Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [62]
“What’s he supposed to do, Alex, call out the National Guard to arrest them? Drop it. Like I said—”
“Your sister called today.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“What did she say?”
“The usual.”
He stopped portioning out the salad and asked, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“She has that phony accent and—”
“What accent? Polly doesn’t have an accent.”
“She puts it on, as though she’s somebody special.”
“Look, Alex—”
“You know what, Neil? Maybe she’s the smart one, putting as much distance as possible between herself and your father.”
Neil shouted, “Damn it, Alex, why do you always have to—?”
“Are you and Daddy fighting again,” their older son asked from where he’d been watching and listening in the doorway.
Alex wrapped her arms about the boy. “No, darling, Daddy and I are having a discussion, that’s all. A grown-up discussion.” She glared at Neil and angrily carried plates of food to the dining room.
Later that night, after the dishes had been cleared and they had gone their separate ways within the house, Neil carried a snifter of brandy to a small room he used as a home office, closed the door, put on a CD of hits from the 1980s, raised the footrest in the recliner, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sleepy. Closing his eyes was like bringing down a curtain on a particularly unpleasant and distasteful stage play in which he’d recently starred.
• • •
His father’s anger at him for having told the police that his parents’ marriage had ups and downs was misdirected. He, Neil, had actually been kind in his gentle evaluation to the police of how Mom and Dad got along. In truth, their relationship had deteriorated dramatically in recent years, and their only son had a front-row seat.
His mother’s increasing isolation and drinking had been of great concern to him. He hadn’t confronted her directly about it, afraid that it would provoke anger. But he found himself dropping by the house more than usual, casual visits during which he observed her behavior. He considered bringing his concerns to his father, but opted not to do that, either. While his mother could demonstrate anger when provoked, it was a mild breeze compared with his father’s tsunamis.
The chats he’d had with his mom over the past six months had been cursory, nothing substantive, passing-the-time sort of conversations. But two weeks before her murder, that had changed.
He’d called ahead and said he wanted to swing by to pick up a gardening tool from the shed at the back of the property. They’d talked on the phone for a few minutes, and he sensed, as he often had, that she’d been drinking, not enough to cloud her mind but sufficient to affect her speech. He parked on the drive in front of the house and let himself in with a key he always carried.
“Mom?” he called.
He didn’t receive an answer, which concerned him. He walked through rooms on the first floor but didn’t find her. He went upstairs and looked into the master bedroom. The door to a small room off the bedroom that she used as her office was slightly ajar. He approached and opened it more fully. She was seated in a wing chair, her back to him. No lights were on. The only illumination came through a window whose yellow drapes had been parted.
“Mom?”
“Oh, Neil,” she said, turning.
“Are you okay?” he asked, coming to her and sitting on a hassock that matched the chair’s upholstery. He reached out, took her hand, and looked into her eyes. They were moist; some of her makeup had run.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She straightened as though a steel rod had been rammed into her back. Her eyes opened wide. She said in a strong voice, “Neil, I want you to listen to me.”
“Of course I’ll listen to you,” he said. “I always do.”
“You’ve got to get away from the Marshalk Group. Resign. Do it now!”
If he’d conjured a dozen things she might be poised to say to him, this would not have been on the list. He’d known since accepting the presidency of the Marshalk Group that she didn’t approve, although she’d never said it directly.