Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [18]
“Oh, Jeremiah is all right, Annabel. Still finding himself.”
Not an especially prideful response. Annabel withheld any follow-up questions.
But Clarise wasn’t finished. “I have nightmares about Jeremiah.” Her sigh was prolonged and pained. “You know, the things I did wrong, the times I wasn’t there for him. Bruce and I did our best, I think, ‘our best’ under the circumstances of our careers and schedules. I don’t know, Annabel, maybe politics and parenting don’t mix.”
Annabel thought it interesting that Clarise chose her former husband’s career as an example rather than her own career as a high-powered movie and TV executive. Jeremiah, Annabel knew through anecdotes from people who were friends of the Lerners when they were a couple, had spent most of his youth in his father’s home, with full-time nannies. Clarise, who spent each week in Hollywood, had flown home to Washington on weekends to be with her husband and son. Not the ideal parenting situation, but not as bad as some others in which poverty exacerbates single-parent homes. Who was to judge their parenting record? Not Annabel. Not anyone other than the boy’s mother and father.
Crowley returned to the terrace, a fresh drink in hand. A moment later, Mac came through the door and apologized for being held up. “I see you’ve found the bar,” he said pleasantly. “Good. I think I’ll find it, too. Be with you in a minute.”
When Mac joined them, the conversation turned from Jeremiah Lerner to Ford’s Theatre and its upcoming productions.
“We have the teen show coming up,” Clarise said. “The Stages for all Ages program has really taken off. We can’t handle the number of teens who want to participate.”
“The Post sponsors that, doesn’t it?” Mac asked.
“Among others,” Crowley answered. “Metro Transit, DC Commission on the Arts. The support’s been terrific, thanks to our friend here.” He said to her, “Clarise, you’re the best arm-twister I’ve ever known.”
“Thank you,” she said lightly, “but that’s what the job is all about, isn’t it?”
“That, and putting on plays,” Mac offered.
“The easiest part,” Clarise replied. “Keeping the money flowing, and dealing with all the different personalities, are a lot harder.”
“Sydney Bancroft,” Crowley said flatly.
Annabel laughed. “Still the bane of your existence, Clarise?”
Clarise’s smile wasn’t pure pleasure. “Oh, Sydney is all right,” she said. “He’s directing the student play and doing a good job, I’m told.”
Crowley, who was leaning against the terrace’s railing, came away from it and went to take the fourth chair, which was vacant. He stumbled as he did, caught himself with a hand on the green wrought-iron table, and sat heavily. “Sorry,” he said. “Lost my balance.”
A little unbalanced by bourbon, the others thought.
“Clarise is generous to a fault,” Crowley said, downing some of the shimmering amber liquid in his glass.
“How so?” Mac asked.
“Keeping someone like Sydney on the payroll. It seems to me that the only contribution he makes is trouble.”
“Oh, Bernard,” Clarise said, like a teacher to a child. To Mac and Annabel: “Bernard is always keeping his eye on the bottom line. That’s good. But he sometimes doesn’t appreciate the more subtle aspects of fund-raising. Sydney is a valuable commodity to me. His prior fame as an actor has opened many doors, behind which have lurked generous contributors. Sydney may be difficult at times, even outrageously so on occasion, but he fulfills an important function.”
“And drives everyone crazy,” Crowley said.
“He always had a reputation as a prima donna,” Annabel said, referring to the British Bancroft’s earlier time as a stage and film actor, particularly a series of successes years ago performing Shakespeare with the Royal Shakespeare Company at Stratford-upon-Avon. “He is prickly, I must say, but he can be charming, too.”
“Hardly