Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [49]
“We don’t have to make it such a big evening,” she’d said in response to his disappointment that she’d taken the last-minute job. “I’ll be home by eight, eight-thirty. We can grab a quick bite someplace and still catch a set at the club.”
“Sure,” he’d said, turning on the computer and logging on to AOL to check his e-mail.
She came around behind him and kissed his head. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
He turned, looked up at her, and smiled. “Just go on and play your gig. You’re right, we’ll skip the big dinner and catch Malinverni at Blues Alley when you get back. Besides, I’ve got all this e-mail to answer.” He raised his lips to hers. “You’re delicious,” he said when they disengaged.
“You taste pretty good yourself,” Roseann said happily. “Got to scoot. Thanks for understanding.”
Roseann knew he’d meant well, wanting to treat her to a special evening out. Earlier, she questioned whether she should have taken the job, considering the plans Joe had made for them that evening. Bill Walters, her agent at Elite Music, had been persuasive: “I really need you for this one, Roseann,” he’d said. “I’m in a bind. They’re in a bind. Besides, there’s some nice opportunities brewing for you. We’ll get together next week and discuss them.”
So she said yes, acting out of her freelance musician’s sense of survival: You didn’t turn down a paying job because you never knew when the next one would come along.
Now, as the taxi went toward Foggy Bottom, she was pleased, and relieved, at Joe’s easy reaction. She always played better when things were good between them.
“You play beautifully.”
Roseann had just finished “Night and Day” and was about to begin another when the middle-aged man, who’d been standing behind her, complimented her.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling.
“Nobody wrote better music than Cole Porter.”
“One of my favorites,” she said. “I love playing him. Any particular tune of his you’d like to hear?”
“ ‘Easy to Love’?”
“Sure.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Glad to… ? Oh. I was referring to the song, not to…”
“I’m sure you were.”
As she started to play, he came around and leaned on the grand’s closed lid, watching her intently, listening closely to the music and never taking his eyes from her. She always played with more passion when she knew someone was really listening; others at the reception, as expected, paid no attention to her. When she ended on a dissonant minor chord, he quietly applauded.
“Thank you,” she said. This was a handsome man by any definition—square jaw, lively blue eyes, wide, comforting smile. A gentle man, Roseann thought, easygoing, pleasant to be with, probably a good listener. Unlike…
“How late are you playing?” he asked.
She glanced at her watch: “Another hour.”
“Free for dinner when you’re through?”
“I, ah—no, I’m sorry, I’m not.”
It wasn’t an easy answer for her to give.
“Sorry you’re not. I’m Craig Thomas.” He handed her a business card: CRAIG THOMAS, PUBLIC INFORMATION OFFICER, THE CANADIAN EMBASSY, WASHINGTON, DC.
“I’m Roseann Blackburn,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
She laughed. No one at such gatherings ever knew the name of the pianist providing background music, or cared.
“I read about you in the Washingtonian.”
“Oh, I forgot about that.”
“Very flattering piece. Or maybe just accurate.”
“Yes… I mean…”
“You won’t be offended if I say you’re even more attractive than your picture?”
“No, I’m not offended. Thank you.”
She realized she’d better start another song and had played the first soft notes of “Memories of You” when he asked, “Having dinner with your reporter friend?”
She kept playing and cocked her head. “You really read the piece, didn’t you?”
His laugh was easy. “I like keeping up with what’s going on in the city.” He plucked one of her business cards from a glass on the piano, put it in the