Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [106]
“You spoke with him.”
“Yes. Mac, I’m frantic. You can’t believe the things he’s accusing me of.”
“I didn’t get the impression from him that he was interested in accusing anyone of anything. He’s just looking for answers to provide a client back in Savannah. Can I be of help in any way?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid that I’ll end up needing a lawyer and—”
Smith gave forth with a reassuring laugh. “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Mitzi. Tell you what. We can find some time tonight after Annabel’s exhibit.” He was referring to a cocktail party at her gallery to introduce four drawings from the esteemed Colombian painter and sculptor Fernando Botero Angulo. They’d been given to Annabel on consignment and she was thrilled to have them in her gallery. Mitzi Cardell was on the limited invitation list and had accepted.
“You’ll be at Annabel’s gallery this evening?” he asked.
“Oh, God, Mac, I don’t know whether I’m up for any socializing.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Mitzi Cardell I know.”
“It’s just that—”
“Let me make a suggestion. I can invite Bob Brixton to the showing, too. After everyone else has left we can sit down together in Annabel’s office and put this thing to rest.”
“Face him?”
“You’ll have to at some point, Mitzi. This is a good opportunity. I’ll be there to buffer things for you.”
He waited for her response.
“I trust you, Mac,” she said.
• • •
His daughter’s call unsettled Ward Cardell. So did a subsequent call from his friend Warren Montgomery, father of the nation’s first lady. Montgomery sounded upset, said it was important that they meet. Cardell had intended to have lunch at home that day and spend the afternoon on the golf course, but Montgomery’s call changed his plans. He left the office at noon and went to the First City Club, one of three private clubs to which he belonged and where he and Montgomery had agreed to meet.
Montgomery, sporting his usual deep tan, carefully arranged silver hair, and wearing one of the dozens of power suits in his closet, got right to the point once they’d chosen a table out of earshot of others. “What’s going on, Ward?” he asked.
“With what?” Cardell said.
“With this private detective, Brixton, trying to open up a can of worms.”
“How did you hear about it?”
“That doesn’t matter. I have my sources. The point is that he’s in Washington snooping around about what happened.”
“I know all about him, Warren.”
“You know about him! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Cardell glanced around the members-only dining room, leaned closer to Montgomery, and said, “In the first place, Warren, I suggest that you keep your voice down. Second, I saw no reason to bother you with it. I’ve taken care of everything.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that Mr. Brixton will no longer be a problem. I’ve already sent him some warnings, which unfortunately he hasn’t heeded. But I’m assured by—” He now spoke in a barely audible whisper: “I’m assured by the president that steps are being taken to put an end to his troublemaking.”
“You’ve talked to him?”
Cardell nodded.
“What does he intend to do to—?”
Cardell shook his head and waved his hand to end that thread of conversation.
Montgomery looked around before saying, “Then he knows what happened. Jeanine must have told him.”
Cardell exhaled in frustration. “Enough,” he said.
Montgomery said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“I suggest we have lunch and continue the conversation outside.”
Montgomery accepted that idea and the two men ate in relative silence. They left the exclusive club on Bull Street in downtown Savannah and walked to the nearest of the city’s twenty-four famous squares, Johnson Square, the first one created by the city’s founding father, English soldier and politician James Edward Oglethorpe. Downtown bank employees who’d enjoyed their lunch beneath the square’s trees had returned to work, leaving the square to them.
These two titans of Savannah business sat on a bench. Montgomery, a man seldom at a loss for words, seemed to strain for what to say next. “Ward,