Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [103]
Polly scrutinized him in an attempt to decide whether what he’d said was credible, made any sense. She decided it did.
“Did you talk to her about it?” she asked.
“No. I went there to pick up some papers for Dad. I got out fast.”
She’d sat on a small couch while he paced the room. Now he joined her and grabbed her hand. “Do you know what this means?” he asked.
“I’m afraid to ask,” she said.
“She must have killed Mom.”
His words jolted her.
“She’s always been jealous,” he went on, squeezing her hand harder. “Polly, she killed our mother so that in her twisted mind she could take Mom’s place.”
The blood drained from Polly’s face. She withdrew her hand and looked toward the windows.
“Are you listening to me?” he said. “It’s so obvious. Aunt Marlene snapped and killed Mom. Jesus!” He got up and resumed pacing.
She faced him. “What do you think we should do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve got to tell Dad what to expect when he goes home. Maybe we should go to the police and tell them what we know.”
“No,” she said, her voice steady now. “That would be a mistake. What about Phil?”
“Rotondi?”
“He’ll know what to do. I mean, Neil, this might all be a mistake. Maybe you misunderstood her.”
His face reddened, and he held his fists at his side. She sounded to him like Alexandra, always questioning him. “I did not misunderstand her,” he said.
“Okay, okay,” she said, aware of his pique. “Let’s get ahold of Phil and see what he thinks.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Do you have his number?”
She fished his cell number from her purse, along with her phone, and made the call. “Phil, I’m with Neil at my hotel. We need to speak with you.”
“Sure. Now?”
“Yes. Can you come to the hotel?”
Neil said, “Not now, Polly. I have to get those papers to Dad, and go over plans for the memorial service. Tell him to come later. Two o’clock.”
“Can you come by here at two?” she asked.
Rotondi agreed and they hung up.
“I want to go to the house,” Polly said.
“Why?”
“To talk to Marlene before we go spreading poison about her.”
“Polly—”
“You don’t have to come, I’ll take a cab.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” he said. “I’ll call Dad and tell him I’ll be late.”
“Damn!” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“I have an appointment for a manicure and pedicure in fifteen minutes.”
“Cancel it,” he said, not adding what he was thinking—that getting your nails polished was frivolous under the circumstances.
She made the call, and they headed for the house.
• • •
Rotondi clicked off his cell phone. Why did Polly and Neil want to meet with him? Polly’s voice had sounded urgent. Had something developed that had a bearing on their mother’s murder? He’d have to wait until two to find out.
He drove to the Watergate complex, found a parking spot, and called Mac Smith’s apartment. Annabel answered.
“Mac and I planned to get together this morning,” Rotondi told her. “Hold on, Phil. He’s just getting off the other line.”
“Hello, Phil,” Smith said.
“I’m around the corner,” Rotondi said. “Any chance of getting together now?”
“It’s fine with me, Phil. I’ll come down. I’d rather talk away from here.”
“I’ll be in the lobby.”
Smith arrived ten minutes later and suggested they walk through the public area separating the Watergate Hotel from the apartment complex. It was a fat day, as Smith was fond of terming days with sunny, cool, breezy weather. They sat near a large fountain that created a pleasant background rush of water.
“What’s up?” Smith asked.
“I went by MPD today and talked with Morris Crimley.”
“Anything new on their end?”
“No. He says they didn’t remove any envelopes from Lyle’s library. He’s not the neatest of people. He’s got magazines and envelopes and God knows what else piled up everywhere in that room. I want to see what was in the envelope that Jonell delivered that afternoon.”
“For what purpose?”
“Just curiosity. I raised the question with Crimley about the glass with Jonell’s print on it. Although it’s hard to make out in the photo, that glass looks like