Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [64]
“Well, well,” Michael said, smiling. “You are here. How wonderful.”
Joe tentatively extended his hand, which Michael shook enthusiastically.
“Hello, Michael. I—”
“Come in, come in,” Michael said, turning and entering the apartment. Joe followed.
He stopped a few feet inside and took in his surroundings; soothing recorded classical music came from unseen speakers.
“Like it, Joseph?” Michael asked, indicating the apartment with outstretched arms. “It isn’t especially large, but it’s perfectly adequate for one person. Come in, come in and sit, make yourself at home. Take that chair over there. It’s the most comfortable one.”
Joe ignored the invitation and instead went to the window and looked out on to the side street. A passage in the music caught his attention, and he cocked his head.
Michael noticed. “Like classical music, Joseph?”
“Debussy,” Joe replied. “La Mer.”
“Ah ha,” said Michael. “You obviously do like classical music. And some of the most familiar. Jazz, too?”
Joe turned and for the first time since entering the apartment took a close look at his brother. While he’d been struck at Michael’s height, he now was aware that this man he hadn’t seen for decades was also physically fit. His black T-shirt was molded to his slender yet muscular torso. He hadn’t begun to bald as Joe had, nor had gray appeared. His hair was very black—dyed? Joe wondered—and neatly trimmed on the sides, but featuring a ponytail. What was especially evident was his tan. His face and arms were bronzed; piercing green eyes seemed to reflect inner bemusement.
“Jazz?” Joe said. “No. I’ve never gotten into that. Some Dixieland maybe.” He noticed the guitar and amplifier. “You play, Michael?”
Michael stood by the instrument. “I play at it,” he said. “All those years in the hospital gave me nothing but time to learn. I tried art but realized that wasn’t for me, so I turned to music, for which I seem to have a greater affinity. People say I’ve become quite proficient. I certainly love it. Do you play an instrument?”
“Afraid not. Michael, I—”
A cat appeared through the open bedroom door.
“This is Maggie,” Michael said as the animal came to Joe and rubbed against his leg. “A Maine coon cat, a lovely breed. They sell for more than a thousand dollars from breeders. I rescued this poor thing from the SPCA. Cost me a hundred-dollar donation. Well worth it. Drink? I have wine, Scotch, or vodka. I believe you’re a Scotch drinker, but maybe you enjoy variety.”
“Nothing, thank you. Oh, some Scotch on the rocks, a small one. I’m doing a television show this evening.”
“How exciting. Back in a jiffy.”
How did he know I drink Scotch? Joe wondered as Michael came from the kitchen carrying the platter of hors d’ oeuvres. He set it on a small table and said, “Drinks on the way,” and disappeared again.
Joe found himself relaxing. The music was nice, and the initial shock of finally confronting Michael had worn off. He went to the platter of food and tasted some. Michael returned carrying a glass of Scotch on the rocks and a half-filled glass of white wine. He handed Joe his drink and raised his glass. “To brothers, Joseph, and to being close again. Cheers!”
After clinking, they sat on the small couch.
“I suppose there are many questions I should be asking,” Joe said, sipping his drink.
“And I have questions, too,” Michael said in a low baritone. “Where shall we begin? I know. You’re the reporter. Asking questions is your business. Go ahead, Joseph, interview me as though… as though… as though I’m a movie star who’s been out of the public eye for a while and am making a comeback.” He laughed. “No,” he said, “I’ll ask the first question. How did you become a journalist? As I remember, the only thing you thought about was football and baseball.”
Joe couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, I suppose I was a jock back in high school.”
“And chased all the pretty girls,” Michael added. “Maybe I should have pursued sports and pretty girls