Murder at the Kennedy Center

by Margaret Truman

  There was long and sustained applause. Ewald waited until it had subsided before holding up his hands and saying, “Life, as we all know, seldom goes the way we would like it to go. Wilson Mizner said that life’s a tough proposition, and the first hundred years are the hardest.” He looked at Leslie. “We’ve lived our first hundred years this past week, and now that this terrible cloud has been lifted from our lives, are ready to devote our second hundred to winning the nomination in July, the White House in November, and to restoring this nation to one of equity for all, prosperity for all, and a return to the sort of values that the Democratic party has always stood tall and proud for. Thank you so much, and God bless every one of you.” Everyone in the ballroom stood. The applause, cheers, and whistles lasted many minutes. Ken took Leslie’s hand and drew her up next to him. They waved to the crowd, a preview, many thought, of what the scene would be at the Democratic National Convention in San Francisco in July.

  Mac Smith, who’d been watching the news on TV, called Annabel at the Plaza. She told him of her second meeting with Greist, and that she’d followed him.

  “What the hell did you do that for? Who do you think you are, Jessica Fletcher?”

  “It was a whim, an impetuous act. Our talk was unsatisfactory. I’m glad I did.”

  “Why?”

  “He went into the Inter-Continental Hotel and had a drink with a woman.”

  “So?”

  “I think it was Mae Feldman.”

  “How would you know that? Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

  “No, but the woman he was sitting with is exactly the way I picture Mae Feldman. Don’t ask me to explain, Mac, I just have this feeling.”

  “Did you see them leave?” Smith asked.

  “No, I didn’t want to take the chance of being seen by him, so I came back here to the hotel.”

  Smith fell silent.

  “Mac?”

  “What?”

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, sorry, my mind wandered for a moment. Look, Annabel, I think you ought to get back here as quickly as possible.”

  “I intend to, first thing in the morning.”

  Smith glanced at a pendulum wall clock. There were no more shuttles between New York and Washington that night. He said, “All right, but grab the first shuttle in the morning. I’ll meet you at the Watergate suite. I have a temp secretary coming in.”

  “Fine. Have you heard from Tony?”

  “No, but I haven’t checked the machine at the Watergate. I’ll do that after we’re through. Annabel, don’t take any chances. Stay in the room tonight, and keep the door locked.”

  “Do you think I’m in danger?”

  “I’m sure you aren’t, but I’m becoming an advocate of the better-safe-than-sorry school.”

  He told her about having met Janet Ewald, and what had happened when he went back for their second meeting.

  “Where do you think she’s gone now?”

  “I have no idea. Frankly, I’m more concerned about Marcia Mims.” He filled her in on that story.

  “Have you tried to call her?” Reed asked.

  “No. I won’t tonight. She’s still on her day off, but if I can’t reach her first thing in the morning, I’ll start worrying.”

  “Well, Mac, we obviously have some pieces to fit together tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I’d say that. Okay, my dear, get some sleep. Thanks for getting involved for me. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mac. Oh, by the way, I think I’ve been followed ever since I got to New York. Two men.”

  “Jesus, Annabel, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “Because I keep forgetting about it. It happens, and then my mind gets on to other things and I just forget.”

  “Describe them to me.”

  She did, stressing the fact that they looked somewhat alike, but beyond that were without any unusual characteristics as far as she could see.

  “Just blend into the background, huh? Double-lock the door, Annabel. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He called the Watergate answering machine. There was a long message from Tony Buffolino: “You owe me a bonus, Mac, a big one. I’m going out to dinner tomorrow night and to the opera with this fruitcake, Carla Zaretski. Whatta they call it, ‘Beyond the call of duty’? That’s what’s happening here. Anyway, this Mandarin Oriental Hotel is some classy joint. They even give me slippers and a robe. Ciao!”

  Annabel Reed got into her robe and turned on the television news on ABC. There was a promo for the appearance of Colonel Gilbert Morales on Nightline that night; she decided she would stay up to watch it. Then there was coverage of the activities of both Democratic candidates. The first item concerned Jody Backus, who’d spent the day in North Dakota, kissing babies and eating fried chicken. He was his usual jovial public self, and Reed had to admit he had a potent, albeit rough-hewn charm.

  Next came footage of the Ewalds following the speech Ken had made. They stood together in the lobby of the Willard, he resplendent in his tuxedo, she lovely and silent as she stood at his side. They’d stopped to answer impromptu questions from reporters. The camera zoomed close on Leslie’s face. A tiny tear came from one eye as she said, “Of course we knew that our son didn’t kill anyone.”

  What the camera didn’t show was the slender young Panamanian in a blue suit who stood in a corner of the lobby, far from the Ewalds. There was no expression on his face, no sign of the intensity with which he watched the scene across the lobby. As Senator and Leslie Ewald, accompanied by Ed Farmer, other aides, and Secret Service agents left the knot of reporters and headed toward the door, they passed close to the man Miguel, who’d flown back from New York late that afternoon.

  23

  “I never saw such a view in my whole life,” Tony Buffolino told Carla as they sat at a window table in the Top of the Mark. Outside, a setting sun stained San Francisco gold. The city’s fog had begun to roll in over the Bay as if a curtain call; the Golden Gate Bridge was being wrapped in it, adding to its compelling beauty.

  “Such beauty is always better when shared,” she said. She’d started speaking with an accent that hadn’t been there the previous day.

  Buffolino observed her closely. She’d obviously gone to great lengths to get ready for the evening. Her red hair had been curled and redyed; less black showed at the roots. Her nails had been done, and her makeup was heavy enough to border on the outlandish. Green eye shadow flecked with gold sparkles covered broad, swollen eyelids, and the weight of long black false lashes threatened to pull her eyes closed at any moment. Her lipstick was as crimson as her nails, and she’d created too large a mouth with it. Pendulous gold-plated earrings hung from the lobes of her ears to her broad shoulders, and multiple strands of costume jewelry ringed her neck. The aqua caftan she wore swept the floor as she made her entrance into the Top of the Mark. Buffolino had been embarrassed that he was the one she sought, but reminded himself that he’d better shed such feelings. It promised to be a long night.

  She’d ordered a perfect Manhattan. He ordered a screwdriver. They sipped their drinks and made small talk about the splendor of San Francisco, theirs to admire through the window.

  “You got the tickets?” Buffolino asked.

  “Yes, and with great difficulty, I might add.”

  “How come?”

  “Because this is San Francisco. We love our opera here. The performance has been sold out for months.”

  “How’d you get tickets then?” he asked, not really caring.

  “Friends, sir. This lady has friends.”

  “I bet you do. Good thing, too.”

  She placed her thick hands on top of his and looked deep into his eyes. “Strange, isn’t it, how one person’s misfortune can benefit another?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Poor Mae. Poor Andrea. Lucky Carla.”

  She squeezed his hands hard, and he forced a smile. “I know what you mean,” he said. Heavy, cheap, and ver
y sweet perfume wafted across the table. He freed his hands, sat back in his chair, raised his drink to his lips, stared out the window, and pretended to be seduced into silence by the view. Actually, he was thinking about life’s little ironies.

  He’d been headed for certain juvenile delinquent status as a teenager. Born to poor parents in an even poorer section of Brooklyn, he hung around with a bunch of wise guys. By the time he was sixteen, he’d been arrested twice, once for car theft, the second time for assault on a black man who’d wandered by mistake into the neighborhood. Then along came Father Benternagel, Brooklyn’s boxing priest, who told the judge he’d take responsibility for “this kid who thinks he’s tough.”

  Buffolino became a good amateur boxer, and made it to the finals in the New York Golden Gloves, losing to a southpaw from the Bronx who threw right jabs so fast, and so often, that Buffolino never saw them coming. It didn’t matter that he lost, however, because two years in the gym and the Gloves with Father Benternagel had given him a different perspective on life, and what he wanted from it.

  He even thought about college, but knew that wasn’t to be. While his friends drifted into various criminal pursuits, Tony went in the other direction. He applied for the New York City Police Department, didn’t stand a chance because of his juvenile record, realized he wanted to be a cop more than anything else in the world, and checked into other cities whose requirements weren’t as stringent, who had more openings on their force, and who might not scrutinize his teenage years with as keen an eye as the NYPD had. Washington was it. He took the tests, passed, and lived in a boarding house during his training at the D.C. Police Academy.

  He loved it; he wore his uniform with peacock pride, and devoted countless off-duty hours to representing the department in community activities. He didn’t labor under any delusions. He knew he would never rise to management ranks within the department, but his promotion to detective and his assignment to the special narcotics squad represented the cap of his career.

  Then, of course, there developed the acute need for money, and the selling out to Garcia, the Panamanian drug dealer; the expulsion from the force; the disgrace; the embarrassment; the countless nights buying sleep with bottles of booze; the lack of self-worth he felt and, worse, assumed everyone else felt about him. How many years since that fateful night in the Watergate? How many years of hiring out as a night watchman at local companies? How many years of avoiding contact with his children from both marriages because he couldn’t stand the look in their eyes, couldn’t deal with the scorn they must feel for him.

  In a sense, Mac Smith represented another Father Benternagel, another “priest.” Buffolino had argued long and hard with Smith about the disposition of his case. Smith had said he could make a deal with the local prosecutor: no criminal charges if Buffolino would accept departmental punishment. “No deal,” he told Smith a hundred times. Finally, Smith had thrown up his hands and told him to find another lawyer, which Buffolino intended to do. But he knew down deep that Smith was right, that he was lucky to escape a jail term. He left his dream with his head bowed, and his belief in himself, and in mankind, on a par with his belief in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.

  Now things had come full circle again, even if temporarily. He was living better than he’d ever lived before. A thousand a week. A suite in the Watergate, where, if he could keep his mouth shut, he could entertain his ex-wives and children in a style that had to make a statement to them—Tony Buffolino was somebody again. He was needed by one of the top legal minds in the land, and was being paid accordingly. He had new clothes (Smith had seen only one of three suits he’d bought in the fancy men’s shop downstairs at the Watergate). The frozen dinners and cans to which he’d become so accustomed had been replaced by beef Wellington, crab cocktail, chocolate mousse, and caviar. The cheap whiskey with which he used to lull himself to sleep had been replaced by top-shelf bottles, although because he didn’t want to appear too greedy, he’d settled for the Watergate’s own brand of liquor instead of the Beefeater, Stolichnaya, etc., that headed the room-service menu.

  Here he was in San Francisco, staying in a fantastic hotel, money in his pocket, the jewel of a city spread out before him.…

  He looked at Carla Zaretski, who seemed about to cry. This time, he joined hands and asked, “Hey, babe, what’s the matter? How come so sad?”

  She answered with regal dignity, “One who has lost a promising career in the opera is not destined to be happy.” That prompted a fifteen-minute encore of the story of her failed operatic career, most of it going back to high school musicals. If she ever did have a portamento, it was gone by her first year of college.

  When she was finished, Buffolino said, “Well, I’m ready for dinner. Got any ideas?”

  “Yes, I have given it considerable thought. A man of your taste would be satisfied with nothing less than the best.”

  Even though Buffolino knew it was a silly thing for her to say, it puffed him up a little. “It’s your city, my dear,” he said.

  “And it shall be yours,” she said, standing and slowly turning so that those at adjacent tables would see her. She led him through the room, down to the lobby, and into a cab.

  Minutes later, they entered a restaurant on Montgomery Street that immediately reminded Buffolino of every movie he’d ever seen in which the action took place in a Barbary Coast bordello. It was called Ernie’s. Carla had told him during the short cab ride that it represented San Francisco’s finest dining experience. Buffolino had his doubts, based on his theory that as opulence increased, so did prices, with a corresponding decrease in portions.

  They swept in and were led to a table in the smoking section to accommodate Carla. The table was set with silver and crystal. Surrounding them were walls covered with mahogany paneling, red silk tapestries, and huge, gilt-edged mirrors. Carla stayed with Manhattans and chain-smoked as they studied the elaborate menu.

  “What’s good here?” Buffolino asked.

  She took his hands across the table, something she would do with repeated frequency throughout the evening. “Allow me to order for the both of us, dear man.”

  She outdid even Buffolino at the Watergate. They dined on an hors d’oeuvre of preserved black turnips under foie gras in a port wine sauce; sliced loin of lamb with breast of rabbit garnished with eggplant and roasted garlic cloves; a salad of chilled slices of Maine lobster and squab with black truffles and vinaigrette spiked with Dijon mustard and green herbs; and, for dessert, a frothy lime soufflé flavored with a dash of acacia honey. He had been in the mood for a hamburger and fries, but had to admit everything tasted good, if a little operatic.

  Over coffee and cognac, Buffolino made another attempt to bring the conversation around. “What a shame Mae isn’t here to enjoy dinner and the opera with us,” he said.

  Carla, who had begun to show the effects of the wine, clutched her bosom. “Oh, my God, how true. Poor darling, she’s had so much trouble in her life.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Andrea told me. Funny, I never could get Andrea to talk about her father. It was like he didn’t exist.”

  Carla’s face turned serious as she again touched his hands. “Oh, yes, that is exactly what happened. He doesn’t exist.”

  Buffolino laughed. “Some miracle,” he said. “Second time. Does the Church know about it yet?”

  She shook her finger at him as though he were a naughty boy in school who’d used a four-letter word. “It wasn’t funny.”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “Not what you said, dear man, but the circumstances surrounding Andrea’s birth.”

  “Do you go back that far with Mae Feldman?”

  “Yes. We were friends in college.”

  “You were friends back then, but you don’t know who Andrea’s father was?”

  Carla sadly shook her head. “No, Mae refused to tell anyone. They weren’t married, you know, and she didn’t want the poor fellow to suffer the embarrassment of fathering a child out of wedl
ock.”

  “What about her embarrassment?” Buffolino asked.

  “Mae, embarrassed?” She laughed. “Mae was never embarrassed about anything. She proudly carried that child through nine months, three days without a whimper, and brought her up as though Andrea had been born into a normal family.”

  Buffolino shook his head and finished his espresso. “I still don’t understand how you could go nine months and never know anything about the man who knocked up your best friend.”

  “Nothing strange about that, dear man. I told you, Mae did not want to identify him. Oh, I know she met him in New York. He was …”

  “Was what?”

  “Was a young law student, I believe, passionate and impetuous. Mae was such a beautiful young woman. They fell head-over-heels in love. Then, as such things will happen, passion bred pregnancy. What time is it?”

  Buffolino checked his watch and told her.

  “Good Lord, we’ll be late for the overture. Quickly, dear, pay the bill.”

  Buffolino had eaten in some fancy restaurants in his life, especially lately, but nothing equaled this one. The tip alone was bigger than his previous month’s food bill. He used his VISA card, grumbled as he signed the receipt, and nodded curtly at everyone as they left the restaurant, severing all diplomatic relations.

  “The War Memorial Opera House,” Carla told the young taxi driver, “and please be quick about it.”

  She snuggled next to Tony in the backseat. He put his arm around her shoulders because he didn’t know what else to do. She cooed in his ear, “You are so handsome. Many women must have told you that.”

  “Well, yeah, one or two.” He thought of his two ex-wives and the women he’d dated since his second divorce, not counting the one-night flings that came with the territory of a cop. He was glad when the driver pulled up in front of the opera house and he could disengage from Madame Zaretski.