Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [92]
“I haven’t actually made dinner plans with him. I’m supposed to call. He should be arriving here at the Watergate about now. I’ll give him a try. Have you checked in at the gallery?”
“Many times. Margo has everything under control. She sold that small Aztec incense burner
“Good. We get to eat again
“I have to go, Mac.” She puckered a kiss into the phone and was gone.
“Mr. Josephson?” Mac said when the hotel operator put him through to the room occupied by Josephson.
“Yes. Mac Smith?”
“Right. If we’re to meet for dinner, it will have to be a late one, say nine? I have a rehearsal earlier in the evening
“A rehearsal. Are you a thespian as well as a professor of law?”
“No. It’s a long story. Actually, it’s a short story. Sorry it will have to be so late
“It’s fine with me,” Josephson said. “I’ll nap till then
“A preference in food?” Smith asked.
“Anything not too spicy, please
“I’ll keep that in mind. I will be bringing my wife. I trust that’s all right with you. As you might remember, she’s a former attorney, too
“It will be a pleasure seeing her again
“One question before we get together
“Yes?”
“Is this about those missing musical scores that were allegedly in Professor Musinski’s hands when he was murdered?”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” Josephson said. “As a matter of fact, my trip here is precisely about that
“I’m at a loss as to how I might be of help in that regard
“That, I believe, is a topic better reserved for over a dinner table. Let me just say that if you can assist me in this matter, I can make it worth your while. You see, Mac, the scores are no longer missing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Despite Sylvia Johnson’s mild protest, Willie Portelain insisted upon stopping for a slice on their way to Georgetown University. She’d decided that her nagging about his eating habits only put her in the position of sounding like a wife, a role she wasn’t anxious to play. Besides, it didn’t seem to do any good. Maybe not mentioning it would be more effective. Her not wanting to stop this time had more to do with schedule than concern over Willie’s health. She had a date that night with a handsome young lawyer from the Department of Homeland Security and wanted time to get ready before he picked her up.
She stayed in the car while Willie gobbled his slice of pizza and washed it down with a Mug root beer. She checked her watch every few minutes. He was back in the car in seven minutes. Not bad.
“Good?” she asked as she backed out of the parking space and headed for 37th and O Street, the main entrance to the university.
“I’ve had better. Not enough cheese. Should have asked them to put on some extra
“How have you been feeling?” she asked.
“Good. Real good
“Taking your medication?”
“When I remember. Maybe I ought to buy one of those little pill boxes—you know, with the days on it. That’d help me
She made a mental note to buy him one. He wouldn’t.
Sylvia wasn’t Catholic, but she had a special fondness for the Jesuit university, founded in 1789, making it the oldest Catholic university in the country, although approximately half of its student population was not of the Catholic faith. The first black person to earn a doctorate in the United States, Reverend Patrick Healy, had once been its president, making him the first black president of a predominantly white university in America. Sylvia took pride in the accomplishments of African Americans and had read a number of books about those who’d left their mark on American society. She’d spent an occasional Saturday or Sunday strolling Georgetown University’s shady cobblestone streets, stopping now and then to rest on a bench and read whatever book she was into at the moment, soaking in not only the sun and fresh air, but the aura of the place, as though absorbing an education through her pores.
They bypassed the Visitor Information Center and went directly to the building in which Edward Grimes’ office was located. The young woman who’d been at the receptionist desk when they’d taken Grimes away looked positively panic-stricken when