Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [98]
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Paul told me to assure you that he wouldn’t let any of this go to my head.”
“I don’t care if it does—go to your head,” she said. “Just as long as the happiness lasts.”
He said nothing.
“Will it?” she asked. “Last?”
“I think so,” he replied. “When I suggested we go out for dinner tonight, you asked whether we were celebrating something.”
“Are we?”
“Possibly. I got a call today from a publisher in New York. They want to discuss my doing a book about the serial killer and my role as his conduit. The editor, a nice gal, said she’d even come down to Washington to talk to me about it.”
She reached across the table and grasped his hands. “Joe, that’s wonderful. You’ve always said you’d like to write a book but didn’t have anything worthwhile to write about. Now you do.”
“Well,” he said, “I don’t want to count chickens before they’re hatched—I can’t believe I used that cliché; it’s one of your favorites—but I don’t want to jump the gun. I mean, I don’t have a book deal yet, and it will all depend, I’m sure, how this thing with the killer plays out, whether he’ll continue to contact me and whether I’ll play some role in bringing him to justice. We’ll just have to wait and see about that. But if things go right, I’d say we really will have something to celebrate.”
“Have you told Roberta?”
“No, and I’d just as soon keep it between us until there’s something more concrete. Deal?”
“Deal!” She squeezed his hands. “But promise me one thing.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Promise me that you’ll do everything possible to keep this away from us, from the family. I don’t need a serial killer arriving at the door like—”
“Like Michael?”
“I didn’t want to say it.”
“But you thought it. Interesting.”
“What is?”
“That you link the serial killer and Michael in your mind.”
“I didn’t do that, Joe. It’s just that—”
“It’s just that it’s perfectly natural to have done it. After all, he has killed in the past, a young woman, and was judged to be insane. Now, he shows up in Washington, and two young women are strangled to death since his arrival.”
“Please, Joe, don’t. You don’t really think that Michael could be the murderer.” She paused. “Do you?”
“Of course not. Just letting my creative juices run wild. Maybe there’s a novel in me after all. Make a hell of a story, wouldn’t it?”
She picked up the dessert menu. “Nothing for me,” she said. “Just coffee, decaf.”
Joe waved the waiter over. “One rice pudding,” he said, “two decaf coffees, and two spoons.” As the waiter turned to leave, Joe added, “And two cognacs, please. We’re celebrating.”
• • •
“Dinner was superb,” Roberta told Michael. He’d set a small, folding table in the living room, and had included a vase of fresh flowers and two candles. The chardonnay bottle was empty.
“Let me help you clean up,” she said, reaching for her plate and silverware.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Guests are forbidden from cleaning up anything when in my home. Go make yourself at home. I’ll just be a jiffy. Coffee is ready to go, and I have a lovely lemon flan for dessert, provided you aren’t watching your waistline. From what I can see, you have no need of that.”
She left the table and sat at his desk. He’d put a Joe Pass CD on the compact stereo unit during dinner.
“Joe Pass,” she called to him.
“Yes, my idol,” he said from the kitchen.
“He’s wonderful.”
“The best.”
Her eyes went to the manuscript.
“I’ve never gotten into jazz,” she said as she picked up the first page and started to read. “Not my generation’s thing.”
“I understand,” he said from the kitchen. “Coffee’s almost made. Just be a minute.”
“Take your time,” she said, reading the second page. She didn’t realize he’d come up behind until she felt his weight against the back of her chair. “Oh,” she said. You startled me.”
“I certainly didn’t mean to do that,” he said. “I see you’re reading my literary output.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’m flattered that you’d even be interested.”
“The flan was