Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [127]
“This is it?” she asked.
“Yes. This is it! Ask me how I found it.”
“All right,” she said. “How did you find it?”
“I met the owner at a party where I happened to play a few tunes on my guitar. He offered me a job performing on the weekends.”
“You said you never play in public.”
“I succumbed in this case.”
“That’s wonderful. Are you going to do it?”
“I’m considering it. The owner brought me here a few times and I fell in love with the place. You will, too.”
They entered the restaurant where a young man with multiple earrings in one earlobe, wearing black slacks and a loose fitting white overshirt, warmly greeted them. “Michael,” he said, “ready to begin your performing career?”
“No, Tony,” Michael said. “This night, I am strictly a guest. May I present my lovely niece, Roberta Wilcox, of television fame.”
The owner took Robbie’s hand. “I see you all the time on TV,” he said. “And this talented fellow is your uncle?”
“He certainly is,” she said.
They were led to a terrace behind the building where six tables were set for dinner. It was a lovely late afternoon and early evening, a gentle breeze creating the perfect temperature for outdoor dining. Once seated, the host asked whether they wanted drinks before dinner, or the wine list.
“A light dry, white wine,” Michael said. “Your discretion.”
“Happy, my dear?” Michael asked after the host had placed menus before them.
“Michael,” Roberta said, “when I said I had something to tell you, you immediately referred to the letters. What do you know about them?”
“That your father, my esteemed brother, wrote them on my typewriter and sent them to himself, claiming they were from the monster stalking young women on the streets of Washington.”
“How do you know?”
“He called me earlier today. I’d say he’s gotten himself in a deep pile of doo-doo, as a former president was fond of eloquently saying, or so I’ve read.”
Their wine arrived, and Michael went through the requisite ritual of judging its worth with a sniff and a sip. “Fine,” he told the waiter, who poured. Roberta raised her glass to his. “To life,” he said.
“Michael,” she said, “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh? It sounds very serious, and I rush to assure you that I am not your friendly neighborhood priest. My confessional has been closed for years.” He noted that she’d laid her cell phone on the table. “No cell phones allowed,” he said. “House policy.”
She turned it off and returned it to her purse.
“That’s better,” he said. “People’s public use of cell phones is infuriatingly uncivilized, don’t you agree?”
“Force of habit for me,” she said.
“Of course,” he said, “but I doubt there will be a terrorist attack on the White House while we dine.”
She smiled, wine glass held in both hands, her focus on its shimmering contents. “I believed you wrote those letters, Michael,” she said, still avoiding his eyes. “I thought you were the serial killer.”
She looked at him. His face was hard, taut, small muscles working his cheeks.
“I’m sorry for having thought such a thing,” she said.
“The documentary?” he said. “Was it because you intended to have captured the killer on videotape?”
“Yes. I’m ashamed to admit it, but—”
“It would have been quite a feather in your pretty cap, yes?”
She nodded.
He picked up his menu. “I highly recommend the fried shrimp,” he said. “They serve it with honeyed walnuts and a delicious lemon mayonnaise. The rib-eye steak is quite good, too.”
“Michael, I—”
“I did not kill that young woman at the newspaper, Robbie. I’m afraid your journalistic scoop will have to be put on hold. More wine?”
• • •
“Damn it!” Joe Wilcox said after returning to the car where Georgia waited with the engine running.
He’d knocked on Michael’s door. When there was no answer,