Lydia propped a bare foot up on a coffee table to begin applying polish to her toenails. She’d showered and washed her hair but had put off drying it until there was a commercial break in the golden oldie she was watching on TV. She wore a pink terry-cloth wraparound that matched the towel she’d wound around her head.
Although it was Saturday, she’d woken up at her usual time, six o’clock, but had forced herself to stay in bed until eight. The week had drained her.
Caldwell’s funeral had been on Friday, family only, reflecting the deceased senator’s wishes. A memorial service at the Capitol was scheduled for Monday night.
Lydia had called Veronica on Friday morning. It was a hurried conversation because, in addition to the funeral, Veronica was taping Quentin Hughes’s TV show that afternoon at her house.
“Have you given any more thought to my idea?” Veronica had asked.
“I really haven’t had a chance, Veronica,” Lydia had told her, which was true. There simply had not been enough time to make such a decision. She’d called Clarence and had tried to arrange time together to discuss it with him but he’d had to go to New York for a day and night, and the crush of business had kept her to her desk until almost midnight on Friday.
The commercial break she’d been waiting for arrived, and she turned on the handheld dryer and directed the hot air over her head. When the film resumed, she clicked off the dryer and worked on her other foot.
Clarence’s call coincided with the next commercial break.
“How are you? Clarence, I need to talk to you… are you free later this afternoon?”
“No, but how about brunch tomorrow?”
“Okay, I’d planned to go to the office early and catch up on paperwork but… oh, I meant to tell you. Veronica taped Quentin Hughes’s show yesterday. It’s on tomorrow morning. He was scheduled to run an interview with Cale but he’s putting it off a week.”
“She taped it yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“The grieving widow…”
“Clarence, I know what you’re thinking, but don’t be so judgmental—”
“I’m not being judgmental, Lydia, I’m simply reacting to what seems pretty bad taste. What do you want to talk to me about?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Noon?”
“Meet me at the Four Georges. I’d pick you up but I’m being interrogated in the morning by someone from the MPD.”
“They’re coming to your house?”
“Yes. Your turn will come. I should be free by noon. See you then.”
She lay back, extended her legs and scrutinized the work on her toes. The movie was no longer of interest to her. She thought about Cale’s murder and Veronica’s request that she become special counsel to a committee formed to investigate his death. She knew she had to face the possibility that the offer would become reality.
She went to dinner that night with an attorney she dated from time to time. He suggested that they return to his apartment after dinner but she declined, mostly because she felt it wouldn’t have been fair to him. Throughout dinner she’d had trouble concentrating on what he said. Invariably her thoughts came back to the Caldwell murder.
“Sure you want to pack it in so early?” her date asked as he escorted her to her door.
“Positive. I’m sorry, please understand.”
“I’d hoped we could talk a little about Cale Caldwell’s murder. I hesitated bringing it up at dinner because I was sure it was the last thing you wanted to think about.”
Lydia kissed him lightly on the lips. “That was decent of you, Craig.” He pulled her to him and deepened the kiss, the pleasure of it setting off in her a series of very mixed emotions. The comfort of his arms, his hardness, were undeniably welcome. She lingered there, her face pressed to his until finally she pulled away. “I’m really not fit to be with tonight, Craig. I loved dinner. Thanks for not pressing.”
“You know me, Lydia, the last of a breed—chivalry above all else.” He touched her nose. “Good night. I’ll call you during the week…”
Lord, she thought, the perils of Lydia…
***
She was up at five and by six had finished off her third jogging lap around the Reflecting Pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial. She stripped off her blue sweatpants and shirt the moment she returned to her apartment; then went through a series of sit-ups, toe-touches and side-bends, followed by a lovely needle shower. She dressed in a gray turtleneck sweater, navy skirt that flowed loosely around her knees, brown calfskin boots and a muted blue tweed jacket.
She walked into her office, flicked on the lights and one of two television sets, removed the top from a container of black coffee she’d picked up on her way, leaned back in a leather chair and perused a client’s file she hadn’t had time to review on Friday.
A local newscast sandwiched between religious programs used as its lead the fact that no new developments in the Caldwell case had been reported. The announcer added, “Senator Caldwell’s widow, Veronica Caldwell, is expected to make a major announcement today on the Quentin Hughes television show.”
She concentrated on her paperwork until it was time for Hughes’s program, removed glasses she wore for heavy reading and watched as Hughes’s face filled the screen.
“You’re about to spend a half hour with one of the most courageous women I’ve ever known. I’m Quentin Hughes. Stay tuned.”
A public service message, then the camera zoomed in on Veronica Caldwell and stayed on her as Hughes said off-camera, “Just four days ago this nation lost one of its most able and important legislators, Senator Cale Caldwell. He was the victim of a demented, senseless act of murder.” The camera dollied back to include both of them.
“Seated with me this morning is the widow of Senator Caldwell, Veronica Caldwell. She’s been gracious and brave enough to face these cameras and the public, not only to answer questions about this tragedy but to make a statement of profound importance to all of us.” He smiled at her. “Later this afternoon the governor of Virginia, the Honorable James P. Craighton, will announce that he intends to appoint Mrs. Caldwell to complete her late husband’s term.”
Lydia sat forward and her eyes opened wide. Veronica had, indeed, an important announcement to make. But she had to smile at the way the announcement had been made. It was so typically pompous of Hughes to have made it himself, rather than giving Veronica that privilege.
Hughes looked directly at his guest as he said, “I’d like to discuss with you your hopes and aspirations”—Lord, Lydia thought, didn’t anyone ever have anything but that awful cliché, “hopes and aspirations” in the public sector?—“as a member of the United States Senate, Mrs. Caldwell, but before we get to that, I know there’s another very important announcement you’d like to make, one that holds a very special place in your heart.”
A second camera caught Veronica in a three-quarter profile. She appeared composed, though her right eye displayed a minuscule tic, and the horror of the past few days was manifested in the drawn expression around her mouth, the ineradicable fatigue in her eyes.
“In honor of my late husband I’m establishing the Cale Caldwell Performing Arts Foundation. All donations will go toward fostering and supporting deserving young men and women who strive to develop and perfect their artistic contributions to our society.”
“I think that’s marvelous,” Hughes said. “Your husband worked so hard in the Senate to see that the arts in America received their fair share of federal spending. I know he’d be a proud man today to see that his efforts will not go unfulfilled…”
The rest of the interview provided little news and few revelations. Veronica told Hughes that there had been no progress in the investigation of her husband’s murder, although she was confident that it would be resolved within a reasonable period of time. Hughes asked about rumors that a special Senate committee would be formed to conduct its own investigation, and Veronica confirmed that this was in the works.
Hughes went on to tell his viewers that an interview taped with Cale Caldwell just before his death and scheduled to be aired that morning would be seen at a later date. He added, “It was my intention to cancel the program with the late Senator Caldwell out of deference to his family, but Mrs. Caldwell, after viewing the videotape of the interview with her husband, has urged me to reconsider, I—”
Veronica interrupted, “Cale would have wanted this interview shown. He spoke of legislation that was important to him, and I intend to try to bring with me into the United States Senate a continuation of his goals.”
Hughes looked directly into the camera as it slowly moved in on him and production credits crawled up the screen. “I’m Quentin Hughes. Thanks for joining me.” For once his show wasn’t quite a one-man affair. He’d underestimated Veronica.
***
Clarence was uncharacteristically late for his brunch with Lydia at the Four Georges, in the Georgetown Inn. She’d made a reservation in her name and was given a comfortable corner table in the George II Room, which was decorated in a desert motif—sand-colored mesa brick walls, low tables and banquettes. A large party at a table across the room centered around Senator MacLoon.
Clarence arrived fifteen minutes later.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know, I’m sorry, we’ll have to find a new place.”
“Why?”
He nodded toward MacLoon’s table. “Certain politicians have a way of casting a pall over even the best restaurants.” A waiter delivered a bottle of New York champagne in a bucket, opened it and poured some into each of their glasses. Clarence sniffed his, took a sip, and launched into a change of pace. “Lydia, my advice to you is never offer a cup of coffee to a policeman when he’s questioning you about a murder, and especially when his nine-year-old daughter is taking piano lessons. When he found out about me he insisted on discussing music and whether his daughter’s teacher is taking the right approach.”
“Did he ever get around to asking you about the murder?”
“Eventually. Wanted to know whether I had any animosity toward Caldwell, whether we had had any business dealings, personal intrigues, mutual enemies, friends. As though I’d admit to any of that if I’d killed him.”
“Did he tell you anything?”
“No, except that his daughter won’t practice her scales. Well, what did you think of Hughes’s interview with Veronica?”
“Mixed feelings. How about you?”
“I only saw bits of it because he wouldn’t stop talking. From what I heard I’d say the lady isn’t wasting much of her widowhood.”
“Which, I think, is to be admired. You did hear about her appointment to fill out Cale’s term in the Senate?”
“Yes, and about the foundation in his name. Let me ask you something, Lydia, and promise you won’t have my head for it—”
“I promise nothing.”
“Do you think it’s at all possible that Veronica Caldwell could have privately envied her husband’s power so much that she killed him, or had him killed, to get his Senate seat?”
Lydia looked around the dining room before leaning close to him and gently placed her hand on his arm. “See, no temper. The answer, of course, is no.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s so far-out. After all, there were those who speculated that Lyndon Johnson might have had something to do with Kennedy’s death in order to become President—”
“Some people—I’m not one of them.”
“What are you having?” he asked, changing gears again.
“Eggs Benedict and a rasher of bacon. You?”
“Venison, fried egg on the side, over easy.” He gave their order, then recounted for Lydia the details of his interrogation by the MPD detective. When he was finished and their food had been served, Lydia brought up Veronica’s suggestion that she accept a post as special counsel to a Senate committee to investigate Cale Caldwell’s murder. Clarence listened, commenting only by raising his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Finally when she was done telling him about the offer and the circumstances surrounding it at the Caldwell house, he cleared his throat and said, “It depends entirely if you want to make a name for yourself. If so, by all means do it. If you value your sanity, for God’s sake turn it down—and do it fast and mean it.”
Lydia said nothing for a minute, then, “I have no interest in making a name for myself as special counsel to a committee to investigate the murder of a friend. But what do you do when his widow—who is also a friend—asks? Just walk away?”
“Exactly. Besides, what would you do with your private practice if you took it?”
“Leave it up to my associates, try to keep a handle on things from a distance. What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything. As Louis Armstrong said when someone asked him what was wrong with a friend who’d suddenly died, ‘When you’re dead, everything’s wrong.’ Eat your eggs, they’re getting cold.”
“They already are.” She placed her fork on her plate. “I love you dearly, Clarence, and have always had a big fat respect for your opinions, but there are times when I find you to be a trying ass.”
He sat back, grinned. “And this obviously is one of those times. Sorry. It’s my way of concealing unacceptable levels of anxiety about you. I can understand how you feel and why you’re seriously considering Veronica’s proposal. Personally I think it would be a mistake and that you’ll end up regretting it. On the other hand if you don’t do it you’ll probably spend the rest of your days wondering if you should have. So take it if it’s really offered.”
“If I do, will you stand by me?”
He laughed. “Of course not. After all, I’m a prime suspect, and how would it look for the special counsel to be involved with such a person—”
“Oh, shut up…”
He did, but her mind wouldn’t. Without quite meaning to, she was already beginning to think as though she’d taken the job.