Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [28]
CVA’s campus was set on a dozen acres of gently rolling land with an abundance of live oaks, crepe myrtles with purple and white flowers resembling crepe paper, and sweet bay magnolias. The administrative building stood on the tallest rise, an imposing antebellum mansion that Brixton figured probably looked like Tara in Gone With the Wind, although it had been so long since he’d seen the movie that he couldn’t remember what Scarlett’s plantation home looked like. Smaller buildings, architecturally designed not to clash with the main building, housed classrooms and other functional rooms.
He pulled into a visitors’ parking area in front of the main building, turned off the engine, unwrapped the photograph, and spent a few moments examining it. He looked up as a group of six young women wearing the school’s green-and-black uniforms exited the building and passed the car, their voices shrill, their laughs giddy. The white girls in the photograph weren’t wearing uniforms, probably, he assumed, so as to not make the three African-Americans feel out of place. He focused on Louise Watkins’s wide smile and felt a twinge of sadness. What had led her into a life of drug use and hooking, and why would she give up four years of her young life for ten thousand dollars? Who knew? Decisions! You make good ones and you do okay, bad ones and you end up like her. His creed.
Mrs. Farnsworth was a tall, staunch lady in her sixties. In some ways she was the clichéd image of a head mistress of a prestigious girl’s school. But her pink suit and frilly white blouse, coupled with a pleasant smile, softened her beyond stereotype.
She invited him to take a seat in her large, handsomely furnished and decorated office and asked if he wanted a soft drink or coffee. He declined. He was aware that she was eyeing his beat-up face and headed off any questions. “I was mugged last night near my apartment,” he said. “But I’m feeling fine.”
“So much crime,” she commented.
He nodded and got right to the point by handing her the photograph. She put on half-glasses and spent more time than he thought necessary to look at it.
“Taken at one of our weekend retreats,” she said flatly and handed back the picture.
“That’s what I was told by Louise Watkins’ mother,” he said. “Louise is the third black girl from the left.” He handed the photo back to her.
Farnsworth perused it again and shook her head. “This was so long ago,” she said, and the picture ended up back in Brixton’s hands.
“What I’m hoping is that you can identify the other young women in the photo, Mrs. Farnsworth.” He gave her the photo again.
“Hmmm.” She adjusted her glasses. “I don’t know the names of the black girls in the picture, or of two of our students.”
“Two?” he said. “But you know the name of one?”
She placed the photo on her desk and smiled. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I can’t miss that vibrant face and lovely smile.”
Brixton waited for her to elaborate.
“The girl on the far right is Mitzi Cardell.” She placed the accent on the dell.
“Sounds like you knew her pretty well.”
“And still do, Mr. Brixton. Her name isn’t familiar to you?”
“Afraid not.”
“Mitzi was an outstanding student, top grades, a class leader, an exemplary young woman. That she’s gone on to great success surprised no one here at CVA.”
“What does she do?” Brixton asked, wishing he already knew.
“Why, Mitzi Cardell is one of Washington’s leading hostesses, Mr. Brixton, and a confidante to many of our government’s leaders.” She laughed. “Some say that many members of Congress, and the White House for that matter, don’t make important decisions without conferring first with Mitzi.”
“Really? I don’t follow the Washington social scene too