Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [35]
“What I understand is that you’re acting like a brat, Polly. I don’t care what’s gone down between you and your father, he happens to be right. This is not the time or the place to get into it, and it won’t be the time or the place until your mother’s killer has been found, and she’s properly laid to rest.”
His harsh words hit as though she’d been punched. She pushed away from the bed and went to a window. Rotondi followed. “He’s hurting, too, Polly, only he may not show it the way you’d like him to. What’s important is not what you think and feel, but what your mother would have wanted. She deserves some dignity, if a murder victim can ever truly find that, and you owe her that. Shelve your feelings about your father and do what’s right for your mother. Suck it up and act like a grown-up. Got that?”
She sniffled and said, “I know you and Daddy are friends, but I didn’t think you’d take his side.”
“The only side I’m taking, Polly, is your mother’s. I suggest you do the same.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “Just do the right thing while you’re here. And stay away from the press. They’ll take what you say and chew you up.”
“Yes, sir!” She gave a halfhearted salute.
Rotondi grinned. “Good girl,” he said. “What are your plans for tonight?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Why not suggest dinner with your father?”
“Oh, Phil, I don’t know. I—”
“Suit yourself. You’ll have to spend time with him at some point.”
“I know. Phil?”
“What?”
“Mom really liked and respected you.”
“The feeling was mutual.”
“She talked about you a lot, especially in the past couple of years. Did you and she…?”
Rotondi placed an index finger against her lips. “Go down and spend time with your father. I have to pick up Emma—you remember her—we have a dinner date with friends. Here.” He pulled a card from his pocket and wrote Emma’s number on it. “Call me anytime, Polly.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
The senator was sitting in his darkened library when they came downstairs. Polly went into the room and said, “Dad, would you like to have dinner together?”
He’d been slumped in the chair. He came up straight, started to say something, paused, and said finally, “That would be nice, Polly. Yes, I’d like that.” He saw Rotondi standing in the foyer. “You have an engagement, Phil.”
“Yes. I’d better get moving.”
“Walter will drive you.”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“Walter will drive you,” Simmons repeated. “Polly and I will spend some time here until Walter gets back. Thanks for coming with me, Phil. I know it’s not easy for you, either.”
“You two take care,” Rotondi said. “We’ll catch up tomorrow.”
As he sat in the Mercedes’s backseat, he was flooded with thoughts. Simmons was right. This wasn’t easy for him, and he had the sinking feeling that it would soon become even harder. He considered packing it in the next morning and fleeing back to his condo on the Eastern Shore. But he knew he couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that because—and he was loath to admit it—he was part of the emerging puzzle of Jeannette Simmons’s murder, and of the dynamics of the Simmons family.
Neil had wanted it all to go away.
If only. If only.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Annabel Lee-Smith’s dinner conquered the oppressive heat. The entrée was lobster salad, the lobsters shucked and chopped with loving care by Mackensie Smith. Gazpacho was first on the table, accompanied by fresh French bread. Key lime pie would top things off.
“You look splendid in that apron,” Annabel told Mac as they awaited the arrival of their guests.
“Thank you, ma’am. You look pretty good yourself.”
“It’s a shame we can’t have cocktails out on the terrace. The ice wouldn’t last a minute out there. Neither would we.”
“I’ll have to hoist a toast to Mr. Carrier tonight.”
“Who?”
“Willis Carrier. He invented air-conditioning more than a hundred years ago.”
“And why do you know that?”
“In case I end up on a quiz show. Want to know who invented the chastity belt?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
The front desk called to announce that Mr. Marbury and Ms. Coleman had arrived. A few