Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [38]
“But it wasn’t,” Clarise said, extending her hands in a gesture of frustration. “That film was privately funded.”
“It’s all the same to the senator, Clarise. Anything that offends his moral compass gets lumped together. Did he mention the film when you met with him?”
“No.”
A lawyer handed Clarise a sheet of paper with a dozen lines of type. “Talking points when that film and your role in producing it come up. Take a minute to study them. Then we’ll run you through questions about it. Stick to the talking points. They represent answers that some of the senators will want to hear. If you get off-message, it will open up other questions you might not be prepared to handle.”
The Murder Team’s grilling of Clarise went on for a half hour. When it was over, someone asked her about the killing at Ford’s Theatre.
“Incredible,” Clarise said. “A murdered young woman right at my doorstep.”
“Any leads?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
There was an awkward silence at the table before one of the lawyers said, “The rumors about the young woman who was killed and your former husband, Senator Lerner. Is that liable to get messy?”
“Oh, come on,” Clarise said. “Why should it? It was just a nasty rumor spread by a disgruntled former aide to Bruce. Why should it have any bearing on my confirmation?”
“It shouldn’t,” replied the lawyer. “But you never know what some of the committee members will dredge up, especially crafty curmudgeons like Sybers. We just don’t want any surprises.”
“Are any people on your staff suspects?” asked another attorney.
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re not, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“No surprise witnesses liable to show up to testify against you?”
Clarise shook her head back and forth, as far as it would go. “This is a little late for that, isn’t it?” she said. “My God, you’ve investigated me as though I were up to head the Atomic Energy Commission. What surprise witnesses could there possibly be?”
One of two friendly senators’ assistants on the team said, “Too much has gone into this process to leave room for bolts from the blue, Clarise, that’s all. The murder at the theatre is an unfortunate thing. Bad timing.”
“Murder,” Clarise muttered. “The ultimate pornography. Look, my friends, my life has become an open book. If there is some surprise in the woodwork, it’ll shock me as much as it shocks you—or the senators.”
“Good,” said the White House arts liaison. “You’ve been a real trouper, Clarise. Anything else anyone wants to raise?”
No one responded, and the meeting broke up. On her way out, Clarise was taken aside by the president’s arts chief: “Vice President Maloney asked me to send her best, Clarise. She’s firmly in your corner, as you know.”
“Please say hello for me. I owe her a call. It’s been so busy that—”
“Of course. I’ll tell her you’ll be in touch. Keep your chin up. It’ll be over soon.”
“It can’t be soon enough.”
Clarise headed back to Ford’s Theatre, where she huddled with Bernard Crowley for the rest of the afternoon going over plans for two upcoming fund-raisers: a cocktail party for members of the theatre’s board of trustees, each of whom had paid at least $10,000 for the privilege of serving; and the annual Festival at Ford’s, a nationally televised variety show that generated large sums of money for the theatre and was traditionally attended by a who’s who of Washington government officials and social leading lights, including the president and vice president and their families.
“It looks like you have things in your usual good order, Bernard.”
“I try to, Clarise.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I just don’t know how you do it,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“How you manage to juggle so many things. Running the theatre society, getting ready for a senate grilling, all your social obligations, and now having to put up with a murder investigation.”
“In the genes, I suppose. Dumb enough to enjoy the challenge. Have the police been back?”
“I don’t think so.