Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [49]
“You sound positively jealous,” Bancroft said, striking a pose with one elbow on a file cabinet.
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of Clarise’s affection for me.”
“I wouldn’t call it affection,” Crowley said, returning his focus to the numbers on the green sheets of paper. “I’d call it pity.”
Crowley couldn’t see the anger manifest itself in Bancroft, the pulsating vein in his neck, lips pressed tightly together, fists clenched. When the actor said nothing, Crowley sat back, hands behind his head, a grin on his face. “I’m busy, Sydney. As I said, Clarise is—”
“Tell her I’ve left town for a few days. Tell her I’ll be in London conferring with producers and my agent concerning my one-man show. Tell her the teenage production—if it can be called that without laughing—is in as good a shape as it ever will be, and that my esteemed assistant will carry things forward. I may be back in time for the performance. I shall try to be. But if I am not—”
“Good night, Sydney. I’ll pass along your message.”
As Bancroft turned to leave, Crowley said, “What shall I tell the police when they want to question you again?”
“Why would they?”
“Oh, because I understand you’re high on their list of suspects, considering the perverted attention you demonstrated toward Nadia.”
The actor, for whom words were everything, was without them for a moment. Then, he spoke from between almost clenched teeth, “I wish you a dreadful disease, Crowley, a long, lingering, and painful one.”
AT BISTRO BIS, on Capitol Hill, Clarise looked down at her appetizer that had just been served—galantine of duck with slices of seared foie gras in an apple-cherry compote. Her cell phone sounded.
“Sorry, but I don’t think you’ll mind a phone call,” she told her dinner companions, two executives from AT&T. “I forgot to turn it off.” She ignored a stern look from a couple at an adjoining table and put the phone to her ear. The AT&T men, busy talking with each other, didn’t see her face sag as the caller, Clarise’s social secretary, relayed the message that Jeremiah had left during the single phone call he was allowed from First District headquarters: “Mom, I’ve been arrested. They beat me. I didn’t do nothing. I swear.”
Clarise replaced the phone in her handbag.
“You can never get away,” the female executive said lightly.
“Thanks to us,” her male colleague said. “Trouble?”
“No, no trouble,” Clarise said.
They’d been discussing AT&T’s possible sponsorship of a play the following season when the phone had rung. “I’m afraid I will have to run right after dinner,” she said. “In the meantime, this looks scrumptious.” She picked up a fork and began to eat, saying between bites, “Let’s get back to the show you’ll be supporting at Ford’s Theatre. There’s a tremendous amount of goodwill for AT&T to come from your participation. Our lawmakers are keenly aware of corporations who support the arts here in Washington, and tend to look favorably upon them when specific regulatory legislation is being considered.” She smacked her well-shaped lips. “This galantine is extraordinary, don’t you agree?”
SHE RACED HOME after dinner, flinging her raincoat on a chair as she moved through the house to her home office. Her secretary had left a note containing information from Jeremiah’s call from the police station. Clarise glanced at it and was about to reach for the phone to try to reach her ex-husband when its ring jarred her. She picked up.
“Clarise, darling, it’s Sydney.”
“Sydney, I don’t have time to—”
“I know, I know. There was just a breaking news story on the telly about Jeremiah. I’m shocked, as I know you are.”
“It was on the news?”
“Just moments ago. Clarise, you know I’m leaving for London in the morning, but—”
“You are?”
“Didn’t Crowley tell you? He’s known about the trip for ages.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“At any rate, darling, I’ll only be away for a few days. The show is in tip-top shape. When I come back, call on me for anything. Anything,