Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [78]
“Hello, there,” Marbury said to Emma. “Where’s your compatriot tonight?”
“Home missing me, I hope,” Emma said lightly.
“He’d better be, huh?” Marla said with exaggerated seriousness, followed by a wicked laugh.
“Where’s the star of the evening?” Emma asked.
They looked around. “Not here yet,” Marbury said. “Probably wants to make a grand entrance.”
“The bar’s over there,” Emma said, pointing.
“Time for a drink,” Marbury said to Marla, “but only to keep the bartender busy. Nothing sadder than a lonely bartender.”
Emma watched them move in the direction of the bar and was struck by what a handsome couple they were. She thought about what most of the people in the room did for a living.
They were lobbyists, highly paid, nicely dressed, well-connected men and women who spent their days—and nights—courting those in government with something to offer in the way of legislation, laws, and rules that would benefit their clients’ bottom lines. Lobbying had become a major Washington industry; the number of registered lobbyists in town had doubled since 2000, and—according to what Emma had recently read—the fees they charged to their clients had gone up as much as 100 percent during that same period. More than half of all elected officials and their staffs now turned to lobbying in their post-government lives.
She wondered how the intense scrutiny that lobbying had recently come under affected the lives of those at the party. Depictions of the city’s lobbying corps in the press were less than flattering, particularly certain firms that were reported to have progressed beyond legal influence peddling. She’d seen Marshalk’s name mentioned in some of the stories, but to her knowledge no charges against them had ever been filed.
Washington! Was there any other place in the world with as much intrigue on a daily basis, and with so much at stake? Perhaps so, but she couldn’t imagine where. As a caterer, she had a different vantage point from which to observe the men and women who called the shots and determined the future. It would have been easy for her to become terminally cynical, and she regularly reminded herself not to be. It wasn’t always easy.
As the living room filled, people fanned out to other rooms and to a brick patio at the rear of the house. Emma wondered who the evening’s honoree was. All she knew was that her name was Camelia—a lovely name, she thought, evoking images of sultry summer days in Memphis or Savannah, a swing on a shaded veranda, and a tall, frosty, colorful drink in your hand.
A few minutes later, three latecomers walked into the room, led by an attractive African American woman who immediately became the center of attention.
Aha, Emma thought. The lady named Camelia.
Rick Marshalk approached the woman and embraced her. Emma focused on Camelia’s face, which did not say that she particularly welcomed his gesture. Jonell Marbury also gave the departing staff member a hug. Emma glanced at his fiancée, Marla, whose expression also was not approving.
“Where’s Neil?” Emma heard a young lobbyist ask a Marshalk colleague.
“I don’t know. He said he was coming.”
“I feel bad for the guy, having to bury his mother.”
“They still don’t know who did it.”
“Lots of possibilities.”
“Such as?”
They walked away, but one’s trailing voice reached Emma’s ears: “Her husband?” His friend punched him in the arm and laughed as they left the living room for another place.
One of Emma’s servers came to her carrying an empty canapé tray. “If that bastard grabs my butt one more time, he’s getting this tray shoved up his—”
“Avoid him,” Emma counseled. “I’ll send Millie in his direction.” Millie, the only regular member of Emma’s staff working the party, had a black-belt in karate.
The party had been going for almost an hour when Neil Simmons arrived. He looked