Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [66]
“Good,” Annabel said, knowing the only viable option was surgery.
“Mac.”
“Yeah?”
“Were you flirting with her tonight?”
“Of course not. I don’t flirt with other women.”
“You laughed louder and longer than her stories warranted. I mean, it’s okay as long as it’s just flirting.”
“I’m an old man with bad knees. My flirting days are over.”
She turned him from the sink and wrapped her arms around him, gave him a lingering kiss. “I always wonder whether you’re flirting when a woman as attractive as Lucianne Huston is around. Not insecurity. It’s a compliment—to a handsome husband.”
“Glad you feel that way. About being handsome, not about me flirting.”
“I’ll finish up. You take Rufus out and get back here quick.”
“Am I being seduced?”
“Uh huh. You know I’ve always had a thing for old men with bad knees.”
Chapter 25
Annabel came to the conclusion after the dinner with Lucianne Huston: She’d spent enough time thinking about Michele Paul’s murder. It wasn’t her business despite what Lucianne had claimed, that they were kindred spirits in search of an answer. Not true, Annabel told Mac while cleaning up the kitchen: “I can see two months slipping by with me not even close to having the research I need for the piece.”
“Good for you,” he’d said. “Ms. Huston is paid to dig into murder, you’re not.”
“Exactly.”
And so the following morning, Annabel went directly to her work space on the upper gallery and settled in for a day devoted to researching Bartolomé de Las Casas. She’d emptied her briefcase on the small desk and was about to compare material from two books published shortly after Columbus’s second voyage to the New World when John Vogler called on the number Annabel had been assigned.
“Yes, Dr. Vogler?”
“I’m sorry to intrude on your work, Mrs. Reed-Smith,” said the chief of Manuscripts, “but I urgently need to speak with you.”
“Later, perhaps?” said Annabel. “I’ve fallen terribly far behind in my research and—”
“It will only take a few minutes. Please? It’s very important to me.”
“Now?”
“If it would be convenient for you.”
“All right. Your office?”
“No, somewhere outside the library. There’s a small bagel shop a block away on Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s called Chesapeake Bagel, in a string of restaurants.”
“I know where you mean.” Annabel had noticed it when she had lunch with Dolores Marwede.
“I’ll go there now,” Vogler said.
Annabel considered taking another stab at postponing but decided she’d rather get it over with, whatever it was.
Vogler had wedged his considerable frame into a chair at a small table at the rear of the bakery. He bumped it as he stood, causing coffee from a full cup to spill over its sides. He was obviously agitated as he invited Annabel to sit: “Coffee? Tea? Would you like something to eat?”
“Thank you, no. I really have to get back. What is it you need to speak to me about?”
“Michele Paul’s murder.”
Remembering her resolve, she said, “I’m trying not to spend any more time thinking or talking about the murder, Dr. Vogler. It’s getting in the way of my work.”
“Oh, I can understand that,” said Vogler, “and I agree. But this is terribly important to me. The police—they interrogated me for hours yesterday. It was brutal.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but they have a job to do.”
He ignored what she’d said. “They’re making so much of the confrontation I had with Michele and the business with Candy, my wife.”
Annabel wasn’t surprised.
“It’s even worse than that,” he said, leaning across the table and fixing her with pale blue, watery eyes. “Someone has told them—the police, I mean—that I was seen in Hispanic at the time the murder occurred.”
Annabel’s eyebrows went up. “Were you?”
“Of course not. You remember, I’m sure, when I told you I hadn’t been there that night, went nowhere near it.”
“I remember you telling me that,” Annabel confirmed, not adding that having told her didn’t mean anything. “Who told the police you were there?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t reveal the name to me, which I