Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [38]
Nastasi said, “He may have been a top guy, but not in the polls. We get the word that nobody around here liked him.”
Mullin smiled demurely. “Michele Paul was difficult to get along with. He was egotistical and opinionated. He was also a brilliant scholar. Such people are often self-absorbed.”
“Who really had it in for him, Mrs. Mullin?” asked Nastasi.
“I really don’t think I should be the one to—”
Shorter interjected: “What he means is, Mrs. Mullin, was there anyone who’d displayed a blatant, open hostility toward him?”
“Not that I can think of.”
Consuela was next to be questioned. That she was visibly nervous as she took a seat held out by Shorter was demonstrated by the small handkerchief she twisted with her fingers and a tic in her left eye.
“You were the deceased’s boss?” Nastasi said.
“Yes. Michele was part of my staff.”
“How long did he work for you?”
“Ever since I became chief of Hispanic. That was six years ago next month. Michele had been at the library considerably longer than that.”
“We have his personnel file,” Shorter said. “He came to work here in nineteen seventy-seven, twenty-two years ago.”
“If that’s what it says.”
“What did he do for you?” Nastasi asked.
“Do for me? What do you mean?”
“You say he worked for you. What kind of work did he do?”
Consuela sighed and dabbed at a bead of perspiration on her cheek. “I suppose it’s misleading to say he worked for me,” she said. “Scholars on Michele’s level really don’t work for anyone. They do their own thing, as the saying goes, pursuing their research at their own pace and on their own schedule. But there has to be organization, someone in charge. That’s been me for six years.”
“You get along with him?” Nastasi asked.
Consuela clutched the handkerchief in both hands and focused her eyes on it.
“Dr. Martinez?” Nastasi said.
She looked up. “I’m sorry, my mind wandered. What was the question?”
“You and Mr. Paul. Did you get along?”
She paused: “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?” Nastasi asked, as annoyed with her response as he was when his kids answered that way.
“Michele was … well, he was difficult. He was—no, we did not get along especially well. He was abrasive.”
“To you personally?” Shorter asked.
“Yes. I think—I know Michele resented me from the day I became chief of the division. I suspect he was jealous.”
“He wanted the job?” Nastasi asked.
“I think so. He spread lies about me.”
“Lies?”
“Yes. When he heard I was being hired to head the Hispanic division, he told people I was a whore who’d slept her way into the job.”
“A sweetheart.”
“He planted other vile, false stories about me, hoping Dr. Broadhurst and others at the top would deny me the job. Fortunately, they didn’t.”
“That must have upset you,” Nastasi said.
“Of course it did.”
“Why didn’t you fire him?”
“I would have if I’d had the option. But his credentials are—were impressive. There have been a number of important donors to the collection who gave their historic materials to us rather than another institution because Michele was here.”
“Tough position for a boss to be in.”
“Very tough.”
“I assume you and he had more than a few confrontations about it.”
Consuela managed a smile. “Many. He denied, of course, having been the source of the lies about me. Besides being unpleasant, Michele was an accomplished liar. Smooth would be the kindest way to describe it.”
“Yesterday?”
“What about yesterday?”
“You had a confrontation?”
“No.”
Nastasi looked up from the pad on which he’d been making notes. “No?”
“No.”
“Sure you don’t want to think about that before you answer?”
“Why should I?” Consuela said, changing position in the chair.
“I heard you did have a confrontation with him yesterday.”
Consuela’s brow furrowed. “I can’t imagine who would say that. Do you mean a telephone conversation we had?”
“Yeah,