Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [7]
They were greeted upstairs by Rufus, their Great Blue Dane.
“I’ve only been away a day,” Annabel told the welcoming dog, almost as tall as she, rubbing behind his ears to keep from being devoured. “Both you guys know how to welcome a girl.”
Mac called from the kitchen, “Drink?”
“Maybe one and a half.”
The rain ruled out having their drinks on the terrace, so they settled in the living room, where they clinked glasses and took a first taste of Mac’s perfect Perfect Manhattans.
“Speaking of same, how was Manhattan—perfect?”
“On its best behavior. They say the crime rate’s down … but that hasn’t slowed them down.”
“The meeting,” Mac said. “It went smoothly?”
“Very. The issue is going to be devoted to Columbus, and not just the usual recounting of his voyages and discoveries, but to his personal side, too. You know, he came out of obscurity, Mac, the son of a shopkeeper and weaver. He and one of his brothers went to sea at an early age.”
“But that’s not the specific thrust of your article.”
“Right, the article I’ve been commissioned to write will focus on Bartolomé de Las Casas, the real controversial figure in the story. He’s always been considered nothing more than Columbus’s friend and confidant who worked on Columbus’s daily logs and helped him write his Book of Privileges.”
“Which was? Refresh me.”
“It was the book Columbus presented to judges and notaries in Spain back in 1502. He wanted to convince Queen Isabel and King Fernando to grant titles, money, and other privileges to him and his descendants in return for having risked his life to discover new lands for the Crown.”
“The explorer was a pragmatist as well as an adventurer.”
“Can’t blame him. But Las Casas might have been more than just a pal and editor. If certain scholars are correct, Las Casas kept his own diaries. And never told Columbus he was doing it.”
“And your friend’s alleged diaries might be in conflict with Columbus’s version of things?”
“My friend?”
“Las Casas will be your friend when you’re done researching him. What’s your deadline?”
“Two months.”
“When do you start your research?”
“First thing in the morning. Consuela is setting me up with a cubbyhole in the Hispanic and Portuguese reading room. I’m scheduled to interview Michele Paul.”
“Who’s she?”
“He. Paul is probably the leading scholar in the world where Las Casas is concerned. There are plenty of others, but he seems to be the most respected. He’s been researching the Las Casas diaries at LC for much of his career.”
“That sort of single-minded focus always amazes me,” Mac said. “Snack?”
“Thank you, no. Too close to dinner. Are we eating here?”
He nodded and stood. “I picked things up this afternoon at the French Market. Simple fare.” As Mac headed for the kitchen, he stopped for a moment and winced.
“Your knee?”
“Yeah. Comes and goes.”
“It woke you up last night.”
He smiled. “You were awake?”
“Uh huh. Sit. I’ll get dinner.” She got to her feet.
“Oh, no. I’m the chef in this house, torn meniscus or not. Enjoy your drink. Glad you’re home. So’s he.”
Rufus, who answered to many things, including he, wagged his tail. Annabel watched her husband enter the kitchen, followed by the dog. Mac wasn’t limping, but it was clear he was favoring his right leg.
As minor a procedure as arthroscopic surgery to repair a knee might be, that anything was wrong with her husband was anathema to Annabel. Since marrying seven years ago—he’d been a widower since losing his first wife and only son in a Beltway head-on car crash; it was Annabel’s first marriage—they’d been almost adolescent in their view of their mortality. They would live happily forever now that they’d found each other, no problems, no threats to their love, never aging, doctors to be seen only for routine checkups that showed them to be, of course, in the pink of health, remarkable physical specimens, the perfect couple in every way and destined to remain that way.
Need help? she almost asked, but didn’t. Instead,