Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [85]
At five, Wilcox informed Morehouse that he was leaving.
“It’s a great piece, Joe, but it needs some sharpening.”
“You’ll have to get somebody else for rewrite,” Wilcox said. “I’ve got a command performance at home tonight.”
“Okay. Nice work, buddy. Let me ask you something. How does it feel to have a maniac out there sending you love notes?”
“Not good,” Wilcox said.
“Well, get used to it, my friend. This won’t be the last letter you get from him. Count on it.”
“I know,” Wilcox said. “I know.”
He retrieved his car from the parking lot and headed home. He’d wondered all afternoon whether he could go through with this scheme that had been hatched on the spot at his brother’s apartment. He’d assumed he would have trouble doing it. But somehow, for some reason, it all seemed reasonable now. No debilitating bout of conscience, no second thoughts.
Roberta’s silver Toyota was in the driveway when Wilcox pulled up, and he parked beside her. What’s on her mind that she’s called for a meeting? he wondered as he turned off the ignition and got out of the car. As he approached the front door, the sound of music stopped him. He cocked his head and tried to identify it. Georgia seldom played music while working in the kitchen, preferring talk radio to keep her company. When she did opt for music, it invariably was from their collection of classical CDs. This wasn’t classical music coming through the open front windows. It was guitar jazz.
Strange, Wilcox thought as he opened the door and stepped into the foyer. He dropped his briefcase on the floor, opened the foyer’s second door, and walked into the living room. The music was louder now, a song written by somebody like Cole Porter or another composer of popular show music. As he approached the kitchen, Georgia came from it.
“Hi,” he said, about to kiss her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“Tell you what?”
“About Michael. Your brother, Michael.”
“I—”
“He’s here,” she said.
Wilcox walked past her to the kitchen and looked out to the patio where Michael and Roberta sat at a green wrought-iron table, glasses in front of them.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Georgia repeated.
“I was going to,” he said, “but it all happened so fast and—” His face turned hard. “How dare he just show up here?”
“I didn’t know what to do when I answered the door,” she said. “I didn’t know who he was. When he said he was your brother, Michael, I almost passed out.”
“I’ll get rid of him.”
She grabbed his arm. “Please, Joe, don’t make a scene,” she said. “I’m not angry that he’s here. I just wish you had—”
Wilcox entered the kitchen, crossed it, pulled open the sliding glass door to the patio, and stepped outside.
Michael, who faced the door, jumped up and said, “Joseph. You’re home.”
Roberta turned in her chair. “You didn’t tell us,” she said, not sounding very angry.
“I decided to take the bull by the horns and just show up,” Michael said. “I’m glad I did. How wonderful to finally get to meet your lovely wife and daughter.” He indicated his outfit—a tan sport jacket worn over a black T-shirt and jeans. “I hope you don’t mind my informal attire,” he said. “I was confident you good folks didn’t stand on ceremony.”
“You look fine,” Roberta said.
Joe stood rigidly, glaring at his brother, who sported a wide, white smile.
Georgia came up behind her husband and said, “Michael brought some wonderful wine, Joe, and the CD I put on. It’s by a famous guitar player.”
“Joe Pass,” Joe said. “He spent many years in prison for drug offenses where he practiced playing his guitar every day and—” He returned to the kitchen and poured himself a large drink.
“I know you’re upset, Joe,” Georgia said in a hushed voice, “but try not to be. Let’s just enjoy the evening. We can talk about it after he’s gone.”
“Damn him!” Joe said.
“Joe, please, for my sake. He’s your brother. Please.