Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [49]
“It’s Phil Rotondi,” he said loudly.
She hesitated, as though his words had to cross a gap, like the time between lightning flashes and thunder. He heard interior locks being undone. The door opened a crack.
“It’s Phil,” Rotondi repeated, giving her his best smile.
“Philip?”
“Yeah. It’s me, Marlene.”
The confusion on her face faded into recognition. “Hello, Philip. Why are you here?”
“Just visiting. I was in Washington and—”
“Do you want to come in?”
“I was sort of hoping for that.”
She opened the door farther and stepped back to allow him to enter. The house was cold; the AC was cranked up to its maximum setting. Marlene wore jeans and two sweaters, a cranberry-colored one beneath a tan cardigan. She looked good, looked together. Her auburn hair had the gloss of recent shampooing, and her makeup had been judiciously applied. That she was Jeannette Simmons’s sister was unmistakable. Though aging had predictably changed the facial landscape, the sisters’ natural beauty shone through.
“Come in, Phil. Sit down. Would you like a cold drink, maybe some tea or coffee? I have coffee left over from this morning.”
“Coffee would be nice, black, no sugar.”
He followed her into the spacious, spotless kitchen. The multitoned granite countertop was uncluttered, everything in its place, a single cup in a dish drainer. He sat on one of two stools at a movable island in the center of the room while she poured coffee from an insulated carafe into a pretty ceramic mug with flowers on it. She placed it in front of him and took the other stool.
“Thanks,” he said. “Nothing for you?”
“I’ve had enough coffee for the day.”
He broke the ensuing silence. “Have you talked to Lyle or Neil since what happened? Polly? She’s in town.”
“Polly called. She said she’s staying at the Hotel George. Pretty ritzy.”
“Yes, it is. You haven’t spoken with Lyle?”
“Oh, yes, of course I have. He called and told me to stay inside and not to answer the phone.”
“Has the press been bothering you?”
“A few called. I hung up on them.”
“No one knocking on your door?”
“I’ve heard a few people outside, but I didn’t answer. I just let them bruise their knuckles.”
Rotondi laughed. “Good for you, Marlene.”
The flesh around her eyes turned dark, and she pressed the knuckle of her hand against her lips. “It’s true, isn’t it, Phil? Jeannette is dead.”
“Yes,” he said, aware that she was simply stating what she already knew. He changed the subject. “I’m glad Polly called. She’s always been fond of you.”
“She’s a good girl.” She laughed. “Not a girl anymore, is she? She’s a young woman.”
“And a very smart and attractive one. Tell me more about Lyle’s call to you.”
“Oh, him? I don’t know how he sleeps at night.”
“Why do you say that?”
She looked at Rotondi as though he were demented. “Really, Phil, I expect better of you.”
“I know that you and Lyle haven’t been the best of friends over the years, and that you’ve had your problems with Jeannette, too.”
“Poor Jeannette,” she said, slipping into a theatrical voice. “What a mistake she made marrying Mr. Lyle Simmons, the distinguished United States senator.” She emphasized the latter part of the statement to indicate her disdain. “What a fraud he is.”
A generous fraud, Rotondi thought, paying for your condo, your car, and almost everything else.
“You don’t think poorly of me for saying that, do you, Philip?”
“Of course not, although I’d like to know why you said it.”
“That’s right. You wouldn’t have the same view of him, would you, being his college buddy.”
“Are you speaking of him politically?” Rotondi asked, taking a sip of his coffee which was turning cold.
She waved away the notion. “I don’t care about his politics, Philip. Do you?”
“Depends upon how his votes impact me.”
“He wants to be president.