Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [74]
Pauling looked down at the mafioso and nodded.
“Two hundred thousand, U.S., huh?” Glinskaya said flatly.
Pauling nodded.
Glinskaya stood and slicked back dirty-blond hair on his temples. “Now, we will have a drink together and discuss how and when you will be able to meet with my friend. Come. I become—what do you say?—agitated when my hospitality is refused.”
Chapter 26
That Night
Washington, DC
“Look, Roseann, if this guy Thomas shows up at your gig, give me a call and I’ll head right over,” he said as she was leaving for her engagement at the Four Seasons.
“Okay,” she said, “but I don’t expect to see him.”
“Just in case. I’ll be here.”
“All right,” she said, stopping on her way out the door to admire the three dozen long-stemmed roses he’d bought her as a peace offering for blowing the dinner date with the Meads. It was a good thing he’d brought three dozen. A dozen wouldn’t have done it.
Strange, she thought as she worked her way through a medley of Michel Legrand, that her boyfriend was hoping the man she’d gone out with showed up again. She understood, of course, that for Joe it was business, and that there was nothing quirky about it. Still, it was amusing, and she thought she might try and write a song about it.
She played a major B chord instead of the minor going into the bridge of “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” and grimaced, looked around to see if it had jarred anyone’s ears as it had hers. Not to worry. As usual, it seemed that the music was only a distant melodic cushion under conversation. Then again, there was the occasional customer who seemed to be listening, at least with one ear, and Roseann looked for such a person in the room, someone like Craig, who’d appreciated the music. Or had he? Had he feigned interest in Cole Porter in order to ingratiate himself? She dismissed that cynical thought as she segued into “I Will Wait for You” and continued to scan the room in search of a music lover. She found her, she thought, in a short, chunky blond woman seated alone at a small table between the piano and the service bar. Being alone helped, Roseann knew. If there was no one to talk to, you might as well listen to the piano player. The woman returned Roseann’s smile.
She continued playing until a surreptitious glance at her watch said it was time for a break. The blond woman stopped her on her way to the bar.
“You play beautifully,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I love Michel Legrand. Do you know ‘You Must Believe in Spring’?”
“Yes, I do. I’ll play it next set.”
“Join me? May I buy you a drink?”
“I, ah—sure. Thank you.” She stopped a waitress and ordered a Diet Coke.
“I’m Connie Vail,” the woman said, extending her hand and breaking into a wide smile.
“I’m Roseann Blackburn.”
“Yes, I know.”
Must have seen my photo and name on the easel in the lobby, Roseann thought.
“Do you know Oliver Jones?” Connie asked.
“The Canadian pianist? I’ve never met him but I have some of his recordings. He’s wonderful.”
“Oh, yes, he is. We’re quite proud of him.”
“You’re Canadian?”
“Yes.”
Roseann’s soda was served along with a second white wine for Connie Vail. She raised her glass: “Here’s to good music.”
“I’ll always drink to that,” Roseann said with a laugh.
An awkward silence ensued, and after a short time Roseann decided to leave the woman to freshen her makeup and hair in the ladies’ room. Connie seemed to sense that she was about to depart and said, “Would you be offended to know that I didn’t just happen to stop in here for a drink this evening?”
“Why would I be offended?”
“I came to see you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I suppose I’m still not being completely honest. I was hoping your friend the reporter, Mr. Potamos, would be here with you.”
“I see. You don’t happen to know Craig Thomas from the Canadian embassy?”
Connie nodded.
“My friend Joe Potamos has been trying to reach him. He took me to dinner a few nights ago and gave me his card, asked me to