Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [72]
Tired of such ruminations, and hungry, she went to the kitchen, where she smeared peanut butter and jelly on Ritz crackers and poured a glass of milk. Like Willie Portelain was fond of saying, when your body says it needs something, you have to oblige.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Arthur and Pamela Montgomery, president of the United States and first lady, returned to their living quarters in the White House after having hosted a state dinner for Canada’s prime minister. The first couple enjoyed such events. President Montgomery was a gregarious host who took pleasure in bantering with guests, especially peers from other nations. His wife was equally at ease with a roomful of strangers. Her social secretary was adept at preparing a talking points list for the couple prior to social affairs, complete with a dossier on each guest that included special interests to be woven into conversations. The White House hadn’t had as smooth and erudite a couple in decades, or one as good-looking. Montgomery was movie-star handsome, his wife possessing the sort of quiet, staunch beauty that graced films in the forties and fifties. A formidable pair.
The evening featured Canadian whiskey (a martini for the president) and Canadian wines from its Okanagan Valley, a 2002 Township Chardonnay, and 2001 red Jackson-Triggs Grand Reserve Meritage. A Canadian wine expert was on hand to discuss the merits of the wines: “Because the wines are produced in a cooler climate, they tend to be lighter and fruitier, whereas hotter regions produce less fruity, heavier wines.” Whether that was true or not, the first lady proclaimed them delightful, which was good enough for other wine drinkers at the black-tie affair, who perhaps thought otherwise.
The cocktail hour was to begin at seven. But at six, the president and Prime Minister Bruce Colmes met in a hastily scheduled session in a small room off the family quarters, a meeting arranged at the last minute by their staffs.
“I appreciate you taking the time to meet like this on the spur of the moment,” Montgomery said to his counterpart.
“No inconvenience,” Colmes said. “I’m here at the White House anyway, thanks to your hospitality, Arthur. Let’s just say that this lovely evening has started a little earlier
Colmes was a large, rough-hewn man with red cheeks, a shock of red hair, and the beefy, calloused hands of a working man, which he wasn’t except for well-publicized outdoor chores on his ranch when on vacation. He wore his tuxedo like a sack.
These two governmental leaders had forged an easy, comfortable relationship since taking office, and enjoyed a first-name relationship when out of the public eye. Roughly the same age—Colmes was a few years younger than Montgomery but looked older—they shared, but only in private moments like this, a reasoned, albeit cynical view of politics, politicians, political consultants, political commentators, political pundits, political bosses, and everything else to which they’d successfully devoted their adult lives. Their bond, of course, was strengthened by the geographical and cultural boundaries of their two nations.
“The family is good?” Montgomery asked.
“Very much so,” Colmes replied. “Yours?”
“Fine. Our youngest son is giving us a hard time, but that’s just his hormones erupting. He hates living here in the White House, but someday he’ll look back and appreciate the experience, probably by writing a scathing exposé of my administration. I’m sure you’re aware, Bruce, that our press has been making hay out of the tragic murder of your young opera singer from Toronto
“I’ve been kept abreast,” Colmes said, his sizable frame filling a crimson armchair. “The spotlight