Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [49]
“I saw only a portion of it,” she said, “but the reporter indicated the body might have been of the man who shot your Mr. Russo in Union Station.”
Kathryn started to say something, but Marienthal interrupted her. “I didn’t hear that,” he said.
“I’m sure it’ll be repeated,” Annabel said.
“Yeah, I hope so,” Marienthal said. “This evening was really great. The meal was wonderful.”
“That recipe for marinade,” Kathryn reminded.
Smith wrote the recipe on a slip of paper and handed it to Kathryn as they said good night at the door.
When they were gone, and after Mac had helped Annabel straighten up the kitchen and they had walked Rufus, they wound down the evening on the terrace with small snifters of Cognac.
“A nice couple,” Annabel said.
“Yeah, they are. But there’s something strange going on.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. He seems very distracted, reluctant to talk about his book. Ever meet a writer who didn’t want to talk about his work? And Kathryn gives me the impression of wanting to say things but not being able to.”
“Why would that be?”
“I don’t know that either, Annabel. The whole situation is a little bizarre. Rich is put in contact with this former Mafia hit man by his father, who represented the man in his plea deal and entrance into the witness protection program. According to Rich, he interviewed Russo as the basis for his novel, which is being published by Hobbes House.”
“And?”
A shrug from Mac. “As far as I know, Hobbes House doesn’t publish fiction. It’s always been the leading publisher of nonfiction books with a right-wing slant. Rich says they’re beginning to publish fiction. He wasn’t terribly convincing. At any rate, Russo suddenly leaves his safe haven in Israel and shows up here in Washington. Rich says he came to meet with him, but that’s it. No further explanation. I mean, this man who supposedly inspired Rich’s novel is gunned down, and Rich has nothing to say about it? By the way, what’s this about a body being found in Kenilworth?”
Annabel recounted what she’d heard on TV.
“Did you see Rich’s reaction when you mentioned it?”
“He didn’t have one.”
“That’s right. Didn’t ask one question or volunteer one comment. Nothing.”
“There must be a logical reason.”
“There must be a reason. Whether it’s logical or not is another matter.”
“What I find unusual is that he’s never offered to show you the manuscript.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s significant. He’s a writer, probably filled with superstitions about having people see his work. His father certainly isn’t happy with his son’s decision to become a writer. That came through loud and clear the last time I spoke with him.”
“Kids don’t always go in the direction parents want them to. My father was thrilled when I became a lawyer. If he were alive, I’m not sure how he’d respond to my having given up all that education and experience to own an art gallery.”
“I’m sure the fact that you’re happy would be good enough for him. Ready for bed?”
“Yes.”
When they were under the covers and on the verge of sleep, Annabel said, “Maybe you should call Rich’s father and ask him what’s going on.”
“Maybe I should. I owe Frank a call anyway, just to see how he’s doing.”
“I wonder what his reaction to his client’s murder is,” she said sleepily.
“I’ll ask. Good night, Mrs. Smith.”
“Good night, Professor. Pleasant dreams.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A 737, recently acquired to join the fleet of presidential aircraft, had flown into Indianapolis earlier in the day, carrying Democratic President Adam Parmele and his wife, Cathleen, a large contingent of White House and campaign staff, and a small group of reporters traveling with the president on his increasingly frequent campaign trips. Some mistakenly believe that the designation Air Force One is applied solely to the huge 747 from which the president of the United States is often seen deplaning during official and not so official