Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [65]
“Horrible,” said Crowley. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
Clarise removed her beige linen jacket and draped it over her chair as he filled two mugs and rejoined her at the small conference table.
“You say Mac Smith handled his defense,” Crowley said.
“Yes, bless his heart. He didn’t want to—I can’t say I blame him—he and Annabel have forged a pleasant, quiet life together. But he’s such a good friend. He brought along a former law partner, Yale Becker. At least Jeremiah is in capable hands. What I can’t deal with is why the police want to talk to Jeremiah about Nadia Zarinski. He didn’t even know her.”
“Why are they interested in him, Clarise? They must have a reason.”
“Jeremiah wouldn’t discuss it with me. Bruce tried to explain, but he’s so damned preoccupied. Evidently, someone has told the police that Jeremiah knew Nadia and had dated her. What rubbish! Had you ever seen them together, Bernard? I mean, had you ever seen Jeremiah hanging around the theatre?”
“No. Never.”
“You said Nadia helped you out on a couple of mailings. Did she ever say anything, hint at knowing Jeremiah?”
He shook his large head.
“It’s all a mistake, I’m sure. I talked to Mac last night after speaking with Jeremiah and Bruce. He wants all of us to meet as soon as possible. How do I find the time? The hearing is days away, it’s the busy season here at the theatre, and there just doesn’t seem a spare minute. How do the numbers look?”
“Excellent. I think the finance committee will be impressed.” He handed her a file folder containing checks to be signed.
“Speaking of numbers,” she said, “my dinner with the AT&T contingent went especially well. I’m sure they’ll underwrite one of next year’s shows.”
Crowley’s mouth tightened and his brow furrowed; there was something he wanted to say, but wasn’t sure he should.
“Yes?”
“I know this isn’t my business, Clarise, and if I’m treading where I shouldn’t, please say so.”
“All right.”
“I think you should find a way to spend the necessary time with Jeremiah, even if it means letting things go here at the theatre for a few days. We’re in good shape. Festival at Ford’s is falling into place—it should be the best ever, I’m told, thanks to all the preliminary work you did in conceiving its program—the president and first lady and the veep and his wife have confirmed, along with anyone who’s anybody in Congress. And look at this.” He handed her a fax that had been in the machine when he arrived. It was from a New York talent agency confirming performers committed to that year’s Festival at Ford’s, the annual gala televised nationally by the ABC television network.
“… Tony Bennett. Diana Krall—I really like her—Alan King, Placido—is he bringing others from the Washington Opera?—Natalie Cole—impressive.” She handed the fax back to Crowley. “About taking time for Jeremiah. Yes, I agree with you. Damn him! Don’t children realize that when they misbehave, they wreak havoc with their parents’ lives?” She laughed. “I don’t really mean that. He needs me, and I’ll be there. And I appreciate your concern for him, Bernard. And for me. Thank you.”
“Heard from Bancroft?” Crowley asked, trying to sound as though he didn’t care whether she had or not.
“No.”
“The teen show is Saturday. Sydney, who’s supposed to be directing it, hasn’t been putting in a lot of time. “
“I’ll check on it,” she said, standing and stretching.
He got to his feet and helped her on with her jacket. “No,” he said, “I’ll check on it. Why don’t you go back home for the morning? I’ve put together a complete presentation for the finance committee that’ll knock their socks off. Go home and get things in order with Jeremiah, Mac Smith, anyone else you need to confer with. Come back, have a pleasant lunch, and enjoy the presentation. You’ll feel better having that other problem in tow.”
Clarise drew a breath, smiled, and kissed him on his cheek. “You are absolutely right, Bernard.” How pasty his face was. If he didn’t lose weight soon, she’d be going to his funeral. “See you at lunch,” she