Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [50]
“Was Jean an only child?” he asked after their plates had been cleared.
“Yes,” Marshall said. “I’m afraid she was spoiled because of that. My wife and I doted on her.” He smiled and patted Victoria’s hand. “Of course, once Jean’s mother died—cancer, a long battle, bless her—Victoria stepped right in and doted on Jean, too.”
“I understand,” Wilcox said, looking for their waiter. As much as he liked these two people, he was anxious to leave, to get back to the paper and work on the next day’s article—and to see if Michael had called. As they waited for the check, he asked, “Did you know the young man Jean had been dating here in D.C., the one who went back to California after they broke up?”
Marshall shook his head. “No,” he said, “that was after—”
Wilcox waited for him to finish. When he didn’t he said, “After what?”
Marshall sat back, his pleasant face turning serious. “Jean had gotten involved with a married man,” he said. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, or anyone for that matter.”
Wilcox waited silently.
“But you seem to be a trustworthy man.”
A reporter’s most valuable asset, being trusted.
“You wouldn’t print this, would you?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
“Please don’t.”
“You have my word. But I don’t know what it is you don’t want me to print,” Wilcox said.
“Jean was involved—but only briefly—with a married man,” Marshall said. “She didn’t know he was married when she started seeing him. When she found out that he was, she was devastated.”
“She talked to you about this?”
“Yes. She came home over a weekend and told us about it.”
“I felt so sorry for her,” added Victoria. “Poor thing, she’d been duped by this man, lied to, taken advantage of.”
“Who was he?” Wilcox asked.
They looked at each other before Marshall said, “We never knew his last name. I think his first name was Paul.”
“Paul?” Wilcox said. “No last name?”
“No,” Marshall said, slowly shaking his head.
“What did this Paul do?” Wilcox asked.
“It didn’t last long,” Victoria offered. “Their affair, I mean. Only a few weeks, according to Jean.”
“What did Paul do for a living?” Wilcox repeated.
“She never said,” Marshall answered, “and we didn’t ask questions. We just let her talk, which is what she needed.”
“She didn’t need us probing,” Victoria said. “She needed to vent, that’s all. She felt much better when she left.”
“Have you met Jean’s roommate, Ms. Pruit?” Wilcox asked.
“Yes, once,” the father answered. “We’d come to visit Jean and went to her apartment. A nice young woman—”
“If only she didn’t smoke those ghastly cigarettes,” Victoria Kaporis said. “It wasn’t a healthy environment for Jean to be living in.”
But it didn’t kill her, Wilcox thought.
“They had an arrangement,” Marshall said. “Mary Jane was never to smoke in Jean’s bedroom. She kept the door closed all the time to keep out the smoke.”
“Sounds like a sensible arrangement,” Wilcox said.
“I suppose it was,” Victoria said, not meaning it.
They parted on the street in front of the restaurant.
“Thank you for the breakfast, sir,” Marshall said, shaking Wilcox’s hand. “And thank you for caring about Jean. I hope you find who killed her.”
“That’s for the police,” Wilcox said, “but sometimes we get to help. Thanks again. Safe home.”
Back at the Trib, he called Roberta at the TV station and was told she was out on assignment. He had started writing the next article when he remembered the note from Fox TV. His call was answered by D.C. Digest’s producer.
“This is Joe Wilcox from the Trib. I understand you’d like me to appear on your show tomorrow night.”
“Yes, we would. Thanks for getting back to us. We plan to have you, one of our correspondents, and an MPD representative.”
“I really don’t know what I can offer,” Wilcox said. “Everything I know is in my articles.”
“That’s okay, Joe,” said the producer. “Looking forward to having you.” He gave Wilcox where and when he was expected to show up, and ended the call.
A call to Georgia found her busy in the kitchen preparing chicken for frying.