Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [116]
“I’ve done what I felt was right,” she said defensively. “I’ve done what I considered decent, considering the circumstances.”
“Oh, come now, Clarise, claiming patron saint status doesn’t become you. You define the word ‘pragmatic,’ and I respect you for that. The pragmatic, dynamic Clarise Emerson, formerly wife to a titan of government, and mother to a son named Jeremiah.” He paused and cocked his head; his smile said he considered himself on the winning side of the confrontation. “Did he ever know, Clarise? I mean, did your senator-sweetie ever really acknowledge what we know to be the truth?”
A sense of divine resignation set in. They hadn’t had this conversation for years. The last time was three years ago when she’d assumed the leadership of Ford’s Theatre, and she hadn’t heard from him for at least four years prior to that. He’d shown up unannounced at the theatre, gaudily dressed like a 1920s vaudevillian, a caricature of a British theatrical performer—comical, but not funny.
“CONGRATULATIONS, Clarise, on your new post,” he’d said that day, only a few weeks into her new job.
“This is quite a surprise,” she said, not at all happy at seeing him.
“I flew here straightaway from London when I heard the news. My, my, I said to myself, my favorite lady is giving up the glamour of Hollywood for the staid, stodgy world of live theatre.”
“I’m excited about it, Sydney. Ford’s Theatre has a rich history, but not only because a president was killed here.”
“I suspect I know a great deal more about that than you, Clarise. Yes, indeed. John Wilkes Booth has been a passion of mine for years. Don’t you remember when we were in London together? I talked your ear off about him.”
“Vaguely. Well, Sydney, it was good of you to come all the way from London to congratulate me.”
“And you now wish me to leave.”
“I—”
“Clarise, I need a favor, a big one from you. Things have—how shall I say it?—things have slowed down for me in England. Professionally, that is. I fired my agent, Quill, that bloodsucker. Absolutely worthless, he was, out of touch with the theatre scene there, a bumbler of the first order. He’d make a better fishmonger than theatrical agent.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sydney. Now, what’s this favor you’re asking of me?”
“You will admit that I’ve been admirably discreet all these years.”
“Sydney, I—”
“And, I might add, have been noticeably absent from your life.”
“Yes.”
“Well, dear girl, as that famous line in My American Cousin went when Mr. Booth put a bullet into Honest Abe’s head, ‘Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap.’”
She stared at him.
“I’d like to bring my considerable theatrical talents here to the good old U.S. of A., to this venerable theatre known as Ford’s.”
He didn’t let her respond.
“You owe me, Clarise. I’m sure you agree with that. I shan’t need much, just enough to find an agreeable flat, buy a new suit now and then, enjoy what culinary arts are practiced here in your nation’s capital, and to be kept in good scotch whisky. I’m a modest man. I assure you that once those needs are met, I shall never again raise the little secret we both hold so dear.”
Her anger was expressed in her mouth, drawn tight, a slash.
“Now, don’t be angry, Clarise. Actually, I think you’ll find me quite useful around here. Oh, and with your considerable political connections, arranging for the proper paperwork to allow me to stay here shouldn’t be a problem. I’m staying with an old friend, Saul Jones. He lives over in Alexandria or Arlington or one of those bloody places across the river.” He wrote out Jones’s phone number and handed it to her. “Don’t keep me waiting long with the good news, Clarise. I’m afraid my patience has worn thin with age, to say nothing of other things wearing thin, or out. Planned obsolescence by the man upstairs. Cheerio. It is wonderful seeing you after so long. And again, congratulations on your new post. Well deserved, my friend, well