Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [117]
CLARISE STOOD and looked at the array of family photographs on the mantel. Fury was what she now felt. Had she a weapon in her hand, she would have gladly turned it on him.
She faced him; he cocked an eyebrow and smiled.
“What do you want?” she asked, working to keep her voice from quavering.
“A contribution to the arts, Clarise. Soon—very soon—you will have at your disposal a large sum of money, compliments of your taxpayers. You’ll sit at the head of America’s preeminent arts funding agency.”
He stood and approached, reaching out a hand to touch her. She recoiled: “Get away from me,” she said.
“I see you haven’t lost your sense of the dramatic,” he said. “I am not asking for anything illegal or unethical, Clarise. Your NEA is in the business of funding worthy artists. I am a worthy artist. All you need do is fund my show, give me enough money to launch it in London. You might even justify it as an example of hands across the sea.”
“And if I don’t fund this one-man show of yours?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a possibility, Clarise. By the way, I must have your answer no later than tomorrow evening.”
“Why?”
“Your hearing. Bad enough that your son has been accused of murder. If the distinguished men and women sitting in judgment of you were to learn that your equally esteemed husband, the senator from Virginia, isn’t even the boy’s father, that would really send them into a tizzy, wouldn’t it?”
“And you think anyone would believe you?” she asked, now more in control of herself. “You’ve never been sure, nor have I. Bruce has never questioned it. Jeremiah looks like Bruce.”
“I’d say he looks like you, Clarise. And will I be believed, you ask, in this day of DNA testing? Come, come.”
He made another attempt to close the gap between them and to touch her. This time, she allowed his hand on her shoulder.
“This never should have come to this, this—this adversarial situation between us. I’m not asking you to rob a bank. The NEA’s money will be put to good and proper use, to fund an important artistic undertaking: Sydney Bancroft, alone on the stage, regaling audiences with his insights into the great Willie B.”
A second hand reached her, on the opposite shoulder.
“There’s no need for rancor between us, Clarise. We loved each other once, at least for one night, and what a joyous night it was, glowing and warm from all the good wine we consumed, the silly giggling—remember the laughter?”
“Yes,” she said. “I remember.” She offered a petite smile.
“Of course you do.”
He stepped back and rubbed his hands together.
“I would say that things are in jolly good order, wouldn’t you?” he said.
She nodded.
“I promise you, Clarise, that I will put your NEA’s money to very good use, very good use indeed. You shall be proud of me, Clarise; front-row center seats shall be yours at my London opening, and the bubbly shall flow afterward.”
“That will be nice, Sydney. Now please, you must go.”
“Of course, dear. You’ve been through so much, but you’re strong, always have been.”
Her kiss on his cheek was unexpected.
“Good night,” she said.
She watched him leave the room, pausing in the doorway to throw her a kiss, and he was gone.
She went to a small bar in the family room, grabbed the nearest bottle, and poured some of its contents into a water glass. She drank half of it, coughed against its harshness, slammed the glass down causing some of the alcohol to spill over the rim, and picked up the phone.
“Annabel, it’s Clarise.”
“Hi.”
“I need to see you and Mac.”
“Of course. I have a relatively free day tomorrow and—”
“I need to see you now. I need—please. Can I come over?”
“Yes. We’re both here.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE BREAKING NEWS GRAPHIC appeared on the screen at nine-fifteen the next morning, Tuesday. The CNN anchor explained.
“CNN has learned that Clarise Emerson, whose confirmation hearing was scheduled for tomorrow, has withdrawn her name from consideration as the next head of the NEA. Emerson, the former wife of Virginia Senator Bruce Lerner, whose son,