m sure. We’ll see though. This is really our business… well, anything I can do for you?”

“I don’t think so. Chloe Prentwhistle has arranged a meeting with your Vice President Oxenhauer for me. I’ll be seeing him at two. I’m pretty excited about that.”

“Good. I’d be interested in hearing what he has to say.”

“To look for anything that contradicts what he said to you?”

“That would mean I didn’t trust my country’s second highest elected official.”

“Do you? I thought everybody was open to suspicion.”

“Give me a call when you’re through.”

“I will…”

***

Joe Pearl, sitting in Hanrahan’s office, asked him, “How do you evaluate her, Mac?”

“
Evaluate?
Joe… Joe… how you do go on.” Hanrahan propped his feet up on the desk. “If you’re asking what do I think of Heather McBean, I think she’s a nice, straightforward young woman. I think she’s been shocked by Tunney’s murder, that she has a mind of her own and is determined to hang around until the murder is solved… What did you come up with on Ford Saunders?”

“Not exactly a plentitude. He’s thirty-nine years old, single, never married, worked in other museums before coming to Smithsonian four years ago. Why the special interest in him?”

“Among other things, I don’t like him.”

“I didn’t either when I interviewed him.”

“What’d he have to say?”

“That he’d gotten sick and left the party early.”

“Left Tunney’s party early? You didn’t interview him at the museum the night of the murder?”

“No. We picked up his name from the guest list, saw that he wasn’t there when Tunney was killed and called him the next day.”

“Where’d he go that night?”

Pearl consulted a typed sheet from a thick purple file folder. “He claims to have gone to a friend’s house in Georgetown, guy named Norman Huffaker.”

“And?”

“Huffaker confirms that Saunders showed up, said he wasn’t feeling well and spent the night in the guest room.”

“How’d the timing work out?”

“Fine for Saunders. Huffaker places him at his house about a half hour before Tunney was killed.”

“What’s the story on this Huffaker?”

Pearl leaned forward. “Mac, do you know you’ve got a hole in your right shoe?”

Hanrahan looked at it, thought of the late, great Adlai Stevenson, who as a presidential candidate displayed such a homey touch as well. “I’ll get it fixed.” What the hell, he thought, I’m no Adlai Stevenson.

“Yeah, you should. It’s almost all the way through.”

“I
said
I’d get it fixed, Joe. What about Huffaker? You believe him?”

“He seems okay, a little swishy but what’s new?”

“You figure he and Saunders are lovers?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“Lovers lie for each other, have for centuries.”

“If they’re lying they got their stories straight.”

“Anything else about Saunders?”

“Such as?”

“Instincts, Joe. Gut feelings. What are yours about him?”

“That he’s gay, bright and probably too scared to lie. There’s an interesting linkage between Saunders and some of the others, though. We picked it up by going through the personnel files at the museum.”

Hanrahan burped, reached for the Tums bottle. “What linkage?” he asked as he dumped tablets in his hand, chose an orange one and put the rest back.

“Saunders’s major reference for his job at the Smithsonian was Walter Jones.”

“Jones? Oh, yeah, the art dealer and appraiser. So…?”

“Somebody else who was at the party got her job with Jones as a reference too.”

“Who?”

He checked the file. “Janis Dewey. She works at the National Gallery of Art.”

Hanrahan stared at him.

“Mac, I always look for link-ups, the way I was taught. Jones is evidently tight with Chloe Prentwhistle.”

“How tight?”

“Well, I checked around. It seems Jones and Prentwhistle—hey, what a funny name—Jones and Prentwhistle have been going together for thirty years. What struck me was that Jones has no official connection with the Smithsonian but he apparently gets these people jobs there.”

“A benefactor?”

“If you say so… what’s next?”

“What struck
me
was one of the curators at the party, a guy named Kazakis. He’s a gem curator at the National History Museum.”

“I remember his name.”

“He used to design jewelry too, and was a pretty good gem cutter. And
he
used Jones as a reference, too.”

“Interesting.” Pearl stood.

“Where are you going?” Hanrahan asked.

“We’re running everyone who was at the party through the computer. You know, the usual inputs to see what else ties them together. How they interface—”

“How they
what
? Jesus, I can’t stand that computer jargon. It gives me indigestion. Okay, let me know what comes up.”

“Will do. By the way, Mac, you could use heels on those shoes too.”

“Get out, Joe.”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

***

At four that afternoon Hanrahan received a series of phone calls.

The first was from his former wife Kathy, who asked that they get together for, as she put it, “a serious talk.”

“You in trouble?” Hanrahan asked.

“Of course not, but things have changed in my life recently that I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Like what?”

“Please, Mac, it’s been long enough for the bitterness to have gone. All I want to do is have dinner, or lunch, and talk. Is that so terrible?”

“Depends on what we talk about. All right, when do you want to get together?”

“How about tonight? Feel like whipping up one of your gourmet meals?”

“No.”

“Name the restaurant.”

“Café de Paris.”

“Are you still going there?”

“I am. It’s honest, the food is good, the prices are right. What time?”

“Seven?”

“See you there.”

There was a moment of silence. “Mac,” she said, “please come with an open mind. Leave the anger for a few hours. Okay?”

“I’ll do my best…”

The second call was from Alfred Throckly. “You called, Captain?”

“Yes. I wanted a list of the people who verified the authenticity of the Harsa.”

“That list was submitted before we were allowed to come to headquarters to see the medal.”

Hanrahan didn’t try to hide his annoyance. “Give it to me again, if you don’t mind.”

“Just a moment.” He came back on the line. “Chloe Prentwhistle, Ford Saunders, Constantine Kazakis and, of course, myself.”

“Anybody from outside the museum?”

Throckly paused. “Yes, as a matter of fact there was. Mr. Walter Jones. It’s standard procedure to bring in outside experts.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Well, Mr. Throckly, I’m glad you got the Harsa back. Thanks for returning my call.”

The third call was from Heather. She sounded excited. “…he’s such a nice man, your vice president. I didn’t realize how close he and Lewis were. He actually filled up when he talked about him.”

“I gathered they were good friends. Did he say anything about what had upset Dr. Tunney before leaving London?”

“No. He told me that he and Lewis talked briefly and that they’d planned to meet the following morning. I wish they’d had a chance to talk. If they had, maybe, maybe…”

And somebody, Hanrahan thought, obviously didn’t want the vice president to hear what Tunney had to say… “Don’t torture yourself, Heather…” It was the first time he’d called her that, and it came out so naturally neither of them seemed to notice.

She smiled quickly. “I’m sorry, seems I’m always going teary on you. By the way, Vice President Oxenhauer pledged the power of his office to help get to the bottom of things… and when I returned to the hotel I had a really most pleasant surprise.”

“Which was?”

“Evelyn Killinworth.” She pronounced the first syllable of the first name “
Eve
.”

“Who’s she?”

“
He
. Dr. Evelyn Killinworth. I met him years ago when he was professor emeritus of Anglo-American history at Oxford. Evelyn and my uncle had struck up a friendship, as much of a one as Calum would ever allow. At any rate Evelyn left Oxford to take a professorship at Georgetown University and has been here ever since. I’d made a note to call him but never got around to it. Just as well; he’s been in California for a month as guest lecturer at Stanford University. Now he’s back, and actually was at the hotel waiting for me.