by Ellen Crosby
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m sure I silenced the ringer before I put it in my purse.”
“Turn it off, darling,” Mick said.
“It’s caught on something.”
I tugged and the phone flew out of my grasp, clattering on the marble floor. Simon picked it up, his eyes flitting to the display before he handed it back to me.
“Afraid the call’s gone to voice mail,” he said. “Hope it wasn’t important.”
I tucked it back in my purse. “Thank you.”
“Don’t you want to silence that phone, Lucie?” Mick asked.
What I really wanted was to see who called.
“Of course,” I said. “Would you both please excuse me? I need to use the ladies’ room. I’ll turn it off there. And Mick, I’ll meet you upstairs at the exhibit in a few minutes after you men have your talk.”
I started toward the Minerva foyer, but Simon caught my arm.
“Wrong way, love,” he said. “The ladies’ is in the east corridor by the Giant Bible of Mainz. Behind the staircases next to the elevator. We’re walking that way. I’ll show you.”
Mick looked at me like I’d lost my mind as we entered the east corridor through an archway with LIBRARY OF CONGRESS carved in gold above it. Was he right? Already this evening seemed off-kilter, weirdly disconnected from reality after that little pep talk about dragons and cartographers and trust. Then there was Tommy Asher himself now walking purposefully over to the three of us. Who was he, really? A Svengali? The Pied Piper?
He took my hand and held it between both of his.
“Michael,” he said to Mick. “You’re a lucky man. Who is this beautiful creature? Have I met you before, my dear?”
“Lucie Montgomery—” Mick began.
“We met last week at the Pension Building, Sir Thomas,” I said. “Harlan Jennings introduced us.”
Something flickered behind his eyes, which strayed to my cane. I didn’t have it with me last week at the gala and that lightning glance told me he remembered. Had this been a spurious question and I’d taken the bait? Tommy Asher knew exactly who I was.
“Of course.” He turned the full wattage of his smile and charm on me. “How could I forget?”
I felt a draft across my bare shoulders and neck. My evening shawl had slipped down my back and I hiked it up. Rebecca’s spirit suddenly seemed to hang in the air as if I’d conjured her.
Harlan hadn’t linked Rebecca and me when he’d introduced me to Asher, but there were plenty of people in his entourage who knew I’d been her guest. Olivia Tarrant, for example. So far I hadn’t seen her this evening, but I had no doubt she was around somewhere. Had she or anyone else in the Asher inner circle figured out that Rebecca was the one who’d added my name to tonight’s list of invitees? Maybe no one had noticed since I was now here as Mick’s guest—and he was clearly a favored son.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I was just on my way to the ladies’ room.”
This time no one stopped me. I checked the phone message in the old-fashioned bathroom, which I had to myself. The exchange was one of the Trib’s numbers. Not Kit’s, so probably David’s, meaning he was still at work on a Saturday night. I punched in the access code and listened.
“Hey, Lucie, David here. You’re probably swilling champagne from a glass slipper at the library but I wanted to tell you the ME hasn’t ID’d the body yet.” He sounded tired and I heard him slurp a drink. Probably something caffeinated. “It’s female but the decomp is pretty bad. What he did say is that it’s been there too long to be Rebecca. Also, we’re on for tomorrow at Dumbarton Oaks. Five o’clock, as soon as the place closes. Give me a call if you need to. I’ll be here late.”
There was a pause and I thought he was finished, but then he added in an ominous voice, “Asher ought to be passing the hat to get everyone to pick up the tab for his little soiree. He sure can’t afford it. Hope you brought your checkbook. Heh-heh-heh.”
I disconnected as Alison Jennings pushed open the bathroom door, a large glass of red wine in one hand. Her face, ghostlike against her black-and-ivory gown, was drawn and she looked like she was about to pass out. I shoved the phone in my purse.
“Lucie,” she said, “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” Her voice was hazed with pain.
“What’s wrong?” I took her wine, afraid she’d drop the glass on the marble floor. “Ali, are you all right? You look like you ought to sit down.”
She clenched her teeth and put her fingers to her temples, but at least she let me guide her to a wooden chair in the bay of a large window. I set her wineglass on the counter.
“I’ve got the beginning of a migraine,” she said. “I hope I make it through dinner because I’ve got to give that talk.”
“Can I do anything?” I nearly dumped her wine in the sink so I could fill the glass with tap water until I saw the nonpotable sign. “Shall I try to find you a glass of water somewhere?”
“That’s okay. I’ve got something but I hate to take it. Makes me woozy. I never should have had that wine.”
“Shall I get Harlan? I haven’t seen him this evening but—”
“He’s somewhere,” she said. “I think he’s wandering around the exhibit.”
“I’m on my way upstairs to see it. Why don’t I find him and let him know you’re here?”
“It’s okay. I’ll be all right in a minute.” Ali closed her eyes. “Still having Harlan’s party on Tuesday, y’know. Did you forget? I’ve got no wine.”
Her Viognier.
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I’ve been so distracted I forgot to tell Frankie, but it’s no excuse. I promise I’ll take care of it myself first thing tomorrow. You mind a Sunday delivery?”
“Nope.” Her eyes were still closed.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Harlan says we’ll get through this. I wonder.”
I wondered what “this” she was talking about.
“Did you hear Sir Thomas’s speech?” I asked.
Her laugh sounded like glass shards. “Tommy can woo an audience like no one you’ve ever met, get you to believe he can walk on water. Amazing, isn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Lucie, come on.” She waved a tired hand, dismissing me, Tommy Asher, everybody. “He’s hemorrhaging so badly it would take a miracle to salvage that sinking ship. Not that he isn’t expecting one. Neither he nor Harlan wants to admit it. I don’t know how much longer they can hold off their clients, refusing to allow them to make withdrawals from their accounts. The worst of it is—well, for me—that Tommy’s going to have to sell this whole damn collection. He can’t afford to donate it and I’ve already heard from a friend in the librarian’s office that they no longer plan to accept it anyway. It’ll be a temporary exhibit.”
“What does Harlan say?”
Her eyes were bright with tears. “He doesn’t want to talk about it. This isn’t his fault, y’know? Harlan’s a good man, Lucie.”
“Ali—”
“Please. If you could just give me a few minutes alone to pull myself together.”
She fled into one of the stalls, banging the door shut. I heard her hiccupy breaths and thought about waiting until she was ready to come out. But she wouldn’t, not as long as I was still in the room.
“I’ll find Harlan,” I said, but I didn’t think she heard me. The bathroom door creaked on its hinges as I left.
I took the elevator around the corner from the Giant Bible of Mainz to the second floor. The Asher Collection’s glossy brochure contained a map showing the chronological time line by which the exhibit was laid out in the four loggia galleries that overlooked the Great Hall. It began in the north corridor, which ran along the front of the building closest to the Capitol. The elevator let me out in the east corridor, which was three-quarters of the way through the collection, dedicated to the War of 1812 and the rebuilding of the Capitol an
d the Library of Congress after the fire. A glass étagère striped with red and gold paint depicting flames held the newspaper cartoon that had been on the cover of the brochure. More paintings, watercolors, lithographs, and newspapers showed the city of Washington ablaze on the night of August 24, 1814.
“Nobody but the English would do such a thing.”
I whirled around. My cousin Dominique, regal in a smoke-colored sequin-spattered chiffon gown that perfectly set off her auburn hair, stood on the stairs to the Visitors’ Gallery that overlooked the Main Reading Room. She moved and the sequins glittered like dark diamonds. Behind her was an enormous mosaic of Minerva, her spear in one hand and a long scroll in the other.
The animosity between the French and the British was legendary, dating back to Joan of Arc. Even though Dominique was now an American citizen, my cousin held up her end of the grudge on behalf of the French. She descended the last few stairs, swaying slightly. I wondered if she’d been drinking.
“Do you know why they burned Washington?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. The British were furious at the Americans for attacking their navy and burning the city of York in Canada. The plan was to destroy Washington, not capture it. That way they would humiliate the Americans.”
I took her arm and smelled her breath. She’d been drinking, all right.
“It was a vendetta,” she said. “Revenge on their former colonies. A blood feud that began with the Revolution. That’s les rosbifs for you.”
The Roastbeefs. The French nickname for the British. The British reciprocated with “Frogs.”
“I hope you didn’t use that term around Simon,” I said. “Since he’s English.”
“He’s not really English. His father was French and his mother was Dutch. He just happened to be raised in England while his mother was married to Tommy’s father.”
That laid to rest one mystery why she was seeing him—he wasn’t really British.
“How well do you know him?” I asked.
Dominique hesitated. “I need to tell you something. In private. There’s no one upstairs in the Visitors’ Gallery. We can talk there.”
“Are you okay?” I asked. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough,” she said.
“Or maybe a little too much? Maybe you should knock it off.”
“Come on,” she said.
We climbed the three flights of stairs, the marble treds worn so uneven I needed to hold on to the brass railing. I followed her into the glassed-in corridor that overlooked the immense octagonal Reading Room with its soaring coffered dome. Eight massive arched stained-glass windows with the seal of the United States and the seals of the states gave the room its natural light during the day. Now at night they were opaque, with an occasional glimmer of the jeweled stained glass winking in the dim light. Flanking each window was a carved figure on a pedestal supported by a dusky red Corinthian column. Two stories of arcades with views of book-lined alcoves ringed the perimeter of the room. On the balustrade across from us, eight pairs of bronze statues watched over hundreds of desks arranged below in concentric rows.
“Lucie.” Dominique shook my arm. “I need to talk to you.”
“Sorry, I got distracted. This place is so beautiful.”
“I know. Mon Dieu, I’m like a tiger at the end of my chair. I wish I could smoke. Do you think I could get away with it if I did it here? No one’s around. Just a puff or two?”
“In the Library of Congress? Oh, sure. No problem. There’s only miles and miles of books under our feet and some of the rarest books in the world all around us … Are you out of your mind?”
I grabbed her cigarettes and stuck them in my purse.
“All right, all right.” She sounded peeved. “Well, I need something.”
I thought of Ali Jennings, who probably had the something she needed.
“Calm down and tell me what’s going on.”
“You can’t repeat this to anyone, do you understand?” Her voice dropped to a whisper so I had to lean close to hear her. “This has to stay between closed walls.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, yes. Between closed walls.”
She played with an antique onyx dinner ring that had belonged to our grandmother.
“It’s Simon. I overheard him talking to someone on the phone tonight. We were at the Inn and he asked if he could use my office while I finished up some things in the kitchen. When I came back the door was ajar. I almost walked in until I heard him talking about your friend Rebecca. Something about seeing to it that she disappeared for good.”
She reached for my hand. Hers felt like ice.
“Lucie, it scared me. I left and went back to the kitchen until he came for me. He doesn’t know I heard.”
I rubbed her hand, trying to warm it, hoping she didn’t notice my rising alarm. “What do you mean, seeing to it that Rebecca disappeared for good?” I asked. “Did he say how?”
“No. I don’t know … I don’t know. Don’t talk so loud. Someone might hear us. All I know is that it sounded like he had some idea where she is. I thought a homeless man killed her, or that Robin Hood person.”
I stared at the lovely carved figures across from us. Allegorical statues representing all that was good and decent in civilization. Poetry, Philosophy, Art, History, Commerce, Law, Science, Religion. Dominique and I were talking about none of these things.
“Is she alive or dead?” I asked.
“I don’t know ,” she repeated. “Simon’s probably looking for me, so I’d better go find him. I’ve been gone too long thinking about this. I don’t want him getting suspicious.”
“Don’t go back to Atoka with him tonight. You can come home with Mick and me. And for God’s sake, don’t drink any more. You know what they say, if you have secrets drink no wine.”
“I have to leave with him, or he’ll wonder what’s wrong. But I’m going to break it off after this. Tell him I’m not ready for a relationship … that I’m too busy with work. He’ll believe it with everything he’s got on his mind.”
“Dominique, if he finds out you overheard him …” I stopped.
What if he already knew? What if he’d seen her shadow on the threshold or heard the floorboards creak in the hall? Before I could speak, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He won’t.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Nothing. Just carry on like everything’s all right. As for the rest of it, I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it. Don’t worry,” she said again. “I can handle this.”
She slipped out of the gallery and left me alone with the silent statues and busts that watched over the Reading Room.
And my fears about what might happen when the two of them were alone together and she burned her bridge.
Chapter 24
After Dominique left, I stayed in the Visitors’ Gallery until I was sure enough time had passed that no one would connect us being together. I had told Mick I’d meet him at the exhibit and I’d promised Ali I’d find Harlan.
I walked downstairs past Minerva and the beautiful double marble columns that reminded me of a temple. While my cousin and I had been sequestered upstairs, the loggia had filled up with people touring the Asher Collection. I scanned the crowd but didn’t see Mick, so I pretended to study the contents of a glass cabinet containing a rough-looking cloth bag in case anyone happened to be watching me. I read the display card.
One of the linen bags sewn together by State Department clerk Stephen Pleasanton to transport documents including the original parchment of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Articles of Confederation, the correspondence of General Washington, the secret journals of Congress, and all treaties of the United States to Leesburg, Virginia, for safekeeping after fire destroyed much of Washington.
It was a source of pride for Leesburg that for two weeks in August 1814 the town h
ad been the “temporary capital” of the United States when Washington was considered too unsafe to keep the country’s most important documents. I looked at the coarse fabric and tried to imagine our entire heritage being shoved into a couple of sacks, thrown on a wagon, and driven off into the night by a lowly clerk who thought it was a good idea to get our national treasures out of town.
I had nearly reached the end of the exhibit. The last few display cases contained drawings and architectural plans for rebuilding the White House and the Capitol after the fire. The very last case contained a drawing of Frederick Law Olmsted’s 1874 plans for landscaping the Capitol grounds.
Not only were the Capitol grounds designed under Olmsted’s direction, he also added the elegant West Front terraces along with a lovely grotto on the Senate side of the grounds where a bubbling spring was to be contained within a sheltered rocky enclosure.
Another fountain, more gardens. But this one was not defunct. Tomorrow we’d look for Rebecca’s package—or whatever it was—by the fountains at Dumbarton Oaks. What if she were still alive? Was she somewhere in Washington? Who would know besides Simon and Tommy?
Harlan?
As though he’d heard my thoughts, I looked up as he slipped through a doorway at the end of the south corridor. I couldn’t tell if he was hurrying toward someone—or away. The banners hanging from the doorways indicated it was a separate gallery containing two exhibits, one on the creation of the United States and another called “Thomas Jefferson’s Library.” I followed him, catching a glimpse of Sir Philip Sidney’s quote written above the doorway: THEY ARE NEVER ALONE THAT ARE ACCOMPANIED WITH NOBLE THOUGHTS.
I lost Harlan in the softly lit mazelike display of rare documents. Apparently he wasn’t here to see Jefferson’s handwritten rough draft of the Declaration of Independence or Washington’s notes scratched on a copy of the Constitution. I found him in the last gallery, a jewel-like circular room of mosaics and frescoes. He was alone, inside a coiled display of glass-enclosed bookcases filled with Jefferson’s original library. The books had been arranged as Jefferson had them at Monticello, into categories called Memory, Reason, and Imagination. In the dim light given off by tiny pinpoint spotlights—to preserve the rare books—it seemed as though we were bathed in the candlelight of Jefferson’s days.