Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [105]
Her silence morphed into an audible gasp.
“Am I getting through to you, Ms. Cardell?”
Her voice quavered as she said, “I know nothing about any of this. How dare you—?”
“Have it your way, Ms. Cardell. But you’d be doing yourself a big favor by talking to me. Maybe you’d rather have the press camp at your door.”
“Please,” she said weakly, “it’s shocking that you would think that I had anything to do with these—these—these horrible things you’re talking about.” He detected a sniffle on her end. “Please don’t involve the press. I have a reputation to uphold and—”
“I know that, Ms. Cardell, and like I said I’m not out to hurt you or your reputation. But I have a client back in Savannah, a very nice lady who needs to know that her daughter didn’t stab anybody. That’s all she wants, to clear up that lousy memory she has of her kid. Her name was Louise Watkins. You knew her when you spent time together at a weekend retreat at the Christian Vision Academy. Your girlfriend back then, Jeanine Montgomery, was questioned about the stabbing and cleared. The way I figure it, she was at the club the night the guy was stabbed to death—why else question her?—and so were you. Who paid off Louise Watkins to confess to the killing? You? Your father? Ms. Montgomery’s father? Jack Felker using your father’s money? Somebody did!”
He realized that he was sounding increasingly strident and took a breath to bring his voice down a few notches. “Ms. Cardell, this whole thing went down more than twenty years ago. Why don’t we get together so that I can leave the city, go home, put my client’s mind at rest, and get on with our lives?”
“This all comes to me as a terrible shock, Mr. Brixton.” It was obvious to him that she’d forced herself to calm down and to respond more reasonably. “I’m sure you can understand that.”
“Sure. When can we get together and talk?”
“I don’t know. My schedule is so busy and—”
“So’s mine, Ms. Cardell. I don’t enjoy laying out my client’s money for the hotel while I’m here. Why don’t we meet there?”
“No, no, the Rouge is too public a place.” She paused. “Mackensie Smith knows about this. He called me.”
“That’s right. He did me a favor.”
“How many other people have you told?”
“Not many. Well?”
“I need to think,” she said. “I’ll call you back.”
“No, I’ll call you back, Ms. Cardell. In an hour.”
• • •
Jeanine Jamison’s private line rang a minute after Mitzi had concluded her conversation with Brixton.
“It’s Mitzi,” she said to Lance Millius. “I need to speak with the first lady.”
“She’s not here, Ms. Cardell.”
“Where is she?” Mitzi snapped.
“On her way to Savannah.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. Thank you.”
• • •
The second call Mitzi made was to her father in Savannah.
“He’s in a business meeting,” his long-suffering and loyal secretary told Mitzi when she took the call at Ward Cardell’s office.
“Please tell him it’s urgent,” Mitzi said.
“Mitzi, darling,” he said a minute later, “what’s so important that I had to leave my meeting?”
She told him, including Brixton’s charge that Jack Felker had paid to have Louise Watkins murdered.
“Is it true, Daddy?” she asked as she fought against tears.
“Dumbest damn thing I ever heard,” he said. “Now look, Mitzi honey, you just put this out of your mind, you hear me?”
The tears won.
“Stop cryin’, Mitzi. This’ll all blow itself out, amount to nothing but a hill a’ beans. I’ve got to get back to my meeting now. You take care.”
Cardell returned to his meeting with his firm’s comptroller. They’d been discussing how to transfer funds in order to make an off-the-books payment to the organization to which Cardell had belonged for many years, established in Oklahoma in the 1960s by a small group of wealthy oilmen, and now funded by other men of means around the country. Cardell’s yearly tithe was two hundred thousand dollars, which he happily and proudly paid.
• • •
Mackensie Smith’s phone sounded in his apartment.
“Mac, it’s Mitzi Cardell.”
“Good morning, Mitzi. How are you?”
“Dreadful. I just