Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [89]
“You looked concerned.”
She smiled. “It’s all this nonsense with Jeremiah. You’ve heard, of course, that the media is reporting that he’s a suspect in that girl’s murder.”
“Yes, Clarise. I didn’t mention it because—”
“Because you are a gentleman, that’s why, and I appreciate it.”
“He’s still with Bruce?”
“Ah, yes. He’s still with Bruce.”
Crowley looked quizzically at her.
“Now you look concerned,” she said.
“I am, Clarise. I know you. You’ll take on everything yourself, never seek help, and overload your system. When they question Jeremiah, I’m sure they’ll realize that they’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“And I’m sure you’re absolutely right.”
Crowley swiveled in his chair, which he overflowed, and looked out the window. Clarise took the opportunity to observe him.
She knew so little about him outside the confines of the office. He was a tragic figure in her eyes, grossly overweight, perpetually flushed, and with thin, wet strands of hair covering the expanse of his baldhead. He was only forty-three years old; at least that’s what he’d claimed on his employment application. Was he gay? It was unfair to make that assumption based only upon the fact that he’d never married. Asexual? There was more of that than people realized, Clarise theorized, men and women so busy pursuing their professional dreams that taking time out for sex was simply too intrusive.
She’d never been to his apartment, which she knew was in a large building in Silver Spring, Maryland, nor had she ever met any of his friends. He talked of having friends, male and female, and occasionally related what he’d done with them over the weekend, a movie, dinner out or in, a monthly low-stakes poker game at which he claimed he invariably lost but enjoyed the evening nonetheless.
Her interest in his extracurricular activities wasn’t especially keen, no more than a natural human desire to know how other people live. As far as she was concerned, the thing that mattered was the job he did for the theatre, which was splendid. If only he didn’t wear that dreadful cologne, she thought as he turned in the chair again and faced her. He struggled from the chair. “Nature calls,” he said.
“And I have to leave. I’m already late for my next appointment.”
“Go home,” he said. “Spend a quiet night in, Clarise. Recharge the old batteries.”
“Old batteries?” she said, laughing.
“Just a figure of speech,” he said, joining her laugh. “Excuse me.”
She watched him leave, packed things into her briefcase, then picked up the phone and dialed her home number. Isabella answered.
“Is Jeremiah there?” Clarise asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Tell him to stay, not to leave for any reason. I’ll be home in an hour.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Crowley stood at the door.
“That was quick,” Clarise said, smiling.
“One advantage of being a man,” he said. “It’s always quicker.”
“One of many advantages,” she said, standing and walking past him to the tiny hallway. “Don’t stay too late. And thanks again, Bernard, for all your fine work. Having the auditors come in to a shipshape operation takes a lot off my mind.”
“Clarise.”
She’d already gone down a few steps. “What?”
“When the pressure is off—when things calm down a little—I’d like some of your undivided attention.”
“Meaning?”
“A chance to sit down and talk.”
“Sure. About what?”
“Oh, many things, my future here, nothing more important than that.”
“Absolutely. When the pressure is off, you can buy me a drink and talk about anything, Bernard. Absolutely anything.”
She’d no sooner retrieved her car from the garage downstairs and started the engine when her cell phone rang.
“Ah, Clarise, darling,” Sydney Bancroft said. “So glad I caught you.”
“What is it, Sydney?”
“We absolutely must talk. I’m back from London, rejuvenated and revitalized and—”
“I don’t have time now, Sydney. I’m running late for an appointment.”
“Of course. What about Jeremiah? Anything new and exciting while I was away?”
“No, nothing. Your teen show went well this afternoon, I’m told.”
“Wonderful! I knew it would. When can we talk? Seriously talk?”
“Monday.