Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [119]
Clarise offered to call a cab, but Mac insisted on driving her. It was after three in the morning. When he returned, he and Annabel sat on the terrace. Sleep was out of the question.
“Did she say anything in the car about what put her over the edge?” Annabel asked. “I keep having the feeling that there’s something beyond the ordeal with Jeremiah that prompted her decision to back away.”
“No, she didn’t, and I agree with you. We’ll probably never know.”
“What about Jeremiah, Mac? Why is he still in jail?”
“I spoke with Yale earlier today. Lerner is obviously dragging his feet with the bail, but he assured Yale that he’d have it to the court tomorrow afternoon—which happens to be this afternoon. The prosecution convinced the judge to place a lot of restrictions on Jeremiah, including an electronic monitoring ankle bracelet, but Yale managed to kill that. Clarise asked whether I could arrange for him to stay with her until the trial, instead of with his father.”
“Can you?”
“I’ll submit a motion today. The last thing Senator Lerner wants is to have Jeremiah living with him again. I’m sure he won’t balk at Clarise having custody. Let’s grab a few hours’ sleep.”
A few hours were all the sleep they enjoyed. The rising sun two hours later saw to that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BERNARD CROWLEY HAD BEEN UP for hours at his apartment in Silver Spring. A call from Clarise at five-thirty had not only jarred him awake, it had sent him into a prolonged bout of anxiety.
“You woke me,” he’d said.
“And I’ve been up all night. I received a call from Sol Wexler a few minutes ago.”
“Oh? So early?”
“Bernard, we have to talk, and I mean now.”
“On the phone?”
“No. At the theatre. What time were you planning to come in today?”
“The same time I always do. Nine.”
“It will have to be later. Noon. In my office.”
“Clarise, I—”
“Noon, Bernard,” she said firmly, and hung up.
Crowley sat stunned, staring at the phone. She’d sounded so angry, so uncharacteristically harsh. He’d often marveled at her even temperament when under pressure, at least where he was concerned. He’d seen flashes of anger directed at others, but those incidents were infrequent and usually of short duration.
After showering and dressing in suit and tie, he went to the kitchen, where he sat at a small table, a small glass of orange juice in front of him, a small radio tuned to an all-news station.
He called the theatre at nine and told the person who answered that he wouldn’t be in until noon: “No, I’m not ill, just personal things to catch up on.”
Which wasn’t exactly true. His stomach churned, and acid rose to his throat. He thought he might vomit, but the waves of nausea came and went. He made himself a cup of tea and a slice of dry toast, hoping that would calm his stomach, and it seemed to help.
Until … the voice from the radio’s tiny speaker announced that Clarise Emerson had withdrawn her name from consideration to head the NEA, intended to honor her resignation as producing director of Ford’s Theatre, and return to California.
Crowley was stunned. The newscaster’s voice, now intoning another story, hung in the kitchen like smoke from a burning pan. He wanted to turn a dial on the radio to hear it again, to confirm it had ever been said.
Why hadn’t she told me? Was that why she had demanded a noon meeting? No, of course not. He knew why, and it had nothing to do with her leaving. The larger question was how her announcement would impact her reason for demanding—yes, she’d demanded it, hadn’t suggested it—that he meet with her.
As he watched the minutes pass on a wall clock, he fought to keep his emotions in check. Sol Wexler kept coming to mind. Crowley had been convinced from his first day on the job that Wexler had disliked him, and was working to undermine his authority. He was certain the accountant had counseled Clarise to not hire him. “That bastard!” he exclaimed to the empty room.
He turned on the