Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [98]
“I called. I got his machine at home. Oh, God, say it isn’t so.”
“How did you hear about it?” he asked.
“Rick.”
He continued down the hall to Marshalk’s corner office.
“Yes, Neil?”
“There’s nothing on the news about Jonell, Rick. Where did you hear it?”
Marshalk grinned crookedly. “I have my sources, Neil. You know that. Let’s just say that a little bird flew down on my shoulder and whispered in my ear.”
“A little bird my—”
“Just kidding, pal, just kidding. I heard a rumor, that’s all. I know it’s a hell of a blow to you, with you and Jonell working together and all. Let’s just hope there’s nothing to it.”
“Okay, Rick. Thanks.”
Back in his office, he tried Polly again at the hotel. No luck.
He took the to-do list he’d created for the memorial service and drove to St. John’s, where he went over some of the details with a layperson responsible for the logistics of special services, particularly high-profile ones.
As he stood outside the church, he was almost overwhelmed by the need to go home and go to bed. But that was out of the question. He’d promised to pick up papers for his father and meet in his office at noon.
He took a long, circuitous route to the house in which he’d grown up. He was in no rush to get there. Walking into the foyer where his mother’s lifeless body had been found posed a challenge. The simple act of opening the front door was a daunting physical and mental exertion.
He eventually reached the house, pulled up the circular driveway, and parked directly in front. A series of deep breaths gave him the fortitude he needed as he got out of the car, climbed the front steps, and inserted his key into the lock. The door swung open. He was relieved that the alarm wasn’t on. He’d gone blank on the code to deactivate it.
He stepped inside and blinked to acclimate to the change in light from outside. It was, he thought, deathly still in the house, and cold. The AC was cranked up full-force. He walked quietly into the library, taking careful steps so as not to disturb anyone—the spirit of his mother, the dominating aura of his father? He saw the tan briefcase, but instead of picking it up and leaving, he sat in his father’s chair and looked about the darkened room.
It occurred to him that he had few memories of growing up there, as though a portion of his life had been skipped over, fast-forwarded. There were happy times with Polly, two kids giggling together at their parents’ perceived foibles, and pleasant recollections of summer croquet matches in the rear yard. But surely there’s more to remember about childhood than that.
He closed his eyes and dozed off for a minute. He awoke with a start. “Have to get going,” he said, standing, grabbing the briefcase he’d come to retrieve, and walking to the door. He stopped and raised his head, his face, his nose. The scent of perfume was distinct. Now another memory came to him. It was a perfume of which his mother was fond; she wore it virtually every day while he was growing up. There were times when she would hug him, and the scent was so overpowering it made him sneeze and pull away. Had the scent been there when he entered the house? He didn’t think so, although it might have been.
He went to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Was the smell of perfume stronger now?
He started up, taking the same sure, silent steps as when he’d arrived, stopping now and then to breathe in sweet wisps of perfume. He stopped at the landing and cocked his head, heard nothing. He continued. When he reached the carpeted second floor, he looked at the various bedroom doors that lined the long hallway. They were all closed, with the exception of his parents’ room. He approached it, closed his eyes, opened them, and took the final steps that allowed him to see into the room. At first, what he saw—what he thought he saw—was so shocking that he looked away, like someone shielding eyes from a gruesome movie scene. He forced himself to look again. Seated at his mother’s dressing table was—
Mother? he mouthed without sound.
The woman, whose