Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [95]
I should have told him about it when we first started going together, she thought. He had plenty of skeletons in his closet, too. But she hadn’t mentioned it for fear of losing him, of crushing her chance to become the first lady of Georgia. That she’d end up in the White House was beyond any dreams she had conjured, and when he announced that he was running for the presidency it seemed too late to spring a complication like murder on him.
She tried to imagine all the negative fallout that might occur if the story broke, and none of it was pretty. His political opponents would jump on it and turn it into a media circus, night after night of coverage on what had become a 24/7 news cycle, talking heads analyzing its meaning to death, pundits making cruel remarks, the late-night comedy shows, Jon Stewart, and Saturday Night Live having a field day.
“Maybe the president should dispatch his wife to kill off his opponents,” the comics would quip.
“The president means it when he says he wants to slash the budget.”
“If the president pulls a John Edwards on his wife he’d better watch his back—in bed!”
“Jeanine Jamison, our own Lizzie Borden.”
Those visions made her cringe in the chair as she awaited his arrival.
He’d changed into his nightclothes in his private dressing quarters before entering the bedroom. She sprang to her feet, crossed the room, and kissed him. He noticed what she was wearing and asked why.
“Oh, I just thought I’d try and look pretty for you.”
“Well, you do.”
His assistant arrived with the whiskey and popcorn. “Would you like something, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes, I would, a glass of Chablis please.” The assistant left and she asked the president how his day had gone.
“The speech went fine. The rest of the day makes me wish I’d stayed governor of Georgia.”
“That bad, huh?”
“The goddamn polls. They mean nothing, but the media lives and dies by them.”
Her wine was delivered and they sat across a small table from each other in front of the draped window. She raised her glass. “To good days ahead,” she said with a wide smile.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, touching the rim of his glass to hers.
“Fletch, there’s something we have to talk about.”
“Oh? Sounds heavy.”
“I suppose it is. No, it really isn’t. You see—”
“You having an affair?”
She guffawed and spit out some of her wine. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He shrugged and drank.
“Fletch, something happened many years ago in Savannah that I’ve kept to myself all these years.”
Nothing from him.
“You see, when I was a teenager—a silly teenager, I admit—I went to a local hangout with Mitzi when my folks were away for the weekend. It was a dive called Augie’s. Lots of kids from the other side of the tracks hung out there and I suppose it represented danger to us, an adventure, you know, tasting something forbidden.”
He seemed disinterested, simply grunted and tasted his drink again and took a handful of popcorn from the sterling silver bowl.
“Something happened there, Fletch, that—well, it was something bad.”
“I know, you tried marijuana. Shame on you.”
“It was more than that,” she said. “There was also a young black girl there. Her name was Louise Watkins.”
“So?”
“So, we got into a conversation with her, at least Mitzi did. I was talking to a young guy who invited me outside. I’d seen him before and—”
“So it wasn’t your first time there.”
“No, it wasn’t. Anyway, I went outside with him and—”
“Spare me the details, Jeanine.”
“He tried to rape me, Fletch.”
That got his full attention. He put down his glass and leaned toward her. “He tried to rape you? Did he? Rape you?”
“No. I—I—he had a knife and threatened to use it unless I got in the car with him.”
“Bastard!”
“Yes, he was a bastard, Fletch. I—”
“What happened?”
“He tried to use the knife and I fought him and the knife got turned around and it went into him.”
“He—?”
“He died.