Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [67]
Rotondi chose a restaurant equidistant between his condo and the hotel where Jeannette would be staying, a lively neighborhood spot short on pretense and long on fresh seafood. He’d eaten there often and was by now a familiar face to the owners, a husband and wife who ran the place with Prussian efficiency. Mom and Pop stayed where they belonged, in the kitchen, except for occasional forays into the dining room to ask how diners were enjoying their meals. An attractive daughter manned the reservations podium.
Jeannette called early that afternoon from the hotel, and Rotondi filled her in on plans for the evening. He suggested getting together earlier for a walk along the shore, but she begged off: “I’m exhausted, Phil. A nice nap is appealing at the moment.” He said he would pick her up at six.
She was waiting in the lobby when he arrived.
“You look rested,” he said as they embraced. “And beautiful.” He was being truthful. Jeannette was the sort of woman who would remain beautiful until her dying days. She had lost considerable weight, though, which concerned Rotondi. Had her drinking progressed to the point of not eating regularly?
“Hardly beautiful, Phil, but yes, I am rested.” She stepped back and took him in. “And you look—well, you look terrific.”
“Now that we’ve lavished compliments on each other, let’s go.”
“It’s so peaceful here away from Washington,” she said as they drove to the restaurant. She’d rolled down her window and leaned in its direction, allowing the breeze to whip her hair, which had grown darker with age but was lightened somewhat with streaks recently applied. It was a perfect day on the Eastern Shore, the sky cobalt blue, the air pleasantly warm. They entered the restaurant from the adjacent parking lot and were seated in a secluded booth Rotondi had requested when making the reservation. A young waitress asked if they’d like drinks.
“Extra-dry Beefeater martini, straight up, cold and dry, with a twist.” Jeannette rattled it off like those silly disclaimers at the end of commercials. Phil ordered a glass of house red.
“I’m a purist when it comes to martinis,” she said, laughing. “No vodka for me. Any martini not made with gin isn’t a martini.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said.
Their drinks arrived and they touched the rims of their glasses. “Here’s to you being here,” he said.
“Here’s to my being here,” she repeated. “I’m so glad I am. How’s Homer?”
“He’s good. He hurt his rear leg the other day racing up the stairs and is limping around a little, like me. We make a wonderful gimpy pair when I walk him. No broken bones, according to the vet.”
“What about your leg, Phil? The last time I saw you, you said you were considering another surgery.”
“Ruled it out. The surgeon said it might not do any good, but he’s willing to try. I’d just as soon not provide a practice session for him. How are Neil and Polly?”
Her mood darkened, but she took another sip and lightened up. “They’re okay. Polly said she spoke with you recently.”
He recounted the gist of Polly’s call.
“She’s so passionate about her causes,” Jeannette said. “I admire that.”
Rotondi nodded.
“I wish Neil had some of her passion for something—for anything.”
“Different personalities, Jeannette. Always amazes me how kids from the same parents and upbringing can end up so different.”
“What amazes me is how much Polly is like her father, yet they’re always at each other’s throats.”
“Their relationship still rocky?”
“Worse than that. It breaks my heart.”
“Maybe Polly ought to loosen up, accept Lyle for what he is.”
“Don’t you think I’ve lectured her about that? She’s so stubborn.”
“Like her father,” Rotondi said.