Murder on Capitol Hill (2 page)

“She’s going out for dinner, then to the center.”

“Oh.”

“I called her this morning.”

“Oh.”

They took a few steps before Cale, Jr., said, “Dad…”

Caldwell stopped, looked at his son.

“Are they still planning a hearing on religious cults?”

“Hard to say… Senator MacLoon seems against it—”

“Couldn’t
you
do something to kill it?”

Caldwell raised his eyebrows. “It’s not exactly my concern—”

His son’s face hardened, his mouth tightened. When he put on that expression he looked like his mother when she was upset or angry, and Cale Caldwell had always intensely disliked that expression on both of them. The son broke in, “It
is
your concern, it’s all of our concern.”

“Come for dinner some night and we’ll discuss it. I’m late for my meeting.”

“You don’t really care—”

Caldwell glanced around. His son’s voice had risen. “We’ll discuss it at home, where it belongs. Well, thanks for coming, I enjoyed lunch.”

“Yes, well, so did I… I’ll see you at your… testimonial.”

His father looked at him, wondering if he only imagined a tinge of sarcasm.

Lydia James was grateful the performance was over. She’d never particularly appreciated Haydn, though she did admire some of his symphonic works like “London” symphony Number 101 that mixed a rondo with a variation form.

She glanced across the partially filled hall at the recital’s sponsor, Veronica Caldwell, wife of the Senate Majority Leader and Lydia’s friend, whose face reflected her intense enjoyment of the evening. Veronica was partial to string quartets.

“Bravo,” Veronica called out as she stood applauding. The members of the string quartet, who’d just completed Haydn’s “Razor” Quartet—the composer had given it to an Englishman in exchange for a new razor—stood and bowed.

The man next to Lydia sighed and scratched his Adam’s apple. “The best thing that ever happened to Haydn was meeting Mozart. Everything he composed improved after that.”

Lydia smiled and placed her hand on the arm of Clarence Foster-Sims. Among other things, he’d been her last piano teacher before she gave up her early dream of a performing musical career for the more
pragmatic one of law, at which she was damn good. She’d once blamed him for being so tough on her that he’d undermined her, but finally she was able to acknowledge that his demanding, caustic approach had helped make her a brilliant lawyer instead of a so-so piano player.

The sparse audience stood and filed into the lobby. Foster-Sims excused himself, and Lydia watched his tall, angular frame, from which a brown tweed suit hung loosely, slice through clusters of people to the men’s room. A handsome self-possessed man, she thought. No use denying it, she was very attracted to him—

“Lydia…”

She turned to face Veronica Caldwell.

“Oh, hi, Veronica. I enjoyed it very much.”

“So did I. Every time I listen to Haydn I’m more aware of how he must have suffered being married to that awful woman… You look lovely.”

“Thank you.” Lydia appreciated the compliment. She didn’t feel lovely. It had been a long hard day at the office, and she’d barely had time to brush her hair and change into a beige linen suit before Foster-Sims had picked her up.

“Is Cale here?” Lydia asked, referring to Veronica’s husband, the Senate Majority Leader. She would have been surprised if he were. Cale Caldwell was not a concertgoer, although he was dutifully supportive of his wife’s involvement in the arts, and of the center that carried their name.

Veronica waved to someone across the lobby, then said, “No, he went to some game… baseball, football, I’m not sure.”

“Ready?” Foster-Sims asked Lydia as he squeezed through the crowd and came up to her side.

“I think so.”

“Good. Let’s stop off for a brandy. Haydn’s so damned dry, I work up a real thirst listening to him.”

“Bull, but okay… Good night, Veronica,” Lydia said.

But before they could escape, Jason DeFlaunce came up, decked out in a green velvet jacket, an open white shirt, brown-and-green paisley ascot, wrinkled gray slacks and brown molded shoes. Lydia had never particularly liked Jason. Too
much
… Still, he was well-known in Washington’s so-called creative community as someone who could get things done. Which was to say an ability to raise money for the arts, which Veronica Caldwell especially appreciated. Jason was also, to some, witty and well-connected. Foster-Sims had once labeled him an unregistered lobbyist—“unregistered whore” was actually what he’d said. Clarence had strong opinions.

“Hello, Jason,” she now said. “You look… well.”

Eyebrows arched. “Actually I haven’t been feeling all that well, Lydia. I suspect I’m terminal.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said with a straight face. Jason extended his hand to Foster-Sims, who seemed to examine it before shaking. “Let’s
go
,” he said to Lydia.

She nodded. “Well, see you soon, Veronica, and my best to Cale.”

“I’ll tell him if I ever see him. Being married to a United States senator is no bed of roses, or petunias
for that matter… By the way, Lydia, you will be at Cale’s testimonial, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“You, too, Clarence?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Unless he could figure out an excuse, which he doubted.

Lydia and Clarence went to a bar in the Hotel Madison where they ordered brandy—Hennessy for him, Rémy Martin for her. The bar was virtually empty as they settled into a corner booth, sipped from their snifters.

Lydia broke the brief silence. “I felt sorry for Veronica tonight, Clarence.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I like her very much, always have. She’s been through so much, in spite of her money and marriage and success. I always sense a kind of sadness in her.”

“I guess… but I find it hard to get too worked up about it.”

She forgave him that. Beneath his gruff cynical hide was a warm, caring man with a will of iron, but a limited tolerance for fools and pompous asses, of which Washington had more than its share. He was also frighteningly no-nonsense about himself.

Four years earlier he had decided that he’d wasted his life since the age of four playing the piano. He made up his mind never again to lift the lid of his Steinway, and had obviously stuck to it, no matter how drunk he might have been when making the pledge. But he’d been an inspired teacher, and many of his pupils had gone on to impressive careers. He’d
simply decided that he didn’t have concert talent, and teaching others who had it was the best he could do. She respected, admired him, and maybe was a little in love with him. She wasn’t sure…

A man at the bar openly admired her, which she told herself was standard operating procedure for most men at bars, especially after too many drinks. Still, she didn’t dismiss it. Lydia had just turned forty. She’d been married once, but that was when she was twenty-one. It had lasted two years. She’d met her husband in music school, where he was a promising string player.

Actually, she rather liked the way she looked, realizing that she’d been blessed with good genes that provided a tall, supple, full female body that she kept in condition through a regular exercise regime—nothing fanatical, just consistent.

Lydia and Clarence shared a Scottish heritage. Her bloodline went back to Inverness, his to the more southerly Edinburgh. No one ever doubted that he was a Scot, with his fair skin. She, on the other hand, was surprisingly dark, and was taken for Jewish or Italian at times. Her hair was a thick, black mane, and there was a duskiness to her complexion that came from the French ancestry in her family.

She took another sip of her brandy. “Know what I’d like to do, Clarence? Hear some jazz.” She’d developed an interest in jazz years ago and had become an avid record collector. She’d tried to convince Veronica Caldwell that jazz was America’s only true art form and that it deserved time in the art center’s performing schedule, but Veronica was a slow convert.
“Come on, Monty Alexander is playing at Blues Alley.”

And so they went to the jazz club in Georgetown and took in a full set before he delivered her to the nearby brownstone she’d purchased four years earlier.

“Coming in?” she asked.

“Well, my back is acting up and—”

“Oh shut up and get in here.”

“Ah, modern woman.” And taking her in his arms, he added to himself, God bless ’em…

Early the next morning, just before she showed him out, she extracted his promise to take her to Senator Caldwell’s testimonial party.

Nodding unhappily, he kissed her, and said, “Well, they always told me everything has its price,” then escaped before she could beat him about the head and ears.

Leaning against the closed door, she had to smile. It had been a very good night. With a good man. Life could be worse…

***

The day of the big party proved out the truth of Lydia’s thought. It had been a long frustrating day at the office with a client who she almost felt like prosecuting instead of defending. A real hardhead who seemed determined to defeat himself… As she drove home she realized she’d barely have time to get ready before Clarence picked her up for the Caldwell party.

She raced into the house, tossed off her clothes, showered, dried herself and went to one of two closets where she chose a sleek, butterscotch evening
dress that dipped at the bosom and was lower in the back. She applied lipstick only, pulled her hair back into a chignon and attached a single gold strand around her neck. The clock at her bedside said 6:15. Fifteen minutes.
Good Housekeeping
,
Esquire
and
Newsweek
had arrived in the mail and she scanned their covers. One of the blurbs on
Good Housekeeping
’s cover told readers that inside they could read an interview with “Washington’s First Lady of the Arts, Veronica Caldwell.”

She was turning to the first page of the Caldwell interview as her door chimes sounded and she went to the door.

“Hi, I was just about to read an interview with Veronica.”

“Bring it with you,” he said. “Read it in the car. Then you’ll be loaded for knowledgeable chitchat.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, and smiled. But she did as he suggested and read the interview as Clarence drove them to the party.

He found a parking space after circling the block twice, came around and opened the door for her.

“By the way, you look lovely,” he said as they crossed the street and headed for the Senate Building.

“Thank
you
, sir,” and she meant it. Loved it.

“So what did the article have to say about Veronica?”

“It talked about the center, her role as a senator’s wife and as a mother, her hopes for the future of the arts in America, you know, that sort of thing. The photographs are terrific.”

“Terrific… Well, I hope we have better luck than the last time I went to a reception here… the host
was drying out and a godawful nonalcoholic punch was served. I think it was a Kool-Aid base.”

“I bet it was a short reception.”

“Very short.”

He stopped halfway up the steps, looked at her and repeated how well she looked. But in his head was the dream he’d had the previous night. Of course it was only a dream, but in it she’d died… They were at a party and all of a sudden it was a wake. He’d walked up to the coffin and there she was in a dress sort of like the one she was wearing now, a rose in her hands and a horribly tranquil expression on her face.

He took her arm firmly and led her up the steps. What the hell, a bad dream was a bad dream… don’t impose it on Lydia, or take it seriously. He’d better stop snacking before bedtime…

Lydia looked at him. “Is anything wrong, you look sort of strange.” She seemed to shiver beneath the white woolen shawl she wore over her shoulders, and Clarence felt it. Or was he the one?

“No, don’t be silly, everything’s fine,” he said, “except it’s getting chilly.” He put his arm around her. “It’s the wind. We’ll be inside in a moment.”

Charles was putting his final touches on preparations for the Caldwell reception, working closely with Veronica Caldwell through her representative Jason DeFlaunce. Under ordinary circumstances, Charles disliked dealing with Senate wives; they were too quick to invoke proxy power of their husbands. In the case of the Caldwell party, though, he wished it had been Mrs. Caldwell rather than DeFlaunce he’d had to deal with. He found DeFlaunce obnoxious. But since the senator’s wife evidently had great faith in the man and had given him carte blanche as far as preparations were concerned, Charles had little choice but to grimace and bear it.

The guest list contained 120 names. The decision was to keep it simple with an abundance of hors d’oeuvres and canapés.

The center of attraction was a large ice carving in the shape of the senator’s home state of Virginia. Charles had suggested a sports figure, perhaps a football player about to throw a forward pass, but the idea had been vetoed, not surprisingly, by Jason. An ice carver well-known to Washington’s society set had been brought in to accomplish the sculpture and
had done a remarkable job: it stood five feet, glistening beneath red and blue pin spots.

On another table was a tall shrimp tree that Charles had personally built a year ago from a discarded silver service. He’d ordered fifty pounds of jumbo shrimp, ten per guest. Each of the four graduated levels of the tree was edged with shrimp and lemon wedges, and shrimp skewered with frilled toothpicks were heaped on each silver disk. The shrimp had been soaked in an imported beer and a herb-and-spice mixture prior to deveining and shelling, then sprinkled with lemon juice before being placed on the tree. A cocktail sauce was in a silver bowl at the tree’s summit.

“I love it,” Jason said to Veronica as Charles applied the finishing touches.

“It’s just magnificent,” she said. “Bravo to you and yours, Charles.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Caldwell. I hope the senator will be pleased.”

The room had been divided with folding green screens to provide a better flow between beverage and food areas. One of Washington’s top society pianists arrived early and fastidiously wiped down every inch of a grand piano with a soft cloth he’d pulled from a Gucci attaché case in which he carried the sheet music to standard show tunes.