Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [63]
“And then what?”
“And then you ask me yesterday about the painting that was stolen in Miami. Why?”
“Why did I ask?”
“Uh huh.”
“Because—because—look, Lucianne, I know you have a job to do, a story to report. I respect that. You say we’re both looking for something. You’re right. You’re looking for your story, and I’m looking for material on which to base a magazine article. That hardly makes us soul mates.”
“Oh, I think it does, Annabel. I think you’re the sort of person who can’t resist digging into a murder.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Who you are, that’s why. Former matrimonial attorney, and a damn good one, I hear, married to one of D.C.’s top criminal defense attorneys. Or ‘former,’ as he says. You ended up helping track down a precious Caravaggio painting stolen a few years back from the National Gallery. And you and your husband, who has a bad knee but still cooks for you—lucky you—got up to your necks in a series of murders last year at the Watergate right after you moved in. I can go on.”
“I should be flattered that you have so much interest in me and my husband. I’m not.”
“Just routine, that’s all. The more I know about the players, the better chance I have of coming up with the story. Besides, you seem wired in pretty solid with everybody at the library. The top guy, Broadhurst, and your husband play tennis together, at least when your hubby’s knee doesn’t hurt. You get invited to Broadhurst’s private little cocktail parties. Same with Consuela Martinez, who picks you to help go through Michele Paul’s apartment. What have you learned about John Bitteman?”
“Probably not nearly as much as you have,” Annabel said, standing and straightening her skirt. “I have to get back inside. I’m helping—”
“Helping go through Michele Paul’s files.”
“That’s right.”
“Any chance of filling me in on what you find?”
Annabel couldn’t help but smile. Despite Lucianne Huston’s aggressive personality, bordering on offensive, she liked her.
“I might,” she said.
They walked to the corner.
“I have to go back,” Lucianne said. “Free for dinner?”
“Yes, but—”
“Know what I’m missing?”
“What?”
“A home-cooked meal. Invite me for one of your husband’s dinners.”
Annabel sustained her smile. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll call and see if he’s up to it. I’ll leave a message for you with the PA office. Allergic to anything?”
“People who get in the way of a good story. Oh, and anchovies. Can’t stand anchovies.”
Chapter 24
Annabel spent the rest of the afternoon helping Consuela and Dolores go through the boxes from Michele Paul’s apartment. They worked quietly for hours, the only intrusion an occasional comment concerning something found in the boxes or question about a file.
During a break, Annabel asked, “Did either of you read about an art theft in Miami about a week or so ago?”
“No,” Dolores said.
“A painting by an artist named Fernando Reyes was stolen from a small museum there. It depicted Columbus giving King Fernando and Queen Isabel his Book of Privileges.”
Consuela laughed softly. “Not a very creative choice of subjects.” She asked Dolores, “How many paintings do you think have been done of that scene?”
Dolores shrugged. “A hundred? Why do you ask, Annabel?”
“When Consuela and I were going through material at Michele’s apartment, I ran across a file devoted to this artist, Reyes. I wondered why Michele Paul would have such interest in him. Reyes was never a major artist and worked long after Columbus’s time.”
“Then the real question is, why would someone want to steal one of his paintings?” Consuela asked.
“Exactly,” said Annabel, “unless …”
The other two looked at her.
“Unless there was something else to steal besides the painting. Something else in the painting, or that the painting led to.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea. Just thinking out loud.” She looked up at the clock. “It’s five. Lucianne Huston is coming tonight for dinner. I told Mac I’d do the shopping on my way home.”
“You and Huston are friends?” Dolores asked.
“No,