A Vote for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I thanked Carraway for the ride.

  “No problem,” he said. “What are you going to do now? You know? With what I told you?”

  “That’s all that’s been on my mind on the way here,” I said. “Richard, do you think you could arrange for certain people to meet us at the senator’s house tomorrow?”

  “What people?”

  “Congresswoman Marshall-Miner and Congressman Barzelouski?”

  “I can try.”

  “That’s all I can ask.”

  “What about the senator?”

  “I believe I can convince him to be there,” I said. “And his family, too. What about Walter Grusin? Can you contact him?”

  “Sure. I don’t know if he’ll come, but I’ll give it a shot. What time?”

  “Let’s say one o’clock.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Good.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for listening. I think that for maybe the first time in my life, I picked the right person to confide in.”

  “That’s flattering. Safe home, Richard. With a little luck, this will all be resolved tomorrow.”

  Seth was waiting at the bar when I entered the restaurant. I didn’t see George. It was seven-fifteen. I’d never known George to be late.

  Seth read my mind as I approached. “Haven’t seen your Scotland Yard friend,” he said.

  “He must have gotten tied up with the terrorist investigation,” I said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t called. He has my cell number.”

  “What held you up?” Seth asked.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  “I suggest we take the table, unless you’d like a drink here at the bar.”

  “No drink for me,” I said, “but let me try to reach George from here. I wouldn’t want to disturb other diners by making a call.”

  I reached his voice mail.

  We went to the table that had been reserved in the name of George Sutherland, and settled in for a lovely dinner, three courses price-fixed at seventy-five dollars a person. But I’m afraid I wasn’t the most receptive of dinner companions. I kept thinking of what Carraway had told me, and of Jack Nebel and why he would have been following me. And, as time passed, I grew increasingly worried about George. After our first course, I excused myself, went to the ladies’ room, and tried George again. No luck.

  Over our entrée—lobster medallions with garnishes of sliced artichoke bottoms and Jerusalem artichokes, nestled in a fried nest of finely shredded potatoes—which the jaded Dr. Hazlitt pronounced “Magnifique!”—I recounted for him what Carraway had told me at the cathedral. He listened with rapt attention, interrupting only occasionally to ask me to clarify a point. When I was finished, he said, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a crooked senator from Maine, Jessica. What do you intend to do with what you’ve learned?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied honestly, although a plan had begun to formulate in my mind.

  Our third and final course was about to be served when a manager came to the table. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You have a call from Inspector Sutherland.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. I excused myself from Seth and followed the manager to a phone.

  “George, are you all right?” I asked immediately.

  “I’ve been better, love,” he said.

  “What’s wrong? Another terrorist attack?”

  “In a manner of speaking. One of Washington’s terrorists mugged me.”

  “What?”

  “I was on my way to meet you when it happened. Three of them, actually. Young randies. That’s Scottish for thugs. Hooligans.”

  “Good heavens! Are you hurt badly?”

  “Got banged in the head pretty good. The doctors here at the hospital won’t let me leave. Protocol, they say, with my kind of head injury.”

  “What hospital?”

  “At your George Washington University.”

  “Seth and I will be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

  “No, no, Jessica, please, no. I look a bit of a mess, and my ego is sufficient that I’d prefer you to see me when I’ve had a bit of time to return to my handsome, dashing self.”

  I started to protest, but he insisted.

  “Get yourself a good night’s sleep and give me a ring in the morning. Sorry I couldn’t call earlier. The doctors were sewing me up. Talk with you tomorrow?”

  “All right,” I said reluctantly. “You’re sure you’re going to be all right?”

  “I’ll be tip-top, I assure you. The doctors assure me of that, too. Best to your doctor friend. Tell him I’m in good hands.”

  “I will.”

  “This is a dangerous city,” Seth said after I’d returned to the table and told him what had happened.

  “No more so than most cities,” I said. “Could have happened anywhere.”

  “Ayuh, but it happened here. Want me to go over and check on him, make sure the staff is up to snuff?”

  “He doesn’t want any visitors,” I said. “Let’s enjoy what’s left of this wonderful dinner and get back to the hotel.”

  On the way out, Seth cornered the manager who’d informed me of George’s call and said, “Name’s Dr. Seth Hazlitt, from Cabot Cove, Maine. Got a question for you.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Tried cooking lobster medallions myself a few times, but they always ended up tough. What’s your secret?”

  “Chef Richard cooks the medallions in a two-hundred-and-seventy-five-degree oven for approximately twenty-five minutes,” he said. “It mustn’t be too hot or the lobster meat turns rubbery.”

  “Much obliged,” Seth said, overtly pleased that he’d learned a trade secret from a master chef.

  I looked for the Mercedes when we came out of the hotel but it was nowhere in sight. We took a taxi to the Willard and parted in its opulent lobby. I went to my suite and got ready for bed, my head swirling with all that had happened that evening. I sat up for a few hours scribbling notes of the conclusions to which I’d come over the course of the evening, forcing myself to concentrate and not let my thoughts wander to George and his injuries. By the time I climbed into bed, everything had jelled. Barring any unforeseen events, I felt confident I had the answer to Nikki Farlow’s murder.

  And I intended to reveal that answer the next day.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I was up early, long before my wake-up call. (I’m never sure how to set those silly little clock radios in hotels and always leave a wake-up call as insurance.) I’d told Seth when we parted last evening that I intended to have breakfast in my room because I had a number of calls to make, but I asked if he would agree to accompany me to Senator Nebel’s. We set a time to meet.

  My first call was to Nebel’s office in the Dirksen Building. Carraway answered.

  “You’re there early,” I said.

  “I always am,” he said. He lowered his voice: “I called Grusin and Marshall-Miner at home last evening. They’ll be there.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I lied, which I figured was okay. I told them the senator wanted them there to discuss the Sterling Power legislation.”

  “I’m glad you filled me in,” I said. “I’ll know what to expect when I call the senator. What about Congressman Barzelouski?”

  “He was out all evening, but I left a message on his machine.”

  “Good. I’ll see you later.”

  My next call was to the Nebel house, where Jack answered.

  “Hope I’m not waking anyone,” I said cheerfully.

  “We’re up,” he said, “and I’m glad you called. I understand you told that detective that I gave the blow poke to Jardine.”

  “Not true,” I said. “All I did was pass along to Detective Moody what Jardine had told me.”

  “Well, I don’t think you had any right to do that, Mrs. Fletcher.”
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br />   “Did you have the right to follow me last night when I went to the National Cathedral?” I countered.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m afraid you wouldn’t make a very good private investigator. I was well aware it was you driving the black Mercedes last evening.”

  “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, things aren’t the way they might appear to be. The whole thing with the blow poke, and wanting to see where you went last night were—”

  “Jack, why don’t we discuss all this when I come to the house later today?”

  “You’re coming to see Mom?”

  “Yes, and I’d like you to be there.”

  “What is this?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, I asked whether his sister was at the house. When he told me she was, I asked to speak with her.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” he demanded.

  “I’d really prefer to talk with you in person,” I replied. “May I speak with Christine now, please?”

  Christine came on the line.

  “I’m planning to be at the house about one,” I said. “Can you be there?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’d really like your fiancé, Mr. Radisch, to be there, too.”

  “Joe is coming by to take me to lunch.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Perhaps you can delay your meal for a little while.”

  “Does this have to do with Nikki’s murder?” she asked.

  “Let’s discuss the reason for it when I’m there. Is Mrs. Martinez available?”

  “Carmela? Yes. She’s in the kitchen.”

  “Would you put her on?”

  I introduced myself to the cook and told her of my plans to gather a number of people at the house that day. I didn’t want her taken by surprise if her employers asked her to furnish refreshments. She was pleasant and helpful.

  “Do you want me to serve lunch?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, “and I don’t want to impose on either you or the Nebels.” What I didn’t say was that the subject of the gathering was likely to spoil the guests’ appetites. I asked if she knew whether or not the senator was at home and she said he wasn’t, that he’d left very early for his office.

  By the time I made my second call to Nebel’s office, his secretary was there and answered. She put me through to an overtly irate senator.

  “What’s this about a meeting at my house today?” he growled.

  “That’s why I’m calling,” I said, maintaining a lilt in my voice. “I wanted to thank you and your family for all your hospitality since I’ve been here, to me and to my friends Dr. Hazlitt and Inspector Sutherland.”

  He wasn’t buying it.

  “Cut the crap, Jessica. I’ve already heard from Walt Grusin and Congresswoman Marshall-Miner. They said that Carraway told them it was to discuss the Cabot Cove power plant. What are you up to?”

  “Is Mr. Carraway there?” I asked.

  “No, dammit. He left a note saying he was out on meetings all morning and would see me at the house. Now, Jessica Fletcher, what is going on?”

  It was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to finesse the situation any longer.

  “Senator Nebel,” I said, “there’s an unsolved murder of your top aide to be resolved. It happened at your house, at a party you hosted. I believe I know who murdered Nikki Farlow, and I think you’ll want to know as well.”

  “I don’t see where anyone you’ve invited—to my house, I might add—has anything to do with Nikki’s death. This is a joke.” His laugh was dismissive. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “None of my people had anything to do with it, and you can take the word of a United States senator on that.”

  I said nothing.

  Now his laugh was forced, conciliatory. “I will say this, Jessica. You have a very fertile imagination. But I suppose that’s to be expected of a successful mystery writer.”

  “Senator,” I said, “why don’t you simply come to your house at one and hear me out? I’m sure you’ll find what I have to say enlightening.”

  “All right,” he grumbled, “but leave Pat out of it.”

  “Even if she wants to attend?”

  “She’s not well.”

  I didn’t say what I was thinking, that Patricia Nebel was probably a lot less “sick” than some of those around her. Still, I wouldn’t impose on her. I would simply make her aware of our presence and let her decide whether she wished to come downstairs or not.

  Nebel abruptly ended the conversation, and I placed a call to Detective Moody’s office at the Fairfax County Police Department. They paged him and he eventually came on the line. I told him about the gathering I’d planned, and said I needed him to be there, preferably with a couple of uniformed officers outside. He pumped me for information, but I was steadfast in my determination to save my conclusions until we met. His final comment before we ended the call was, “Why do I have the feeling I’m a character in one of your murder mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I laughed and said, “I assure you this isn’t fiction, Detective. You’ll be there?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, his words punctuated with a low, rumbling laugh.

  All the calls on my list completed, I looked up the number for the George Washington University Hospital and was connected with George’s room.

  “Good morning, love,” he said.

  “Good morning to you. How are you feeling today?”

  “Not bad aside from a whopping headache. But I’ve got good news. If I pass some tests they insist upon giving me later, I’ll be able to leave by day’s end.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear that,” I said. “Maybe we’ll finally find some time together.”

  “No maybes about it, Jessica. We shall. My recovery won’t be complete without it. What is on your agenda?”

  “I’m attending a meeting at Senator Nebel’s house.”

  “Oh? Sort of a farewell gathering?”

  “You might say that. I really must run, George. Be a good patient, pass your tests, and I’ll be in touch later this afternoon.”

  I spent the next forty-five minutes on the phone with people involved with the literacy program, offering my apologies for my lack of participation, and promising to devote what time I might have the following day to the effort. Everyone seemed accepting of my vague reasons for not being active, for which I was grateful.

  My guilt somewhat salved, I showered, dressed, and looked at my watch. A half hour to go.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The invitees to my little social gathering arrived at staggered times, with the senator still “on his way.” Christine and her fiancé, Joe Radisch, and Jack Nebel were already in the house when Seth and I got there. To my surprise, Jardine responded to our knocking. The houseman and I looked at each other for a brief second, not time enough for me to read his eyes. I suppose I couldn’t blame him for being angry with me, although his presence indicated he hadn’t been detained very long by the police. He disappeared immediately, and Seth and I joined the others in the large room overlooking the terrace. Mrs. Martinez had ignored my comment that luncheon wasn’t necessary. A buffet had been set up in a corner, along with a portable, unmanned bar.

  Ms. Marshall-Miner, Congressman James Barzelouski, and lobbyist Walter Grusin stood together near the bar. With them, to my surprise, were press secretary Sandy Teller and Nebel’s attorney, Hal Duncan, neither of whom had been invited, at least by me. Carraway was alone by the fireplace, pacing up and down. Christine and her fiancé sat on a love seat near the entrance to the room. I saw through the window that Detective Moody and Jack Nebel were together on the terrace.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I told Seth, who nodded and approached the group at the bar.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Moody said as I came through the French doors.

  “Hello, Detective,” I said. “Hello, Jack.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  �
�I think this young man might like to have a word with you,” said Moody. “I’ll wait down at the dock. Don’t want my presence to make the guests jittery. Besides, I always enjoy a few peaceful moments by the water.”

  When Moody had disappeared down the stairs, I asked Jack, “What did you want to say?”

  “About the blow poke, Mrs. Fletcher.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry I sounded angry on the phone.”

  “That’s quite all right. What about the blow poke?” He was obviously uncomfortable, and I didn’t press. Finally he said, “When he questioned me—the detective—I denied doing it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Giving the blow poke to Jardine to get rid of.”

  “Which wasn’t true.”

  “Not exactly. No. I just told him—Moody—that I wanted to change my story. He said that if I’d lied earlier, I could be prosecuted for obstruction of justice, and for giving false statements to the police.”

  “What he says is true,” I said.

  “I don’t want to be prosecuted for anything, Mrs. Fletcher. I might have done something stupid, but I didn’t mean to break any laws.”

  “Be that as it may,” I said, “the only sensible thing for you to do is to tell the truth. Why did you try to get rid of the murder weapon?”

  “Because . . .” He looked through the window into the room, where the others were waiting, before saying, “Because I thought my dad killed her.”

  My silence confirmed for him that, all things considered, it wasn’t a far-fetched assumption.

  “But I don’t anymore. He swore to me he didn’t kill her, and I believe him.”

  “Did you think that your father murdered Nikki because of the alleged affair between them?”

  “Yeah. But there was more.”

  “Such as?”

  “The note.”

  “Do you mean Nikki’s threatening letter to your father?” I asked. How did he know about that?

  “What letter? No. There was a note. I found a piece of white paper in Nikki’s hand when I discovered her body.”

  That was news to me. “What did the note say?” I asked.

  “It told Nikki to meet him on the dock.”