Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [15]
When Clarise moved to Washington, two of the first people Congresswoman Maloney introduced her to were Mac and Annabel Smith. “This handsome couple knows D.C. intimately,” Maloney told Clarise, “but they haven’t been corrupted by it.”
“I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE IT,” Clarise said to Annabel as they sat in her office in the three-storey building attached to the theatre. “I know murders happen in this city, but here? Good Lord! And her?”
“Anything from the police?” Annabel asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. I told them everything I could, which wasn’t much. I never even knew she spent time here at Ford’s. Not that I should be expected to know. Interns come and go, volunteers, dozens of them. They work at night, helping out on productions, or in the office sometimes.”
“Your office?” Annabel asked.
“At times, but not her. I assure you, if I had known she was even within a hundred feet of the theatre I’d have sent her packing.” She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and slowly shook her head. Annabel didn’t intrude on whatever thoughts were dominating her friend. When Clarise opened her eyes, she said, “This whole business with Bruce is so distasteful.”
Annabel was aware, of course, of the rumors linking Lerner to some sort of sexual relationship with Nadia Zarinski, but dismissed them as being nothing more than the result of one of Washington’s favorite avocations: generating scandal. The rumor’s genesis hadn’t had much substance to back it up. A former aide to Lerner, who’d been fired, made the claim that the senator and Nadia had enjoyed a number of sexual episodes late at night in the office. That was it. That was enough. The seed germinated and blossomed into a full-grown “item” at bars and restaurants: “Not hard to believe,” many said. “Lerner’s love of the ladies isn’t exactly news.” “Hell, he’s single. So what if he has a fling with a sexy intern?” “It’s not like it’s anything new in this town.” And so on. Lerner, who successfully ignored the rumor until press mentions gave it legs, eventually dismissed it as nothing more than the petty grumbling of a former staffer, end of story. Nadia, too, when confronted by a reporter, said it was a filthy lie.
Some of Lerner’s advisers urged him to get rid of Nadia to avoid even the appearance of impropriety, but he refused. A young woman’s life, he told them, wasn’t going to be ruined because of cheap innuendo and a malicious lie. And so she stayed—and was paid, which raised a few easily elevated eyebrows—until that morning in Baptist Alley, in back of Ford’s Theatre.
“The police brought up the rumor about Bruce and Nadia,” Clarise said. “They actually had the nerve to ask me about it, dumb questions, like whether I ever confronted her, or what I was feeling about her murder.”
“What did they think you would know?” Annabel asked.
“Oh, maybe that Bruce”—she laughed—“or Nadia confided in me one dark and gloomy night to clear their consciences—who knows? It was so embarrassing, Annabel. How dare they?”
“Well, at least you have that behind you, Clarise. Being questioned by the police. I heard that there’s someone who claims to have seen the murder.”
Clarise guffawed. “An old drunk sleeping it off in the alley. I’m sure the only thing he sees is snakes and bugs crawling over him.”
Ford’s Theatre’s controller appeared in the open doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” Bernard Crowley said.
“Come in,” Clarise said. “You know Annabel Smith.”
“Of course,” Crowley said, offering his hand tentatively in the event it was bad manners for a man to do so first. He wasn’t sure. Annabel accepted it and said, “We were just talking about what happened this morning.”
“There’s nothing else to talk about,” he said, leaning against file cabinets. “Or think about. That’s all I’ve been doing.” He shifted his oversized body against the cabinets and flicked a drop of perspiration from the side of his nose with a finger. “I must tell you, Clarise, that I knew she was working here.”
“You knew, and didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want to