Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [9]
Then she met Mackensie Smith, former top criminal attorney whose clients had included a number of inside-the-Beltway notables. With his wife and son gone so suddenly, Smith lost interest in his practice, eventually giving it up and becoming a law professor at George Washington University.
“I’m thinking of leaving the law,” Annabel told him one night after their relationship had been firmly established. “I’ve had this lifelong love of pre-Columbian art and history, and I’ve always wanted to open a specialized gallery. What do you think?”
“Do it!” he said without hesitation. “Change your life before life changes you.”
She found an attractive space in Georgetown and filled it with baked-clay Tlatilco statues, stucco death masks, beaded belts, and silver jewelry from that vastly rich and artistic era before Columbus and other Europeans set foot on the shores of Central and North America and transformed those places forever, not always for the better. Simultaneously, Annabel immersed herself in pre-Columbian history, eventually finding the study of Christopher Columbus and his four voyages to the New World to be of great interest. And she started writing articles on the subject, first for esoteric journals, then moved on to publications with wider circulation and enhanced influence. These activities helped to make the name she’d forged for herself in pre-Columbian art circles—the gallery was now twice its original size—and led to the offer to write the lead article for Civilization on the Las Casas connection to Columbus.
“I know your gallery, Mrs. Reed-Smith. I’ve been there but never bought anything. A little—no, a lot beyond my means.”
“Buying things for the gallery is often a lot beyond my means, too,” Annabel said modestly.
“Let’s head over to Hispanic,” Annabel’s host said, taking a final sip of coffee.
“Do you know whether I’ve been set up to speak with Michele Paul?” Annabel asked as they left the public affairs office and went to the main entrance, where Annabel’s briefcase and handbag were again searched—this time for books belonging to the LC—before exiting to Independence Avenue.
“Too nice a day to use the underground tunnel,” the pert, enthusiastic public affairs specialist said, striding briskly in the direction of the researcher’s entrance to the Jefferson Building on Second Street, SE. The main entrance was on the other side of the building, on First Street.
“Michele Paul,” Annabel repeated.
“Oh, him.”
Annabel laughed. “Should I read something into your tone?”
“Please don’t. Telling tales out of school—in this case, a library—is a popular sport, especially where Michele Paul is concerned. He’s a brilliant scholar.”
Annabel waited a beat: “And?”
“He can be …”
“Difficult?”
“A rare bit of understatement in a town that thrives on overstatement.”
“Don’t feel you’re betraying any confidences,” said Annabel. “I’ve heard harsh comments about him, too, although I can’t speak from much personal experience. The last time I was in the Hispanic reading room, Consuela introduced us. He was terribly rude.”
“I’m not surprised. You and Consuela go back a long way, I hear.”
“Yes. She’s a dear friend.”
“And popular around here. If she has a dark side, I’ve yet to see it.”
“How does Consuela deal with the temperamental Mr. Paul?” Annabel asked.
“Pretty well, I guess. When you deal with someone with his credentials—he’s the sole reason some donors to the Hispanic collection look to us first—Consuela might not have been able to find a way to—well, there I go again.”
“Find a way to get rid of him?” Annabel felt like she was on a game show where one person starts a thought