‘Čárkas and háčeks,’ Paul corrected. ‘Not squiggles.’
I stuck out my tongue. ‘Smarty pants.’
I opened my bookmarks and tapped on a link to a Times article I’d saved earlier. ‘There’s more. Novak was interviewed by the Washington Times. He’s quoted here as saying that one of his journalism professors advised that he’d never get a job in broadcasting with a name like Svíčkář. Impossible to pronounce, hard to spell. So, he changed it.’ I glanced up from the little screen. ‘I looked it up. Svíčkář means “candle-maker” or “chandler” in Czech.’
I switched the iPhone off and put it back on the bedside table. ‘Seems to me that somebody’s repealed that silly law about foreign-sounding names and success in broadcasting. Guillermo Arduino, Fareed Zakaria, and Wolf Blitzer seem to be making out just fine.’
‘Mandalit DelBarco.’ Paul’s pronunciation was eloquent, the syllables of the NPR reporter’s name rolling off his tongue like honey dripping from a flaky buttermilk biscuit. He closed his eyes. ‘Maria Hinojosa, Christiane Amanpour, Sylvia Poggioli,’ he recited. ‘Pah-JOE-lee, Pah-JOE-lee. I could listen to Sylvia Poggioli read the telephone book.’
I had to laugh. ‘How about Lakshmi Singh?’ I added, ‘Or, what’s her name, the NPR business reporter, Snick Paprikash.’
Paul snorted. ‘You mean Snigdha Prakash.’
‘Her, too. Or Ofeibea Quist-Arcton.’
‘Simple always worked for Larry King,’ Paul mused.
I raised an index finger. ‘Ah, but King’s real name is Lawrence Harvey Zeiger.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I am a font of all wisdom,’ I said, hooking a thumb in the direction of my iPhone.
‘Squiggles,’ Paul repeated with amusement. ‘Men have been hung on less evidence.’
‘Well, I’m not planning on hanging Mr Chandler,’ I said. ‘I have no interest whatsoever in the man’s sex life.’ I paused.
‘Do I hear a “but?”’
‘But, if Chandler can tell me where I can find Lilith Chaloux, no questions asked, I’d be really grateful, and I think she would, too.’ I reached out for Paul’s hand. ‘If these were your letters to me, I’d certainly want them back, bad poetry and all.’
Paul squeezed my hand. ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue, If I had some chocolate, I’d give it to you. How’s that?’
‘Thank you, Mr Longfellow!’ I kissed him on the forehead. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll just take a ride into DC and pay a call on Lynx News.’
I shot my husband an anxious glance, hoping that since my little New York adventure had gone off without a hitch, he’d not pout and get all stroppy with me about a short hop, into the District of Columbia.
Paul squinched up his face. ‘On the Metro?’
I pulled the duvet up to my chin. ‘No, I’ve temporarily retired my SmartTrip card. I don’t think I’m ready for the Metro yet. Not tomorrow, not the next day, maybe never.’
‘Just be careful.’ Paul searched out my hand under the covers and gave it a squeeze.
‘I always am.’
The next morning, I was sitting at the computer in our basement office working on my second cup of coffee when Paul staggered down from the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. ‘You’re up early.’
‘I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to do a little snooping around on the Internet.’ I handed him my empty mug. ‘Fetch me more coffee, pretty please, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Paul returned several minutes later bearing mugs of steaming coffee, pulled up his office chair and sat down on it.
‘Look what I found in the photo archives at Time magazine,’ I said after he’d gotten settled. I handed him a printout hot off the printer. ‘The photo’s credited to Annie Leibovitz and is captioned “Jann S. Wenner and Hunter S. Thompson at a Rolling Stone party held for the Jimmy Carter campaign staff, New York, 1976.” The same picture shows up on Jann Wenner’s webpage,’ I added, ‘but it’s been cropped.’
‘I know who Hunter Thompson is – that gonzo reporter – but who the heck is Jann Wenner?’ Paul asked.
‘How soon you forget. 1967? The Summer of Love? Rolling Stone magazine?
Paul still looked puzzled.
‘Wenner founded Rolling Stone.’
‘I knew that,’ Paul said, with a grin that told me that he hadn’t a clue.
‘Anyway. Check out this larger version of the photo. Who is that, there, in the background?’ I tapped the image.
Way in the background, her face turned slightly away from the camera, was a young woman with her hair cut in a Dorothy Hamill-style wedge, whose profile looked very much like Lilith. She held a wine glass aloft, as if toasting someone outside the frame.
‘Looks like Lilith Chaloux.’
‘I’m almost positive it’s Lilith. And who is that standing next to her, that long-haired guy, looks a bit like John Lennon, cupping a cigarette like it’s a joint?’
Paul leaned forward, squinting. ‘Could be a joint.’
I bopped him on lightly on the head. ‘Be serious.’
‘Looks like the guy in those other pictures – Zan,’ Paul admitted.
‘Yes indeedy-do. And I found another picture, too, in the photo archives of the Jimmy Carter Library and Museum.’
‘My, my, you do get around, Mrs Ives. And still in your pajamas, too.’
I ignored the jab and passed Paul a streaky, monochromatic printout. ‘It’s a photo of Zan standing in front of a green and white Carter/Mondale “Leaders for a Change” poster, wearing a chocolate brown “Gimme Jimmy 76” T-shirt. Or it would be if your stupid printer hadn’t run out of magenta toner.’
Paul handed the printout back. ‘Interesting, but what does this tell you that you don’t already know?’
‘What I said last night? That was all conjecture, speculation based on Zan’s letters, Chandler’s bio and a handful of pictures. Reading those letters is like wandering around Planet Zan in a spacesuit, Paul. I often found myself wondering what was real and what wasn’t. But here it is!’ I waved a hand at the screen. ‘Independent confirmation. And if you can’t believe Rolling Stone, who can you believe?’
‘Zan himself?’
‘Stay tuned for the next exciting episode – A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Panama. Or, I’m dreaming of a wide isthmus,’ I said, quoting either Rocket J. Squirrel or Bullwinkle the Moose. ‘And speaking of iconic cartoon characters, if I don’t want to greet John Chandler while wearing PJs, I better get cracking.’
THIRTEEN
I may have been OK with Amtrak, but the thought of stepping on another Metro train at New Carrollton made my stomach heave. Even though it was raining cats and dogs, I let New Carrollton fade in my rear-view mirror and, with windshield wipers set to frantic, drove all the way into Washington, DC. I parked in the garage at Union Station, retrieved my umbrella from the trunk and hustled through the rain the few short blocks to the Lynx News headquarters building at New Jersey Avenue and C Street, NW.
At the information desk in the ultra-modern lobby, I shook out my umbrella, propped it up in the corner with several others to dry, and asked to see John Chandler.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, but tell him it’s important. I have a story for him.’
‘And your name is?’
I told her.
The receptionist looked me up and down, as if checking for explosives. I must have passed muster, because she picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers. Speaking softly, so that I could barely hear her, she said, ‘There’s a Hannah Ives here, asking to see Mr Chandler.’ After a moment, she nodded, hung up, and said, ‘Sign in here.’
After I showed her my driver’s license and entered my name in her logbook, she gave me a visitor’s badge and demonstrated how to clip it to my jacket. ‘Someone will be right down.’
I was adjusting my badge when an elevator dinged and a fresh-faced young man sporting a layered do with fashionably shaggy bangs emerged, dressed in k
hakis, a pale blue tie and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. ‘Hannah Ives?’
‘Yes.’ I shook his hand.
‘I’m Jud Wilson. I work for Mr Chandler. Let me take you somewhere where we can talk.’
Jud and I rode the elevator up to the sixth floor where he led me on a circuitous route through a maze of eye-level, fabric-covered office cubicles, eventually escorting me into a small, glass-enclosed conference room. Scrawled in a rainbow of colored markers on a whiteboard mounted on the wall were odd notations connected by dotted lines, circles and arrows. Perhaps they’d been discussing football plays at an earlier meeting.
‘Can I get you some coffee? Tea?’
When I declined, Jud indicated a chair at the head of the table. He sat down kitty-corner from me, folded his hands and leaned forward, preparing to do triage. Is this woman worthy to speak to the great John Chandler?
‘So, you said you have a story for Mr Chandler.’
‘I need to speak to him personally. Is he here?’
‘Yes, he’s here, but he’s asked me to find out what you want.’
‘As I said, it’s a personal matter.’
‘I’m Mr Chandler’s PA. You can tell me.’
‘No, I can’t.’ I laid my hands flat on the table. ‘Look, if Mr Chandler’s here, please find him and tell him this: Lilith Chaloux.’
Jud didn’t blink. ‘Chaloux.’
‘Yes. Chaloux.’
‘I’ll be right back.’ Jud left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
Through the glass I watched as he crossed the office and disappeared down a hallway at the opposite end of the building. While I waited I studied the upholstery, the walls, the artwork, and tried to work out what the hieroglyphics on the whiteboard were supposed to mean. On the table was a business card holder made out of granite incised with the Lynx News logo. I picked up one of the cards. It was Jud’s. I was tucking it into my pocket when the door opened.
John Chandler had taken the bait.
‘That will be all, Jud. Close the door, would you?’
When Jud left, Chandler remained standing, arms hanging loose at his sides, looking like he’d stepped out of my television screen: dark suit, pale blue shirt, a patriotic red, white and blue striped tie. The commentator was clean-shaven, and his abundant white hair was combed straight back. A trace of make-up on his collar indicated that I might have interrupted a taping. Good.
‘So, Mrs Ives. How can I help you?’
‘I’m trying to locate a woman named Lilith Chaloux, and I think you can help me.’
‘I don’t see how. I’m not acquainted with anybody by that name.’
I stared at the man, not believing that he’d lie about knowing Lilith, his darling, his lover.
‘I think you do.’ I handed him a picture of Lilith that would melt the coldest heart. She sat on a middle step of a grand staircase, resting her elbows on her knees and cupping her chin with her hands, gazing at the photographer sideways through her lashes. She was dressed for a party in an off-the-shoulder black cocktail dress – its full skirt flounced out around her knees by an abundance of petticoats – and a simple strand of white pearls. She wore no other jewelry; she didn’t need to. ‘This is Lilith Chaloux.’
Chandler studied the picture with no obvious sign of emotion, but a telltale muscle twitched in his jaw. Still holding the picture, he eased himself into a chair. ‘Sorry, she doesn’t look familiar, although I meet a lot of people in my line of work.’ He pushed the photo across the table in my direction. As he did so, I noticed that he wore a wedding band made of white, yellow and rose gold twisted into a rope, a ring so substantial that it practically screamed, ‘I’m married! Hands off!’ Maybe it was just a smokescreen, I mused. The thinner the band, the more faithful the husband – my personal theory, anyway, since Paul wore no wedding band at all.
I pulled a second photo out of the envelope, the photograph of the man I knew as Zan, surrounded by the Guatemalan children. ‘Isn’t that a picture of you, Mr Chandler?’
He grinned. ‘Yes, that’s me. I was in the Peace Corps in Guatemala, but I’m sure you know that already.’
‘And you say you don’t know anybody by the name of Lilith Chaloux.’
His smile might have disarmed a lesser woman, but I am immune to smiles from television commentators who are more expensively coifed than I. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then, can you explain how this Polaroid of you got in among her letters? Love letters signed Zan. Short for Alexander?’
Chandler smiled indulgently. ‘I see you’ve been reading my CV. Look, Mrs Ives, there are millions of men named Alexander in this world, starting with Alexander the Great back in 300-something BC. Those letters must be from some other Alexander.’
I shoved a photocopy of one of Lilith’s letters across to him, the one Zan wrote from a hotel in Paris, the one signed ‘God bless you, my darling, my lover, Z.’ ‘Is this your handwriting?’
His eyes hadn’t left my face. ‘It is not.’
‘Maybe if you actually looked at it, you could give me a straight answer.’
The lobes of Chandler’s ears turned red. He gave the letter a cursory once-over, shrugged, and shook his head.
‘So, you’re telling me that you never knew a woman named Lilith Chaloux, that you didn’t have a ten-year relationship with her, and that somebody else, some other Alexander, wrote the fifty-some love letters that have come into my possession.’
‘That’s what I’m saying.’
‘In that case, I don’t think we have anything more to discuss.’ I collected my things, stood up, and walked to the door.
Chandler followed. He twisted the knob, and held the door open for me. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’
‘Look, Mr Chandler. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. My one and only goal is to return these letters to the woman they were written to. I don’t care about her relationships, past, present or future, with you – excuse me, with Zan – or with anybody else. I don’t even know if Lilith Chaloux is still alive.’
I thought I detected a spark, flicker, something in his eyes, but he waited me out.
‘Well, goodbye.’ I was halfway out the door with Chandler close behind me when I turned on my heel, meeting him face to face. ‘You know, if I had loved somebody the way Zan loved Lilith . . . well, it’s a complete mystery to me how you can live with yourself, Mr Chandler.
If I had clobbered him over the head with a medieval club, he couldn’t have looked more stunned. After his eyebrows returned to their normal position directly over his eyes, Chandler said coolly, ‘Jud will escort you back down to the lobby.’ He held out his hand and seemed surprised when I didn’t take it. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Ives.’
Indeed, Jud was waiting. After we stepped into the elevator, just as the doors were closing, I asked the young man casually, ‘How is Mr Chandler dealing with having a guy for a PA?’
Jud mashed his thumb down on the ‘G’ button. ‘What do you mean?’
I shrugged. ‘Sometimes women let themselves be taken advantage of. Pick up the dry cleaning. Buy a birthday gift for the wife. Darn my socks. Stuff like that.’
Jud laughed. ‘You’ve been watching too many episodes of Mad Men, Mrs Ives. We’ve come a long way since the sixties.’
The elevator began its slow descent. ‘I heard about your predecessor on the news, Jud. Scary stuff. Who would want Meredith Logan dead? Did she have a boyfriend?’
Jud shook his head. ‘There was no one in her life. The job was all.’
‘Anyone at work she was close to?’
‘By “close to,” you mean having an affair with?’
‘The thought had entered my mind. John Chandler, for example. You.’
‘Meredith was my friend and colleague. End of story. If you think that John murdered Meredith, you’re crazier than I thought. They had a relationship, that part’s true, but he was more like a professor to Meredith, or a mentor maybe.’
&nbs
p; ‘So my hare-brained theory that Meredith issued an ultimatum – marry me or I’ll tell your wife about our affair – doesn’t hold water?’
‘Leaky as a sieve.’
‘On the other hand, what if Mrs Chandler suspected her husband was having an affair with Meredith and killed her to keep a scandal from ruining her husband’s career?’
‘You want my unvarnished opinion?’ Jud asked as the elevator deposited us on the ground floor.
I nodded and stepped out into the lobby while Jud stayed behind in the elevator, thumb pressed on the button that would hold the doors open. ‘Well, under that scenario, it wouldn’t be so much a question of ruining her husband’s career as embarrassing her and reflecting negatively on her social standing. But, no, I don’t think that happened either. There was nothing going on between John and Meredith except work. And Mrs C. knew that.’
As the elevator doors closed over Jud’s face, I waved goodbye. I returned the visitor’s badge to the harried receptionist, and discovered that somebody had pinched my umbrella.
Muttering profanities under my breath, I pulled my jacket over my head and ran out into the pouring rain.
FOURTEEN
I drove home with the heat on full-blast. By the time I got to Annapolis my hair was dry, but my wool jacket smelled like wet dog. It would need a couple of trips to the dry cleaner before it could be restored to anything resembling its former glory.
A quick look in the hall mirror only confirmed what I suspected: I not only smelled like wet dog, I looked like a chew toy the dog had been gnawing on for a while.
Paul was in the basement office, grading papers. By the time he’d laid down his red pencil and come upstairs to the kitchen to join me in a glass of wine, I’d brushed the tangles out of my hair and fluffed it up at bit so I didn’t feel like such a freak.
‘What did you get up to today?’ I asked as I handed him a glass of Chablis.
A Quiet Death Page 8