Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [133]
As though not expecting a response, he began playing. “Let’s see,” he said, “what song would be appropriate to the moment? I know.” He launched into a melody. “ ‘You and the Night and the Music,’ ” he announced, “by Dietz and Schwartz. How appropriate.”
Her cell phone on the table rang.
“Hello?”
“Roberta, it’s Mom. We’ve been trying to reach you. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“That music—where are you?”
“Mom, I’m fine. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m finished.”
Her father replaced Georgia on the phone. “Are you with Michael?” he demanded.
“Yes. I have to go. I’ll—”
“Roberta, listen to me. Michael is wanted for murder. He killed his neighbor in Franklin Park.”
“I’ll call later,” Roberta said, shutting off the phone.
The music had drawn diners to the terrace from inside the restaurant, joined by the owner and two waiters. By the time Michael had reached the song’s bridge, the two-person television crew arrived. Roberta motioned them to come to the table. As Michael continued playing, she got up and whispered into the cameraman’s ear, “Just start shooting.”
The camera and microphone, which the sound tech dangled over Michael on the end of a boom, captured every note. A descending arpeggio, and a resounding chord, ended the performance. He looked up at the TV crew, smiled, and said, “I have something to say.”
Roberta instructed the cameraman to come around behind her and to focus on Michael’s face. With the microphone dangling above his head, just out of frame, Roberta said, “What is it you want to say, Michael? Is it about the death of your neighbor, Mr. Grau?”
His face lit up. “You know,” he said, “but why should I be surprised? You’re as bright as you are beautiful.”
“Tell me about it,” she said in her best interviewing voice, soft and comforting, her you-can-trust-me-and-tell-me-everything voice.
He started to say something but stopped, as though having been struck by an important afterthought. He looked into the camera and said, “We are sitting on the terrace of one of the loveliest restaurants in the Washington area, owned by the erudite Tony Whitaker. You must try it some time. The food is exquisite, the service impeccable.” He went on to give its address, and read the number for reservations off the matchbook cover.
Roberta couldn’t help but smile, and made a mental note to try and retain the plug in the finished piece.
“You were saying something about Mr. Grau’s death. He was your neighbor.”
“Yes, he was, a belligerent sort, an alcoholic. I didn’t mind those things. But he became so abusive. When he found out that I’d been in a mental institution for forty years, the result of my having murdered a young girl when I was a teenager, he held it over my head, threatened to tell the world, the other neighbors—everyone. I was even willing to overlook those threats. But when he made sexual advances toward me, using his threats as blackmail, I wasn’t able to control my anger. I offer this not as an excuse for having killed him, but simply as an explanation for my actions.”
“Why are you telling me this, Michael?” Roberta asked. “Why have you chosen to tell this on television?”
“To ask for your forgiveness, Roberta. In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell your audience that I am your uncle, and that my brother, Joseph Wilcox, is an outstanding reporter on The Washington Tribune. Revelations will emerge about him and certain actions he chose to take which involved me, and the serial killer alleged to be roaming the streets of Washington, D.C., preying on young women. Forgive him, as I ask to be forgiven.”
The camera and tape recorder rolled as Michael continued with his confession. Roberta said little, injecting only an occasional question when the his flow of words flagged. Everyone standing in the open French doors witnessed the bizarre interview being conducted on a lovely