Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [124]
“What was in it?”
“Socks, shorts, a toothbrush, my overnight kit. Why would anybody want to steal stuff like that is beyond me. How are you?”
“Fine. I saw Mac and Annabel.”
“And?”
“Mac said the tapes belong to you and that you’ll have to make the decision about what to do with them.”
“After what I’ve put you through, Kate, they belong to us. Like I told you before I left, if Mac didn’t have any definite ideas about what to do with them, I leave it up to you. Yours is a good, clean, clear mind.”
“That’s a heavy burden. I know how hard you worked to get them.”
“That doesn’t matter anymore. Have you heard from Geoff?”
“Oh, yes, I certainly did.” She told him of the confrontation at Union Station and what occurred after that.
Marienthal laughed. “He was sitting in a cab with you right next to the tapes and never knew it.”
“The irony wasn’t lost on me. You’re breaking up.”
“Batteries are low. I’ll call you from Mom’s.”
As she twisted on the couch after hanging up, her foot caught the shopping bag, tipping it over and spilling its contents on the rug. She picked up one of the plastic bags and removed tapes from it. Rich had written on them in ink: Russo, where the interview took place, the date, and a few words to describe the contents. “Assassination” appeared on some of them.
She got up, turned the air-conditioning control on the window unit to its coolest setting, grabbed old newspapers from the kitchen, balled them up and placed them on the floor of the fireplace. She added kindling and logs left over from the previous winter that were stacked next to the fireplace, and lighted the paper. The orange flames were comforting; she and Rich had spent many nights together with the fire going, discussing their dreams—and each other.
One by one, she fed the tapes and Rich’s handwritten notes into the flames. When the last tape had been consumed, she returned to the couch, raised her wineglass, and said with a satisfied smile on her lips, “To you, Louis Russo. May you finally rest in peace—wherever.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
FOUR MONTHS LATER
I have an announcement to make,” Mackensie Smith said to the thirty guests gathered in his apartment. A blue spruce Christmas tree festooned with colorful decorations from their single days, augmented by more recent joint purchases, took up a corner of the living room. Other judiciously selected and placed representations of the Christmas season that was only a week away added to the party’s festive spirit. Annabel had arranged an array of food on the dining room table.
“I don’t have permission to make this announcement, but somehow I don’t think the subjects of it will mind,” Mac said. He raised his champagne glass: “To Rich and Kathryn, who informed me only today that they’ve decided to tie the knot, tie one to the other for life. Here’s to them and to many blissful years together—close together.”
There was applause and “Here! Here!” and a few inevitable but funny comments about the perils of married life. A man raised his glass and said, “I have a toast to propose, too. To another four years with President Adam Parmele.”
Smith said, “I know this is Washington, but there’ll be no politics spoken in this house, not at this time of year.”
“What else is there to talk about in Washington?” someone quipped.
“The Redskins, the new season at the Washington Opera and Kennedy Center, anything but politics,” Annabel proclaimed with enough force to indicate she meant it.
Rich and Kathryn were the last to leave.
“A wonderful party,” Kathryn said. “I feel as though it was to celebrate us.”
“It was,” said Smith. “You deserve it. Set a date yet?”
“The spring,” Rich said. “In Kansas. I called Mom and Dad this morning to break the news. Actually, I put Kathryn on the phone and she made the announcement.”
“His mom cried,” Kathryn said, shedding her own tears. “She sounded really happy.”
“And your dad?” Mac asked.
“He congratulated me and said they’d come out to Kansas for the wedding. For him to volunteer to go to Kansas is the coup of the year.”
“As it