Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [127]
“Your entrée is a special favorite of mine,” he announced, “medallions of pork in a black cherry pepper sauce, with spatzle and braised fennel. The sweet tartness of the black cherries offsets the pork’s flavor, and the black pepper adds just the perfect bite to the dish
The evening had begun with tomato aspic with tiny shrimp, which Biró said was a typical northern German dish. The salad was asparagus tips with tiny slices of sweetbreads, a southern German dish. The wines he’d chosen for the evening were a white from the Rhine, and a red Bordeaux imported from the house of Tesdorpff, wine merchants since the 15th century. A parfait of Williams pear with beetroot sabayon, Malvasier, from the island of Madeira, was dessert.
“He’s absolutely charming,” Annabel remarked to Mac as they savored the pork entrée.
“That he is,” Mac agreed. He lowered his voice. “But I have to admit, my pedestrian palate is more attuned to sauerbraten, sauerkraut, and dumplings that sink immediately to the lower stomach
She giggled and put a finger to her lips. “Loose lips sink ships, and dumplings,” she said.
Everyone at the table agreed that the evening, at least the first portion of it, was a smashing success. The ambassador and his wife were a charming couple, and having the celebrity chef there only added to the sizzle.
They left the German Embassy and went to the evening’s main event, the party at the Brazilian Embassy. As they approached, pulsating samba and bossa nova rhythms could be heard, and felt, a block away. An overwhelming contingent of security people, uniformed and in plainclothes, made their presence abundantly evident. The Smiths’ invitations, accompanying photo IDs, and names from a computer printout were carefully checked, and they were allowed to enter the grounds on which the huge tent was the scene of a lavish, loud gala. Couples danced to the spirited music beneath rotating colored lights that painted an impressionistic swirl over everything, and everyone. Mac and Annabel made their way to a long table where uniformed staff poured cups of Brazilian coffee; they avoided the artfully arranged desserts. Costumed supers wearing elaborate masks were stationed at various spots around the dance floor to add color, and to chat with guests.
“When’s the president due?” Mac asked his wife.
“A half hour,” Annabel said.
A member of the ball committee approached. “Annabel,” she said, “I hate to tear you away from your handsome husband, but we could use your help for twenty minutes
“Mac?”
“Go ahead. I’ll wander a bit, catch up with you for a dance in a half hour—provided it’s a slow one
He watched her move through the crowd, her decidedly female form lovely to look at from any direction. He walked without purpose across the dance floor to an area surrounded by high bushes, the band’s volume buffeted somewhat by the foliage and distance. As with everywhere else on the embassy grounds, security was thick and tight. Two obvious Secret Service agents, their little earpieces a giveaway, stood with two uniformed MPD patrolmen and a heavyset black man, whom Mac assumed was another cop. He was right.
“Excuse me,” the black man said, “but aren’t you a lawyer?”
“I was,” Mac replied. “I teach law now. Mackensie Smith
“I knew I recognized you,” Willie Portelain said. “I testified in a couple of cases where you were representing the perps
Mac laughed. “I preferred to call them defendants,” he said. “I recognize you, too, Officer
“You were tough in that courtroom, man,” Willie said. “Made me sweat on the stand. Name’s Portelain. Willie Portelain, detective over at the First
They shook hands. “Looks like every police officer in the city is here tonight,” Mac said, looking back into the crowd.
“All I know