Homicide in the House

by Colleen J. Shogan

  “Another challenging position. She barely won her election, as I recall.”

  Leave it to Trevor to point out the shortcomings. “Right again. That’s one of the reasons I took the job. I wanted to work for a House member who wasn’t going to follow the party line. It makes life more interesting.”

  Trevor chuckled. “You could put it that way. If you consider reduced job security an acceptable work challenge.”

  I clenched my fist around my purse. Trevor had the uncanny ability to twist my own words against me. Two could play at this game. After all, Trevor wasn’t a congressional staffer anymore. He worked off the Hill as a lobbyist. That meant he should be begging me for information and access.

  “How’s working on K Street? Is it everything you’d dreamed it would be?”

  Trevor’s face clouded over. I’d hit a nerve. “It has its perks.” He sniffed defensively. “For one thing, I’m finally able to dress the way a true professional should.” He gave me a brief up-and-down glance, an unspoken criticism of my unfashionable attire. Hill staff didn’t make big salaries, so most of my suits came from the sales rack.

  No way I was letting him off the hook. “Besides the money, what do you like about the job?”

  Trevor wasn’t one for small talk. A direct question often elicited a straight answer. After a brief pause, he spoke slowly. “If I can be honest with you, it’s not as challenging as I would have hoped. It’s more about schmoozing with the right people all over town, including the Hill. So I’ve been working on my relationship skills.”

  My eyes must have bulged out of my head. Trevor was as smart as a whip, but he wasn’t Mr. Congeniality. I choked out, “How’s that going?”

  He straightened up. “Actually, not badly. I’m meeting the right people, going to the important social functions, and learning what I need to know, plus a lot more. I can’t complain.”

  If Trevor could charm the pants off the Beltway crowd, there was hope for me to become a swimsuit model. “That’s really impressive, Trevor. I’m proud of you.”

  “It’s hardly worthy of commendation. But that’s enough about me. How are you adjusting to life in the House of Representatives?”

  Trevor really had learned some basic social skills since his time in the Senate. He’d never asked me one question about myself in the four years we shared a workspace.

  “It’s been harder than I thought working for a first-term House member. There’s so much to do, and each vote really matters for her record. Still, I’ve been enjoying it … until this week, that is.”

  “Yes, I know the shutdown has congressional offices scrambling.”

  Maybe Trevor would help me again. Running into him could be a lucky break. “It’s not just the shutdown. Did you hear about the murder of Jack Drysdale today?”

  “I read about it in the Washington Post. I didn’t know him well. I’d only met him a handful of times.”

  Good. Trevor knew him better than I did. I gave him a sideways glance. “I may need to repeat my role as a homicide detective.”

  Trevor did a double take. I’d captured his attention. “Kit, why on earth would you get mixed up in Drysdale’s murder investigation? You don’t have any close ties to the Speaker’s office.”

  I let slide Trevor’s snide comment about my lowly status in the House’s pecking order. Sighing, I moved a step closer. Even though the Cannon Building was deserted, the walls had ears. I couldn’t afford to let this information slip into the wrong hands.

  I leaned in to whisper, “My boss might be involved.”

  Trevor’s eyes narrowed in circumspection. He moved six inches forward to nearly close the gap between us. “Might? Either she is or she isn’t.”

  Trevor was like many Washington type A personalities. Literal. Organized. Impatient. Demanding. For these folks, it was a strain to understand ambiguity. Beating around the bush wouldn’t get me anywhere with him.

  “Maeve Dixon discovered the body this morning, Trevor.”

  My words hung in silence. Trevor was rarely shocked by anything, but his immediate reaction indicated my revelation had thrown him for a loop.

  After a long moment, Trevor said, “I assume she’s a suspect?”

  I reminded Trevor about her encounter the day before with Jack Drysdale. He nodded, clearly aware of the public tiff.

  I leaned against the wall in the hallway, needing the support. It had been a long day, and mental exhaustion was setting in. “You can see my predicament, right?”

  Trevor smiled tightly. “The situation is a bit different than last year, but an urgency exists nonetheless. Believe me, I have great respect for Detective O’Halloran and the entire Capitol Hill Police force. If you don’t solve this crime swiftly, they might end up blaming the obvious suspect.” As if I needed clarification, he added, “Your boss, of course.”

  “The problem is I don’t know the suspects as intimately as I did before.” I outlined the short list I had developed today after my discreet inquiries.

  After Trevor listened to my list, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I know several people you’ve mentioned. Who do you need to meet tomorrow?”

  My intuition had proven correct. Trevor wanted to assist. Probably he would leap at any opportunity to reenter the Capitol Hill orbit. I mentally clicked through the suspects I’d identified. “I have no connection to Gareth Pressler in the Sergeant at Arms office. I also don’t know Jack’s husband. Now I guess he’s a widower.” Just pronouncing the word was depressing, even though I wasn’t acquainted with him.

  “I can help you with Pressler. I know a guy who works in the Sergeant’s office and reports to Pressler. His name is Trent Roscoe and I can get you a few minutes with him tomorrow.”

  What a relief. Running into Trevor had been a godsend. “Thanks, Trevor. I appreciate it.”

  He pressed his lips together and gave me a curt bow. “At your service.” After a moment, he added, “By the way, what is the status of your relationship with your inamorato? I believe his name is Doug, is it not?”

  Trevor’s formal way of speaking used to irk me, but now I accepted it as part of his eccentric personality. It was almost as though Trevor was a vampire, born in a different era. I pushed that thought aside. Maybe I’d read one too many fantasy e-book trilogies. Trevor had nothing in common with Edward Cullen.

  “We’re still living together in Arlington.”

  Trevor exhibited numerous personality defects, but he was no dummy. “I assume you have not formalized your relationship?” He looked pointedly at my left hand.

  Reflexively, I touched my ring finger. Damn Trevor. He always knew how to get my goat. My annoyance obvious, I replied, “No, but we’re very happy together.”

  “I see. Well, I think you will enjoy your meeting tomorrow with Trent. Look for an email to confirm it in the morning. Have a good evening, Kit Marshall.”

  Trevor didn’t wear a cape, but if he did, he would have swirled it around him and disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Instead, he made a beeline down the long congressional office hallway behind us, headed for destinations unknown. I admired his long strides and swift pace, wishing I could demonstrate the same self-assurance.

  What did he mean about my meeting tomorrow with Trent? That was mysterious. I dismissed his comment as typical Trevor. There was no point in trying to figure out the enigma.

  On impulse, I grabbed my iPhone and shot off a text to Meg: Drink? Leaving now. I’d give her three minutes to answer. If not, I’d head home and catch up with her later.

  My phone chimed to indicate an iMessage: Italian happy hour?

  I wrote back immediately: See you there.

  We didn’t need to confirm the location. We only frequented one place with cheap drinks and food. Two blocks away from the House office buildings, Sonoma was convenient. As a bonus, it added a touch of class to our Hill outings. The dinner offerings could be pricey, but their Italian happy hour featured inexpensive wines and tasty small plates. The key for Meg was th
e sparkling wine, her libation of choice when stressed out. To be fair, bubbly was Meg’s preferred drink even if she was just plain thirsty.

  In five minutes, I was inside Sonoma and heading upstairs. The open seating and upstairs bar hosted the boisterous happy hours. This evening, only two clusters of patrons were enjoying drinks and nibbles. Pretty soon, the District’s small businesses would add themselves to the growing list of victims turned upside down by the federal government’s shuttering.

  I sat in the corner of the lounge area. At least we could talk privately. Due to her busy work schedule, Meg’s free time was limited. I wanted to make good use of the unexpected opportunity.

  Meg glided into the room and saw me instantly. She signaled a “hello” with a brief waggle of her hand and bustled over to the overstuffed sofa. Meg’s fashionable style was evident even in the dead of winter. She wore a fitted red peacoat accented with a dark black belt and sported a trendy crochet flower hat that sat slightly off-center on her head. All this along with tight black riding pants and leather gloves. Meg had been my best friend for years. We’d survived political campaigns together, the tribulations of being overworked and underpaid congressional staffers, and even a high-profile murder investigation. One would think that through it all, Meg’s sense of style might have rubbed off on me, even via osmosis (if that was biologically possible). But it hadn’t. As much as I tried, I simply couldn’t adapt Meg’s fashion sense to my body and coloring. Whenever I tried, it just looked wrong.

  “Did you order me a glass of sparkling wine yet?”

  No hello or perfunctory salutations for Meg. She meant business. “Not yet, I just got here myself.” I motioned for the waiter.

  Meg grabbed the happy hour menu from the coffee table next to us. I ordered the white wine on special and Meg predictably went for the Prosecco, along with Italian meatballs and prosciutto. Those riding pants hid no sins. Someone should study Meg’s metabolism to figure out how it defied calories.

  “I only have time for one drink, unfortunately. I need to get back to the office to finish some research for the hearings.”

  Meg truly was burning the midnight oil. It was rare for her to cut happy hour short. “That’s okay. One drink is my limit, too. I should really get back to Doug and Clarence. I haven’t been able to spend much time with them lately.”

  Our drinks arrived and Meg grabbed her glass and clinked it to mine. “That’s right, I almost forgot. Congratulations!”

  I was confused. Had Doug told Meg something in confidence she’d misinterpreted? I felt my face flush. Was Doug planning a big surprise?

  “Did Doug let you in on a secret I should know about?”

  “No, silly! Not Doug. Clarence! He’s on track to win the top dog title, of course.”

  Trevor’s comment about my permanently single status had muddled my thinking. Of course Doug would never tell Meg about marriage proposal plans. He barely trusted her to water our plants when we went on vacation.

  “Clarence is still winning the online competition?”

  “You didn’t know? I thought you might have engineered his success by promising Maeve’s vote to end the shutdown!” She giggled.

  I pulled out my iPhone and navigated to the Capitol Canine website. Sure enough, Clarence’s cute mug appeared in the number one slot. This morning’s results were no fluke. Somehow he’d managed to amass five thousand votes in the past twenty-four hours. He was adorable, but this made no sense. It certainly wasn’t because everyone on the Hill knew his owners, either.

  “This is terrific. I’m not sure how it happened.”

  “You didn’t orchestrate a coordinated campaign for Clarence? That’s usually how you win the top dog title.”

  How did Meg know those details? Even though she loved Clarence, Meg didn’t own a dog, or any other living thing for that matter. She once remarked betta fish were beautiful, but she wouldn’t want to ruin her nails changing the water. Meg gave new meaning to the adjectives “independent” and “self-sufficient,” even by Washington standards.

  “No, I’ve been a little busy. You know, with the murder—the one where my boss is the prime suspect.”

  “Right. Well, it looks like someone else decided to help out Clarence with Capitol Canine. There’s no dog even close in votes. What are you going to wear to the big party tomorrow evening?”

  “Party?”

  “Kit, I might as well accept the award on behalf of Clarence. You’re clueless.” She grabbed my phone out of my hand and touched the screen. She waited a moment, and then showed me the phone. “The award ceremony is tomorrow night, as soon as the voting closes.”

  I rolled my eyes. Not that I wasn’t glad Clarence had achieved such impressive status, but I had other matters on my mind right now.

  “I’m not sure how I’m going to fit that in. I really need to focus on clearing Maeve’s name.”

  Now it was Meg’s turn to roll her eyes. Her drink was almost empty. She picked up her glass and pointed it at me. “What would you do without me?” She tilted her head back and finished it off. Meg had a flair for the dramatic she occasionally used to her advantage.

  “I don’t know. Drink less?”

  “Clarence winning this contest is the luckiest thing that could happen to you. Just look who’s heading the awards committee!” She pointed to my iPhone’s screen again.

  “I’ve never met that man before in my life.”

  “Precisely. That’s Jordan Macintyre, Jack’s widower. Didn’t you want to figure out a way to talk to him?”

  Meg was right. Macintyre was on my short list of suspects since he likely stood to gain financially from Jack’s death.

  “Do you think he’ll come to the ceremony tomorrow night? He might skip it because of Jack’s death.”

  “I don’t know, but you could call Capitol Canine to find out. He’s deeply involved with the contest because the dog he owned with Jack is a past winner. All the proceeds go to charity so he may feel obligated to participate.”

  Meg had a point. Given his dedication to the contest, there was a chance Jordan might show up at the party. I didn’t have any other plan to interact with him, so this opportunity could be critical.

  “Thanks for letting me know. Guess who I ran into before I texted you for drinks?”

  Meg was putting on her coat as if eager to return to the office for several more hours of work. Meg had progressed professionally by leaps and bounds in her new job. I buried a pang of jealousy. As a legislative director, I’d moved up in the world, too. Unlike Meg, I was fighting to keep my position. I’d managed to land on my feet once after a Hill scandal. Twice would be pushing it.

  “Who? I’m sorry, but I need to run back to the office.”

  “Trevor. He was coming into Cannon as I was leaving.”

  Meg slung her sleek Kate Spade bag over her shoulder. “Tremendous. I hope he’s enjoying life on the dark side as a lobbyist.”

  Meg and Trevor had a rocky relationship. Actually, “rocky” was an understatement. Meg detested Trevor, and the feeling was mutual.

  “He’s going to introduce me to someone he knows in the Sergeant at Arms office so I can find out more about the conflict between Gareth Pressler and Jack.”

  Meg gave a perfunctory nod, waved goodbye, and started to walk toward the staircase. Then she turned around abruptly. “Who does Trevor know in the Sergeant at Arms office?”

  I racked my brain. Names were always a challenge, which disadvantaged me in the political world. “It’s hard for me to remember. He’s going to email us both tomorrow morning.” Then it popped into my brain. “I think his first name is Trent.”

  Meg broke into a wide grin. “Trent Roscoe?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re in for a treat.”

  “Trevor made a weird remark to that effect. Why?”

  “Trent was recently named one of the fifty most beautiful Capitol Hill staffers. He’s eye candy, for sure!”

  Leave it to Meg
to know the hotties. She’d made several appearances on the infamous Capitol Hill list of attractive people.

  “I’m not there to ogle him. I need him as a contact so I can determine if Gareth killed Jack.”

  As Meg walked away, she yelled over her shoulder, “Be sure to remember that tomorrow when you lay eyes on him!”

  When I arrived home, Doug and Clarence were watching a television documentary on the History Channel about White House pets.

  “Did you know that LBJ owned two beagles named Him and Her?” asked Doug.

  “No idea.”

  “They were on the cover of Time magazine with the president.”

  “But they never held the title of Top Dog on Capitol Hill.”

  Doug laughed and scratched Clarence’s ears. “Good point.”

  A plate with crackers, veggies, and other delectable snacks littered the coffee table, along with a half-empty bottle of pinot grigio.

  “Did you and Clarence have a happy hour at home?”

  “We deserved it after a hard day’s work.” Clarence sat up next to Doug as if to agree with this pronouncement.

  I flopped down on the couch next to them and popped a carrot in my mouth.

  “Stressful day?” Doug asked.

  “You could say that. At least Maeve managed to escape the headlines today. That can’t last forever.”

  Doug stayed silent, so I kept talking. “I talked to your former student Melinda today. She was helpful. Apparently Jack Drysdale had a big beef with Hill Rat. Do you read that blog?”

  Doug crinkled his nose. “I try to avoid journalism written by rodents.”

  “I’m not a fan, either. If I want to solve this murder, I may have to figure out the Rat’s identity, though.”

  Doug popped a sesame cracker in his mouth and answered with his mouth full. “How are you going to do that? Hasn’t the entire Washington D.C. press corps been trying to expose him for months?”

  “I have other leads, but there’s only one way to catch a rat.”

  Doug looked at me expectantly. I picked up a piece of Gouda and waved it around for emphasis. “You have to set a trap with the right kind of cheese.”