A Vote for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  But there was little doubt that given a choice, she preferred the serenity of her vegetable and flower gardens, and experimenting with recipes in her kitchen to the hurly-burly, frenetic pace of the political life. In the early days of her husband’s first term as a United States senator, she accompanied him to Washington with some regularity. Those trips became less frequent as the years passed. Once, when I visited her at her home and we sat sipping iced tea in her garden, she said, “If I had my way, Jess, I’d never spend another minute of my life in Washington. Oh, I know, it’s a truly beautiful city, and what happens there on a day-to-day basis impacts everyone’s life, here and abroad. But I find it—shall I say it?—I find it a cruel place, at least its political side. And let’s face it,” she added with a laugh, “politics is Washington’s major industry.”

  Rumors from Washington surfaced now and then in Cabot Cove that our junior senator might not have learned his earlier lesson, and was enjoying extracurricular relationships outside his marriage in the nation’s capital, Washington. But those bits of gossip were generally dismissed as having been generated by political opponents, enhanced by Washington’s well-known penchant for character assassination. What part they played in keeping Pat Nebel close to home remained conjecture.

  Senator Nebel interrupted my reverie. “Have you been treated well since arriving?” he asked.

  “Extremely,” I answered with conviction.

  My day had started early in Cabot Cove. Jed Richard-son, a former top commercial airline pilot who’d retired to Cabot Cove to start up his own charter airline service, had flown me in a small twin-engine plane to Boston, where I connected with a jet to Washington. Jed had given me flying lessons a few years earlier, and I’d earned my private pilot’s license, which most people found amusing, since I don’t drive a car. I can fly a plane, but you never see me on the road behind the wheel of an automobile, as I prefer my trusty bicycle for getting around town.

  Both flights had been smooth, and I arrived at Washington’s Reagan National Airport at two in the afternoon, right on time. A limousine was waiting to take me to the magnificent Willard InterContinental Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue, where I was checked into a lovely suite. A stone’s throw from the White House, the Willard had been renovated in the eighties to its original splendor as one of Washington’s most imposing hospitality landmarks; over the years it had been a treasured home away from home for many heads of state and other dignitaries.

  Now, a few hours after a quick nap, showering, and changing into what I thought was an appropriate outfit for a meeting with the president of the United States—a lavender silk suit and white blouse—I waited to be ushered into his office.

  The person in charge of our group was Nebel’s chief of staff, Nikki Farlow, a tall, attractive woman I judged to be late thirties to early forties, although I admit I’m not very good at such judgments. She wore her auburn hair short, off her neck, and had a deft hand with her makeup, tastefully applied to enhance a thin face, aquiline nose, and prominent cheekbones. She wore a severely tailored gray pantsuit and black blouse, an indication that she was all business. Her manner was pleasant enough, although it was evident that behind it was a strong, no-nonsense lady very much in command of her life and probably those of others with whom she was involved. Being a U.S. senator’s top aide would demand the sense of self-assuredness she exuded, and I had no doubt that she was very good at her job. She’d been my contact as the trip drew close, and her attention to every detail, no matter how small, was impressive.

  I’d been the first of our contingent to arrive. My conversation with Nebel ended when he saw others being led into the Blue Room by Secret Service agents assigned to that duty, and left me to greet a short, stocky man with a long white beard and flowing hair to match, and a middle-aged woman wearing what appeared to be a housedress that came down to her calves. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a severe bun; she wore black running shoes. I recognized her. Marsha Jane Grane, a revered and prolific author whose books were noted for their often violent and salacious content. Her subject matter was cause for criticism in some circles, but her reputation as a woman of letters was firmly established, with numerous literary awards to support it.

  Nebel brought them to where I stood and we were introduced. The man was Karl von Miller, whose novels for young adults were among the most popular of that genre. We had only a minute to chat before the rest of our party arrived and we were ushered into the Oval Office, where an exuberant President Dimond came from behind his desk and eagerly shook our hands. He was a shorter man than he appeared to be on television; I suppose the nature of television transmissions, coupled with the office he held, tended to create a sense of height and stature.

  He’d obviously been well prepared. He had an appropriate thing to say to each of us about our books, the names of our most recent works coming easily off his lips, his smile never fading. He said to me, “It amazes me, Mrs. Fletcher, how you come up with intricate plots and wrap everything up so neatly at the end. Maybe I should hire you to lend that talent to this office.”

  I laughed along with him, then said, “I’m sure it’s a lot easier to do in a book, Mr. President.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re right,” he said. “I especially enjoyed your latest work, A Cautious Murder, where the murderer was tripped up by his obsession with making everything orderly in his life, even the murder he committed. Neatness did him in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” I said, impressed that he’d read the book. Or had he? Had an aide fed him that line in preparation for meeting me? Don’t be so cynical, I silently reminded myself.

  By the time I’d processed that thought, he was on to the next author in line, Ms. Grane, extolling her writings as providing a clear view into the human psyche. We all received that sort of personal recognition in the fifteen minutes we were there. The meeting ended with a White House photographer snapping a photo of each of us with the president, and before we knew it, we were in limousines heading for dinner at Senator Nebel’s home in McLean, Virginia.

  My companions in the rear seat were Marsha Jane Grane, Bill Littlefield, author of best-selling histories of the Korean and Vietnam wars, and Nikki Farlow.

  When I’d learned that George Sutherland and I would be in Washington at the same time, I summoned my courage and called Ms. Farlow to ask whether he could join us at the White House. I wasn’t surprised at her answer, although her tone took me aback. She dismissed the request as impossible, lecturing me about how difficult such arrangements were, and further explaining that with security concerns paramount in this age of terrorism, adding an “outsider” was out of the question. That George was a senior Scotland Yard inspector, intimately involved in combating terrorism in Great Britain, didn’t carry any weight. As I said, I didn’t expect my request to be honored, but had made it under the “nothing ventured, nothing gained” philosophy. I thanked Ms. Farlow for even considering it, and dropped the matter.

  Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised the next day when she called me at home to say that although Inspector Sutherland would not be able to join me at the White House, Senator Nebel had invited him to the dinner party at his home that same night. I thanked her for the courtesy and contented myself with knowing that George would, at least, be able to enjoy that aspect of the evening.

  “How long have you worked with the senator?” I asked Nikki—we were now on a first-name basis—during the drive, which took us across the Potomac River and in a northerly direction, parallel to the river; the Potomac is as much a Washington landmark as many of its most famous monuments.

  “I joined him two years ago,” she said.

  “You’ve always worked in government?” Littlefield asked.

  “No,” she said. “I ran my own headhunting business until the senator offered me the job. I met him on a fund-raising trip he’d taken through the Midwest.”

  “You’re from there?” I asked.

  “Chicago,” she replied, sim
ultaneously flipping through pages of handwritten notes on a yellow legal pad she’d removed from a briefcase. Not wanting to intrude on her official thoughts, I directed conversation to Littlefield, who’d had little to say up to that point. I’d asked him about his latest book, and he was telling me when the driver turned onto a narrow, tree-lined road that took us in the direction of the river. A minute later we followed the other limos onto a circular gravel driveway that swept in front of an imposing home on the banks of the Potomac. I was surprised at how large the house was, probably because my perception of where and how Nebel lived was shaped by my Cabot Cove experience. His home there was as modest as his campaign clothing promised.

  But this was a mansion in every sense of the word. It appeared to be a structure that had been expanded numerous times, with wings jutting out in every direction without any apparent attempt to match architectural styles each time a new addition was constructed. The second floor, too, seemed to have been added at a different time, its Palladian windows in contrast to less expansive ones on the first level.

  As I stepped from the limousine, I looked to my left to see a two-story garage with six bays. A silver Jaguar and a black Mercedes sat in front of it; two motorcycles were parked off to the side.

  “Are those apartments over the garage?” I asked Ms. Farlow.

  “Live-in household staff,” she replied.

  A uniformed security guard holding a clipboard stood at the massive wooden doors leading from the driveway into the house, and we were asked to identify ourselves before being allowed to enter and checked off his list. Once inside, we were in a spacious foyer with a stone floor in which slabs of granite of various hues had been embedded. Large vases of freshly cut, colorful flowers sat on heavy furniture that hugged the walls. An elaborate brass chandelier, easily seven feet in diameter, cast soft light from above. Ms. Farlow asked us to follow her from the foyer down a long hallway to a huge room at the opposite side of the house. In contrast to what I’d seen so far, the room’s modernity was striking. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a splendid view of the river, which was at least seventy-five feet down a steep slope from a wide brick terrace on the other side of the glass. A large plasma TV screen was on a wall near a conversation pit in a corner of the room. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall; the brass handles on a set of antique fireplace tools glistened in light from recessed fixtures that dotted the high ceiling.

  I went to the windows and gazed at the Potomac. A long, narrow, winding set of wooden stairs snaked from the terrace to a dock at the base where a nicely rigged, center-console fishing boat bobbed in the gentle wake of other passing craft.

  “This is absolutely beautiful,” I said to no one in particular.

  A white-jacketed man of East Indian extraction, holding a tray on which filled champagne flutes rested, responded: “Madam?” he said.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, taking one of the glasses. His eyes locked with mine, large, very dark, expressive eyes. He walked to where others had gathered, offering champagne to them, too. From another corner of the room came a woman wearing a similar outfit. She passed a tray of hors d’oeuvres—crostini with herb-whipped goat cheese and pine nuts, wasabi-rubbed New Zealand lamb chops, crabmeat herb and phyllo cigars, and wild mushroom bruschetta with shaved Parmesan. By this time, the number of people in the room had swelled, and I assumed they were either friends of Nebel’s, or professional colleagues. I recognized from watching the House of Representatives on C-SPAN two members of that body, a congressman from Ohio whose fiery speeches on the floor of the House were well-known (and dismaying to some, I was sure), and a congresswoman whose base, I seemed to remember, was California, and who’d made headlines when she’d cast the deciding vote in favor of President Dimond’s most recent budget proposal.

  “Lovely home, isn’t it?” Marsha Jane Grane said, coming up to my side at the window.

  “Yes, it is. The views are spectacular.”

  “Do you have views where you write?” she asked.

  “My backyard,” I replied lightly. “Plenty of birds at my feeder.”

  “I work in total solitude,” she said. “A view like this would keep me from concentrating. I have no windows in my writing room, only a desk, chair, and typewriter.”

  That led to a discussion of working on a typewriter versus a computer, or writing in longhand. I divided my attention between Ms. Grane and the door to the room, looking for George Sutherland’s arrival. I was defending my choice of a computer, reluctantly at first, I admitted, and its word-processing capability, when George entered, escorted by the security guard who’d cleared us at the front door. Nikki Farlow had told me that a limousine would pick him up at his hotel and deliver him here, which it obviously had.

  “Excuse me,” I told Marsha Jane. “A friend of mine has just arrived.”

  “Jessica,” George said. “You look absolutely marvelous.”

  “And so do you.”

  By any objective standards, George Sutherland was a handsome man, with a distinguished air about him. In his sixties, he stood six feet, four inches tall and carried himself with easy confidence. His hair was brown with red tinges in it; a slightly larger patch of gray at each temple than when I’d last seen him added a promise of wisdom and distinction. Fine features were nicely arranged on his large, deeply lined face. His eyes, serious but with a constant promise of mirth and bemusement at what went on around him, were the green of Granny Smith apples. I’d come to learn that his favorite clothing consisted of tweed jackets with leather at the elbows, muted ties, sleeveless pullover sweaters, razor-creased tan pants, and highly polished brown boots that came up over the ankle. For this occasion, however, he’d chosen a nicely tailored blue pin-striped suit, white shirt, and red-and-blue regimental tie.

  He kissed my cheek.

  “How was the White House?” he asked.

  “Pleasant, and impressive. The president was charming. He certainly knew a lot about us and our books.”

  “A man on top of things,” he said, accepting an hors d’oeuvre from a replenished tray passed by a female household staff member.

  “Champagne?” I asked, and looked for the man in the white jacket.

  He leaned close and whispered, “Any chance of a malt whiskey?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that can be arranged,” I said, motioning for the server passing the champagne, and asking him for a single malt Scotch. “Of course, madam,” he said.

  “Is our host here?” George asked, taking in the room.

  “I haven’t seen Senator Nebel since the White House,” I said. “Looks like things run smoothly without him.”

  “Quite a house,” George said.

  “To say the least.”

  As if on cue, Warren Nebel entered the room and quickly made his way to each guest, patting an arm or shoulder, taking women’s hands and holding them while he spoke, his smile perpetual, making each person feel as though he or she were the only one there. The consummate professional politician at work, I thought.

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Fletcher’s special friend, all the way from jolly old London,” he said when I introduced him to George. “It’s truly a pleasure having you here, Inspector Sutherland. May I call you George?”

  “Of course,” said George.

  “And we’ll drop the ‘Senator this’ and ‘Senator that’ for the evening,” Nebel said.

  “That’s a deal,” said George.

  “And we can dispense with the Mrs. Fletcher, too,” I added.

  “Right you are, Jessica,” said Nebel, disengaging and gliding on to the next guest.

  George and I ended up in a knot of people, including the Librarian of Congress, Dr. Thomas Lester, who oversaw the library’s immense collections, which he proudly pointed out consisted of eighteen million books on more than five hundred miles of bookshelves, twelve million photographs, and almost fifty million manuscripts.

  “Astounding,” George said, sipping his recently delivered Scotch. “I imagine you h
ave a sizable problem with overdue books.”

  Dr. Lester laughed heartily, exposing a full mouth of yellowed teeth. “Outright theft is more like it,” he said. “Excuse me. I see someone I need a word with.”

  Another man in our group, Walter Grusin, said to me, “I’ve been hoping to catch some time with you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m with the lobbying firm of McCrorry and Castle. You might have heard of us.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  I took a stab at judging his age; no older than forty-five. He looked as though he could have been a college football star, solidly built, square faced, and sure of himself. “We represent Sterling Power.”

  George looked quizzically at me.

  “The company that wants to put a large nuclear generating plant near my home,” I said, both to acknowledge to Grusin that I understood, and to clue George in.

  “You make it sound ominous,” Grusin said. “The senator must have gotten to you.”

  “No,” I said, “but it’s the topic of considerable conversation in Cabot Cove, as you can imagine.”

  “Are you a member of the citizen group opposing it?” he asked.

  “A member? No. But I have good friends who are, and I’ve contributed to their cause.”

  “I’d think a well-known author like you could find better things to do with her money,” he said.

  I glanced at George, whose expression said he hadn’t appreciated the comment any more than I had.

  “I’m not against nuclear power,” I said, “but there are legitimate questions about locating it there.”

  “Perfect place for it,” Grusin said. “I’d appreciate spending some one-on-one time with you while you’re in D.C.”

  “Are you lobbying me?” I smiled to lighten the question.

  “You might say that,” he replied. “After all, I am a lobbyist.”