Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [28]
They’d met at an embassy party and began seeing each other regularly. He was surprised that she’d never married; it certainly wasn’t for a lack of suitors. She’d just never met a man she was willing to commit to.
Mac Smith was that man, and he considered himself fortunate that she’d accepted his proposal and become Annabel Lee-Smith. Over the course of their courtship, they’d discussed their dreams and aspirations, and when they decided to alter their professional lives, their support for each other was mutual and total.
They were married in a small chapel at the National Cathedral and set out on their new life as husband and wife, a handsome couple to be sure, and much in demand. But they’d agreed to be judicious in accepting invitations to preserve as much time as possible for their own use and to enjoy their love. When they were not really together, Annabel worked at making her gallery a success and Mac taught his eager students, as well as lending his considerable legal experience to friends in need of informal counsel.
All in all, though life was not without a few bumps, Mr. and Mrs. Mackensie Smith were quite contented, thank you, ensconced in their spacious Watergate apartment with its stunning sunset views of the Potomac River, serving as “parents” to their great blue Dane, Rufus, and looking forward to many happy years together.
Mac spent an hour in his campus office sorting through paperwork and catching up on reading or speed-scanning professional journals. At eleven-thirty, he picked up the phone and dialed a local number.
“Kathryn? It’s Mac Smith.”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Smith,” Kathryn Jalick said, surprise at who was calling evident in her voice.
Smith laughed. “It’s Mac, remember. ‘Mr. Smith’ makes me feel ancient.”
“I know,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Is Rich there?”
“No… Mac. He’s gone to New York.”
“Editorial meeting?”
“I guess so. Yes, he has a session with his editor. Be back later tonight.”
“And how have you been?”
“Busy as usual. I have the day off from the library and I’m trying to catch up on housework. The place looks like a tornado hit it. And my mind matches the decor these days.”
“Well,” Smith said, “I just wanted to check in and see how the scribe’s book is coming along.”
“You’re talking to the wrong person, Mac. Rich has been on the go so much lately we never seem to have time to just sit down and catch up with each other.”
“I know how that can be, Kathryn. Looking forward to seeing you two tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“You haven’t forgotten, have you? Dinner at our place. I get to play chef and bartender.”
“Oh, no, I haven’t forgotten. We’re looking forward to it. I have to run, Mac. Thanks for calling. See you tomorrow.”
Smith frowned at the dead phone. He didn’t know Kathryn Jalick well, having met her only a few times when she’d accompanied Rich to the Smiths’ apartment, where Mac went over the publishing contract a New York publisher had tendered for the book Rich was writing. She sounded distracted. But maybe that was her usual telephone style.
He called Annabel at the gallery.
“How goes it?” he asked.
“Okay,” she replied. “You?”
“Good class. I just spoke with Kathryn Jalick.”
“Oh? How is she?”
“Fine. Sounded distracted. I think she and Rich forgot about dinner tomorrow night.”
“Good thing you called. They are coming?”
“Yes. He’s in New York today meeting with his publisher, back tonight. Up for lunch?”
“Sure.”
“Druthers?”
“Whatever restaurant has the best air-conditioning. The unit here at the gallery is on its last legs. It’s been groaning all morning.”
“Does Zagat rate restaurants on their AC?”
She laughed and said, “Wouldn’t be a bad idea here in Washington. Paolo’s? An hour?”
“I’ll be there.