Monument to Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “Successful party?” Jeanine asked.

  “I suppose so. I’m heading there now.”

  “I’ve arranged with security.”

  “Good.”

  A half hour later, Mitzi sat with the first lady in her office.

  “Does he have to be there?” Mitzi asked, referring to Millius, who worked at a computer in the anteroom.

  “Forget him, Mitzi. Okay, so this Brixton character is in Washington and tried to reach you. That doesn’t mean he knows anything.”

  “It’s worse, Jeanine. I got a call from a reporter for the Savannah paper, some guy named Sayers.”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “He told my secretary that he wanted to talk to me about a twenty-year-old crime that happened in Savannah. The stabbing! Jesus, the press is involved now.”

  Jeanine sat back and rubbed her eyes. “That is cause for concern. How did he get onto it?”

  “I don’t know. Probably this Brixton. This is all about to come tumbling down on you, Jeanine.”

  Jeanine lowered her hands and leaned forward. “‘Tumbling down on me’?”

  “Well, yes, of course. It was you who stabbed him and—”

  “And it was your father who paid the Watkins girl to go to prison.”

  They stared at each other, their eyes transmitting their conflicting thoughts.

  “Look,” Jeanine finally said, “there’s nothing to be gained by deciding who’s more to blame. The important thing is to come up with a plan to head it off. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “No.” Mitzi twisted her fingers; she was on the verge of tears.

  After a thoughtful pause, Jeanine said, “There’s a lot more at stake here than having paid off Watkins. Do you realize what this will do to Fletch and his presidency?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that,” Mitzi said.

  “Well, I think you’d better start thinking about that, Mitzi.”

  “This is terrible,” Mitzi said.

  “How did you leave it with the reporter?”

  “I said I wasn’t available. He left his number.”

  “You didn’t call him back.”

  “Of course not.”

  “We have to assume that whatever this reporter knows he got from Brixton, and what can Brixton have? Damn little. It’s not like it happened yesterday, for Christ’s sake. It happened over twenty years ago. What about this attorney friend of yours?”

  “Mackensie Smith? I don’t know what Brixton has told him.”

  The tears came.

  “Stop it!” Jeanine said. “Crying isn’t going to solve a goddamn thing.”

  “My reputation will be ruined,” Mitzi said as she fished a Kleenex from her purse.

  “Your reputation!” Jeanine snapped.

  “We can’t let this happen,” Mitzi said and blew her nose.

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Did you ever tell Fletcher about it?” Mitzi asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Maybe—”

  “Maybe I should have? You’re right. I can’t allow him to be surprised by this, wake up and read about it in the papers. Can this Brixton be bought off?”

  “How would I know?”

  “I’m sure the reporter can’t be. Your lawyer friend?”

  Mitzi shook her head. “No. He’s—”

  Jeanine got up and paced the room, her hand to her forehead. When she resumed her seat she said, “I’ll have to tell Fletch about this. He’s due back any minute now.”

  “What do you think he’ll say?”

  “He’ll blow his stack. Maybe you should tell John.”

  Mitzi shuddered.

  “I know this,” Jeanine said. “I’m not going to see my life or Fletch’s presidency ruined because of some dime-store, white-trash private detective looking to make a buck.”

  Jeanine’s hard tone was palpable, and Mitzi recoiled from it.

  “I’ll talk to Fletch tonight. You go on home. I’ll call you tomorrow. In the meantime don’t mention this to anyone. Got that? Not anyone!”

  CHAPTER 34

  Fletcher Jamison, president of the United States, blustered into the White House, followed by a gaggle of attentive aides. He’d just returned from giving a speech in support of his agenda to rescind regulations on financial institutions that had been imposed by the preceding administration. It had gone over well with the handpicked crowd, and the warm reception they gave him was a welcome tonic after what had otherwise been a bad day. Congress had balked at his most recent budgetary proposals, and the latest polls showed his popularity heading for the tank. A small group of vocal, sign-carrying opponents had made their feelings known outside the auditorium.

  “Jerks!” Jamison had muttered once back in the limo and headed for the airport where Air Force One awaited him.

  “They’re meaningless,” an aide said. “All mouth, no substance.”

  “You’d think they’d get a life,” the president said.

  “They like to protest,” the aide said. “They latch on to any reason to carry their stupid signs and chant slogans.”

  “What the hell do they want from me?” Jamison snarled as the limo and security vehicles neared the airport. “The media takes these polls and twists them to suit their agenda.”

  “Exactly,” another aide enthusiastically agreed.

  Jamison had grabbed a fast nap on the flight back to D.C., although it hadn’t done anything to improve his disposition. His aides knew to stay clear when he was in one of his moods, and they did so until he was back in the White House, had received a quick briefing on the day’s headlines from his political adviser, and headed for the first family’s private quarters, where his personal assistant stood at attention, ready to accept Jamison’s discarded clothing and to fetch him anything he might want. As usual, it was a glass of his favorite Tennessee mash whiskey with a splash of water, and popcorn.

  Jeanine waited for him in her bedroom. She’d rehearsed what she would say and how she would say it, choosing her words carefully, dismissing the incident in the parking lot as a frivolous teenage evening gone awry, making light of it while at the same time letting him know of her concern for what it might mean should the story end up in the media. She chose a deep pink cashmere sweater to wear, a favorite of her husband’s, and form-fitting black slacks. Her musings took many directions, including the possibility that offering sex might mitigate his reaction to bad news. It had worked before.

  I should have told him about it when we first started going together, she thought. He had plenty of skeletons in his closet, too. But she hadn’t mentioned it for fear of losing him, of crushing her chance to become the first lady of Georgia. That she’d end up in the White House was beyond any dreams she had conjured, and when he announced that he was running for the presidency it seemed too late to spring a complication like murder on him.

  She tried to imagine all the negative fallout that might occur if the story broke, and none of it was pretty. His political opponents would jump on it and turn it into a media circus, night after night of coverage on what had become a 24/7 news cycle, talking heads analyzing its meaning to death, pundits making cruel remarks, the late-night comedy shows, Jon Stewart, and Saturday Night Live having a field day.

  “Maybe the president should dispatch his wife to kill off his opponents,” the comics would quip.

  “The president means it when he says he wants to slash the budget.”

  “If the president pulls a John Edwards on his wife he’d better watch his back—in bed!”

  “Jeanine Jamison, our own Lizzie Borden.”

  Those visions made her cringe in the chair as she awaited his arrival.

  He’d changed into his nightclothes in his private dressing quarters before entering the bedroom. She sprang to her feet, crossed the room, and kissed him. He noticed what she was wearing and asked why.

  “Oh, I just thought I’d try and look pretty for you.”

  “Well, you do.
”

  His assistant arrived with the whiskey and popcorn. “Would you like something, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Yes, I would, a glass of Chablis please.” The assistant left and she asked the president how his day had gone.

  “The speech went fine. The rest of the day makes me wish I’d stayed governor of Georgia.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “The goddamn polls. They mean nothing, but the media lives and dies by them.”

  Her wine was delivered and they sat across a small table from each other in front of the draped window. She raised her glass. “To good days ahead,” she said with a wide smile.

  “I’ll drink to that,” he said, touching the rim of his glass to hers.

  “Fletch, there’s something we have to talk about.”

  “Oh? Sounds heavy.”

  “I suppose it is. No, it really isn’t. You see—”

  “You having an affair?”

  She guffawed and spit out some of her wine. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He shrugged and drank.

  “Fletch, something happened many years ago in Savannah that I’ve kept to myself all these years.”

  Nothing from him.

  “You see, when I was a teenager—a silly teenager, I admit—I went to a local hangout with Mitzi when my folks were away for the weekend. It was a dive called Augie’s. Lots of kids from the other side of the tracks hung out there and I suppose it represented danger to us, an adventure, you know, tasting something forbidden.”

  He seemed disinterested, simply grunted and tasted his drink again and took a handful of popcorn from the sterling silver bowl.

  “Something happened there, Fletch, that—well, it was something bad.”

  “I know, you tried marijuana. Shame on you.”

  “It was more than that,” she said. “There was also a young black girl there. Her name was Louise Watkins.”

  “So?”

  “So, we got into a conversation with her, at least Mitzi did. I was talking to a young guy who invited me outside. I’d seen him before and—”

  “So it wasn’t your first time there.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Anyway, I went outside with him and—”

  “Spare me the details, Jeanine.”

  “He tried to rape me, Fletch.”

  That got his full attention. He put down his glass and leaned toward her. “He tried to rape you? Did he? Rape you?”

  “No. I—I—he had a knife and threatened to use it unless I got in the car with him.”

  “Bastard!”

  “Yes, he was a bastard, Fletch. I—”

  “What happened?”

  “He tried to use the knife and I fought him and the knife got turned around and it went into him.”

  “He—?”

  “He died.”

  “He was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Here’s where it gets complicated, Fletch. I mentioned the black girl, Louise Watkins. She’d come out of the club with Mitzi, saw what happened, and helped us get away.”

  “Get away?”

  A tear formed in Jeanine’s right eye. “We ran. This girl threw the knife in a river or stream and we went home like nothing ever happened.”

  “You were never connected with it?”

  “That’s right.”

  He stood, parted the drapes, and looked out over the lighted lawn and shrubs. “I’m shocked, of course,” he said without looking at her, “but it turned out all right.” He leaned over her. “There’s nothing else, Jeanine? That was the end of it? What did the police do, chalk it up as another unsolved homicide?”

  She avoided his eyes and said, “Not exactly.”

  “I hate ‘not exactly.’ Be specific. What then? They accused someone else of the crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “That person did time for it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tough on that unfortunate person but—”

  “The black girl was convicted of it.”

  “How—?”

  “She was a screwed-up girl, Fletch, a drug dealer and prostitute. She didn’t go to prison for long, just four years.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “She tried to blackmail us.”

  “What?”

  “She tried to blackmail me and Mitzi. She wanted a thousand dollars to keep her mouth shut.”

  “You paid her?”

  “No. Mitzi’s father did, ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ward Cardell paid her ten thousand bucks? You said she wanted a thousand.”

  “Just to keep quiet. Mr. Cardell paid her more money to confess that she did it and to accept the prison term.”

  His laugh reflected amazement rather than joy. “And she bought it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have any contact with her after she came out of prison?”

  “No. She was murdered days after she got out. Someone shot her on the street. They said it was one of those drive-by shootings, probably drug dealers.”

  Jamison pressed a button that summoned his personal aide. “Another drink,” he said.

  “Ma’am?” the aide asked Jeanine.

  “What? Yes. Another wine.”

  Jamison took his seat across from her again. He stared her down, causing Jeanine to avert his gaze. “Okay,” he said, “let’s pick up where we left off. From what you’re saying, this whole sordid affair happened long ago, past history, so why bring it up to me now?”

  “Because it’s surfaced again, Fletch.”

  “How?”

  She told him about Brixton, and about the newspaper reporter who’d called Mitzi. “And there’s a D.C. lawyer involved, too, somebody named Mackensie Smith.”

  “I’ve met him. You say this Brixton is involved in the case? How so?”

  She explained that he was representing Louise Watkins’s family, which was all that she knew. She awaited his reaction, ready to brace against an angry tirade. With his second drink in his hand, he said in measured tones, “This obviously has the potential to turn into a major flap, Jeanine, the sort of bombshell this town thrives on. Do you have any idea of what the ramifications are?”

  “I’ve been running them through my mind all night, Fletch. I know I should have told you this years ago but—”

  “Let’s not play the should-have, would-have game, Jeanine. It’s too late for that. This private detective has to be stopped. I assume he’s the one feeding information to the reporter.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “How much has Mitzi confided in her father?”

  “I know she’s spoken with him a few times. I encouraged her to.”

  “Ward Cardell has been a friend throughout my career, a loyal supporter. I can call him.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “I’ll think about it. You’ve made quite a mess of things.”

  “I certainly didn’t mean to, Fletch. It was all so long ago and I was young and—”

  “This guy Brixton is the problem. He has to be shut down before he goes any further.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. Just keep your mouth shut. I’ll take care of it.”

  She tried to entice him into bed but he balked. “I have some thinking to do,” he said and left the room.

  CHAPTER 35

  Jeanine Jamison had waited up almost two hours for her husband to return and finally dozed off well past midnight. When she awoke that morning after a restless, nightmare-laden sleep, he was gone.

  She’d stumbled to her dressing table and observed herself in the Hollywood-style mirror. She didn’t like what she saw. Bags under her eyes were exaggerated and dark; her eyes lacked the sort of gleam associated with being alive.

  She showered, and dressed for the day with the help of a female aide, trying all the while to sound her usual self, upbeat and positive. It wasn’t easy, with what she’d gone through the night befor
e. The president’s reaction had been surprisingly benign, although she was certain that he seethed inside. He didn’t need this complication to add to what he faced each day from a cantankerous Congress and a constituency on the verge of abandoning him and his agenda. She wanted desperately to do something to resolve the mess she’d led him into but had no idea what that might be.

  Mitzi’s involvement hadn’t struck Jeanine as a problem while leveling with the president. But in the gray light of early morning it loomed large. Her friend was known to be flighty and easily sent off-balance; her husband often joked that his wife tripped over bobby pins and paper clips. Was she likely to lose control and blurt something out to the wrong person? Could she be depended upon to keep their confidence and not do something rash? Jeanine couldn’t be sure, and she dwelled on this while breakfasting in the private dining room.

  What would Fletch do now that he knew? When he’d left the bedroom he said he had some thinking to do. What did that mean? What could he do? Would he confide in close aides and garner their opinions? She hoped he wouldn’t. It was embarrassing enough to have gotten into such a mess without the people with whom she interacted on a daily basis knowing that she’d stabbed someone to death, and had gone along with the scheme to cast the blame on another.

  Louise Watkins!

  That scene twenty years ago at Augie’s was as clear in Jeanine’s mind as the evening it happened. Shortly after the incident she would think of Louise sitting in a prison cell and suffer oppressive guilt. But those moments eventually passed, as unpleasant ones often do, and it was rare that she found herself immersed in such introspection. Of course, when Louise emerged from prison and was gunned down, the guilt had resurfaced. But that, too, had passed with time.…

  Until now!

  Damn this private detective named Brixton. How dare he threaten to drag something from the past into the present and hurt others in the process? Her mind was like a fast-moving slide show of emotions—anger, then a return to feelings of guilt, oppressive remorse, back to anger, and on to wishing it had never happened. But it had happened. And it was happening all over again.

  It was now possible, more likely probable, that the world would know what had gone down that steamy summer night in Savannah.