Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [81]
He checked his watch. It was five-fifteen. Michael said he wouldn’t be back until six or six thirty. He returned to the living room and again sat at the desk, Maggie occupying one corner of the table, where she licked her paws clean. He’d carried with him into the apartment a file folder in which he’d collected hardcopy clips of the Trib’s stories about the Kaporis and McNamara murders, including the articles he’d written, and placed it on the small table next to the desk, arranging papers so that they partially obscured it.
The cover was off the typewriter. He turned on the power, pulled open one of the file drawers, removed a sheet of blank paper and rolled it in behind the platen. Five minutes later he pulled the page from the typewriter, folded it carefully, and put it in the inside pocket of his sport jacket. Next, he found a blank Number Ten envelope, placed it in the typewriter, and typed an address on it. He turned off the typewriter, made sure everything on the desk looked the way it had earlier, sat on the couch and browsed magazines until Michael walked through the door.
“Ah, Joseph,” Michael said, extending his arms as though expecting Joe to run into them. Joe didn’t leave the chair. “You obviously found the keys. Good. They’re yours to keep, and I hope you make frequent use of them. Drink? I need a glass of wine. You?”
“Wine will be fine, Michael.”
“Stay right where you are, Joseph. The service in this establishment is first-rate.”
Michael returned with the wine, handed a glass to Joe, and opened a yellow director’s chair that had been folded in a corner of the room. He raised his glass: “To brothers,” he said.
Joe tilted his glass in Michael’s direction before sipping. “You say you’ve quit your job,” he said, deliberately sounding nonchalant.
“That’s right. It was a good job, and they treated me decently. But I felt it was time to look for something else, perhaps something more in line with my interests and abilities. I’ve decided to explore nonprofit opportunities.”
“Oh? Why?”
“To pay something back to society, Joseph. I feel a need for that. You probably don’t understand, but—”
“Have you had any success finding such a job?”
“I’ve just started looking.”
“How long will you be able to go without an income?” Joe asked, not caring whether it represented an inappropriate intrusion into his brother’s financial life.
“Oh, for a while,” Michael replied. “You’d be surprised how much I was able to save during those forty years in the hospital. They didn’t pay patients much for the menial tasks we performed, but with nothing to spend it on, it mounted up. That, and the trust fund mother left, will tide me over for quite a long spell.”
“Trust fund? Mother left you a trust fund?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, Michael, I didn’t know.”
He pressed his fingertips to his lips. “And she probably never wanted you to know,” he said. “Me and my big mouth.” He leaned forward and placed his hand on Joe’s knee. “I’m sure she meant well, Joseph. She knew she didn’t ever have to worry about you, not with the bright future that lay ahead for you, college, a career, family, all those things that money can’t buy. But I suppose she reasoned that if I was ever released from the hospital, I’d have nothing on which to fall back, no education, no career, no income.” He sat back and smiled. “It is absolutely amazing how much interest builds up over forty years, even on a meager investment.”
“I imagine it does,” Joe said.
“At any rate, Joseph, you didn’t come here to discuss my career aspirations. Are we going to dinner?”
“Not tonight, Michael. I can’t stay long.”
“Pity. Oh, well, you will let me play one song for you. I’m anxious that you know my time in the hospital wasn’t entirely wasted.”
Joe protested but Michael ignored him and went to the guitar, switched on the amplifier, and played random, rich chords until sliding into a bouncy version of what Joe eventually recognized as