He found a parking spot near the distinctive harbor that forms the center of Annapolis, and a few minutes later walked into Tommy’s Crab Cake House. Business was good; there was a wait for tables, and a lively group was congregated in the small barroom.
A handsome black man wearing a perfectly fitted double-breasted gray suit came from the dining room and nimbly made his way to a podium near the front door. Smith asked, “Are you Tommy?”
The man nodded.
“My name is Mackensie Smith. I was supposed to meet your cousin, Marcia Mims, here.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Smith, Marcia told me you were coming.” He looked around before leaning close and saying, “I’m glad you’re here. She’s very upset. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll take you to her.”
Tommy seated a party of six, told one of the waiters to cover the front, and motioned for Smith to follow him. They walked through the dining room, entered the kitchen, went through a door leading to a short, narrow hallway, and stepped into Tommy’s cramped and cluttered office, where Marcia Mims sat on a couch, obviously having made room by pushing piles of paper and magazines aside. She stood up when she saw Smith.
“Hello, Marcia,” he said.
Marcia looked at Tommy, who gave her a reassuring smile. “Relax, honey, everything’s going to be all right.” He said to Smith, “I have to get back. Just yell if you need anything.”
“Please, Marcia, sit down,” Smith said. He pulled a folding metal chair close to the couch. They said nothing for a few moments, just sat and looked at each other. Smith broke the silence. “I haven’t been to Annapolis in a long time. I guess the last time was a football game at the Naval Academy. Must be three years ago.”
“I come here whenever I can,” Marcia said. “Tommy and his wife are very good to me.”
“Seems like a nice fellow, and it looks like he’s made a smiling success out of crabs.”
Marcia laughed, and Smith was glad to see it. She’d been as taut as a violin string when he first came through the door. Now, she relaxed slightly, the tightness in her body visibly falling away into the soft cushions.
“Mr. Smith, I …”
“Yes?”
“I called you because … I called you because I don’t know what to do. It’s about Janet.”
Smith sat up straight. “Janet?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes.”
“How do you … I mean, did Janet call you, or have you known all along?”
“She called me two days ago. She’s very frightened.”
“Frightened of what?”
“Of what will happen to her if she comes back.”
“I don’t understand, Marcia. What would she have to be frightened about? Does she think someone would hurt her?”
“She doesn’t know what will happen to her, that’s all. Mr. Smith, Janet has never been comfortable in the Ewald family. She’s always considered herself an outsider.”
Smith shrugged. “That’s not uncommon for daughters-in-law. It’s not a reason to be really frightened. Why did she call you, Marcia?”
“Janet has always turned to me, Mr. Smith. She says I’m the only one she feels she can trust and confide in.”
“That’s flattering to you, and deserved, I imagine. Where is she?”
The tension returned, and she looked away.
“I want to help, and I assume you called me because you thought I could help Janet. She certainly shouldn’t be frightened of me.”
The housekeeper looked at him again. “I know that, Mr. Smith. I think she knows that. It’s just that I’m not sure what to do. I told her she should come back and face whatever is going to happen with Paul, but she’s too confused at this point.”
Smith decided that to press for Janet’s whereabouts would be counterproductive. But he had to get more out of Marcia. He said, “Well, Marcia, at least she’s safe. I was beginning to wonder whether something terrible had happened to her.” He stood. “I suppose you’ll have to make your own decision about what to do with Janet. I agree with you that she should come back, but she can’t be forced to. Is there anything else you want from me at this point?”
“Please, sit down, Mr. Smith.”
Smith resumed his seat and waited for her to say what was on her mind.
“I told Janet I would talk to you, and if I thought things were right, I would take you to her.”
“Is she here in Annapolis?”
Marcia nodded.
“Well, here I am,” he said. “Frankly, I’m going to leave one way or the other, either by myself or with you to see Janet. The smell of crab cakes is getting to me. I haven’t had dinner yet.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but I just want to do the right thing by her.”
“Of course. That’s why she trusts you.”
“Tommy has a little apartment here in town that he only uses occasionally. Janet is there.”
“Has she been there the whole time?”
“No, she stayed in a motel in Virginia before she called me.”
“Let’s go,” Smith said. He could see that she was grappling with the decision she’d made, and he reached out and touched her hand. “Everything will work out, Marcia, for Janet and for everyone.”
They stopped at the front of the restaurant to tell Tommy they’d be back, then walked slowly along the edge of the harbor, in which small boats of every description were anchored. The night was humid; a fog had begun to roll in off Chesapeake Bay. They went up a narrow street lined with shops until they reached a two-story building at the end of it. The ground level was a men’s clothing store. A separate door provided access to the second floor. Marcia pulled a key from her purse and opened the door, and they proceeded up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a single door off the landing. Marcia knocked.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Marcia, honey, and Mr. Smith.” They waited, long enough for Smith to wonder whether Janet had decided to not let them in. Then there was the turn of a lock, and the door opened.
Tommy’s apartment consisted of a living room-bedroom combination, a pullman kitchen, and a bathroom. If it weren’t for the kitchen, it would have looked like any moderately priced hotel room. Tommy must put his money into clothing.
Marcia immediately went to Janet and hugged her, then stood at her side. Janet had always been frail, her features thin and birdlike, but at this moment she looked absolutely fragile. There was virtually no color in her face. The yellow sweater and black skirt she wore had undoubtedly fit her a week ago, but now hung loosely on her. She was considerably shorter than Marcia; oddly, had it not been for their color difference, they could have been mother and child.
“How have you been, Janet?” Smith asked.
Janet played with her bony white fingers. “All right, Mac. No, not all right. Not good at all.”
He wondered if she might collapse, and he suggested they sit down. “Would anyone like something to drink?” Marcia asked.
“Anything cold, a soft drink,” Smith said, not taking his eyes off Janet, who sat on the edge of a chair and continued to pull at her fingers.
As Marcia went into the tiny kitchen and opened the refrigerator, he said to Janet, “Marcia says you’re afraid to come back, Janet. Do you know that I’m handling Paul’s defense in the event he’s charged with Andrea Feldman’s murder?”
She looked at him with wide eyes. “Yes, I heard that. I mean, I read that.” Smith started to say something, but Janet added, “Marcia told me, too. She said you’ve been helping everyone.”
“I’m trying.”
“How is Paul?”
“Doing quite well, considering the circumstances.” He thought of Paul’s indifference to her disappearance, said instead, “He’s been frantic about you. It would be very helpful to him if he knew you were safe and if you were there at his side.”
She quickly shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Why? What made you run the way you did?”
Marcia returned with three glasses of diet soda. Smith repeated his question to Janet.
“I had no choice. I knew they would think it was me.”
“Think it was you what?”
“Who killed Andrea Feldman.”
“Kill Andrea—you?”
“Yes, or they’d make it seem as though I did.”
“Who would do that, Janet?”
“Ken and Leslie.”
Smith looked at the floor, then back at her. “Janet, I don’t know the kind of relationship you’ve had with your in-laws, but I don’t think they’re the kind of people who would falsely accuse someone of murder.”
Marcia said, “Mr. Smith, there is a great deal that goes on in that house that most people wouldn’t dream of.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“Like …” She and Janet looked at each other before Janet said, “Paul wasn’t the only one who had an affair with Andrea.”
Smith measured his words. “Ken did, too.” So Ken might have had a motive to murder Andrea himself. He looked at Marcia Mims and asked, “Is that true, Marcia? Do you know that Senator Ewald had an affair with Andrea Feldman?”
“I don’t think it’s my place to—”
Smith said loudly, for the first time, “Marcia, let’s not play games. Can you confirm that he had an affair with her?”
“Yes.”
“Quite a young woman,” Smith said, more to himself than to them.
Smith pondered the situation. According to Ken’s claims about what he’d done the night of the murder, he’d spent time with Roseanna Gateaux in the Watergate; she could certainly confirm that, assuming she was forced to be honest about it. Secret Service agent Jeroldson was with Ewald the rest of the night. Smith had to ask Joe Riga what had come out of his interview with Jeroldson.
As Smith looked at the two women across from him, he thought of other possibilities: Either of them could have killed Andrea. If Paul Ewald had gone to the Buccaneer Motel after the party and before Andrea was killed, he could have dropped her back at the Kennedy Center, left … and someone else could have killed her. Paul had denied having gone to that motel with her after the party. Had he or hadn’t he? If he had, why lie about it? If he hadn’t, and she’d gone there with someone else, that would make the motel owner, Wilton Morse, either a liar or severely mistaken because of poor eyesight. No, according to what Tony said, Morse’s eyesight wasn’t that bad. That left lying. Why would Morse lie? Had he been paid to? And, if so, who would have that much to gain by pinning Murder One on Paul Ewald?
“Janet,” Smith said, “do you think your father-in-law had a motive for killing Andrea Feldman? Was Andrea blackmailing Senator Ewald?”
Another look between the two women. Marcia Mims said, “I don’t know anything about motives, Mr. Smith, and I really don’t want to be involved. All I know is that Janet means a lot to me and I want to help her, nobody else. That’s why I called you.”
“Yes, of course, and I think Janet is fortunate to have a caring friend like you. But she’s opened this whole line of conversation, to which I have to respond. After all, I am her husband’s attorney, and he’s a prime suspect in the murder. I don’t believe he did it, and if his father is the murderer, the ramifications of that are clear enough.”
Smith turned to Janet. “I was brought here by Marcia to help you, Janet, and I thought perhaps to offer some advice. Well, my advice is for you to come back to Washington with me and face this thing head-on.”
Janet’s nervousness returned, and she shook her head. “I can’t do that. I’m too afraid.”
“That they’ll say you killed Andrea Feldman? It won’t happen, believe me.”
“No, Mac—I’m afraid that they might kill me, too.”
Smith’s laugh was involuntary.
Janet’s face hardened.
“I’m not laughing at what you’re saying, Janet, but the idea is simply too farfetched for me to give much credence to it. Will you come back with me? If your physical safety is a legitimate concern, I can arrange to have you protected.”
“How?”
“Leave that to me. Will you come?”
She shook her head.
Smith stood. “Well, you put me in a difficult situation. The police are looking for you, because they must talk with you as they have with everyone else. I know where you are now, and if I fail to make that known to them, I’m obstructing justice, something no one, especially an attorney, is supposed to do.”
Janet turned to Marcia and said, “See, I told you this was a mistake.” Marcia put her arm around her and said, “It wasn’t a mistake. I trust Mr. Smith. He won’t tell anyone.”
“Don’t place that burden on me, Marcia,” Smith said sternly.
“Please, Mac, don’t tell them where I am. Oh, go ahead, I won’t be here anyway.” She jumped up from her chair and paced the room, her thin arms wrapped around herself as though an arctic blast had hit.
“Look, Janet,” Smith said, “let’s leave it this way: Think about it. I won’t tell anyone that I’ve seen you and had this conversation, no one. I promise you that. Think about it for twenty-four hours, and then let’s talk again. I’ll come back here tomorrow night. Promise you’ll be here.”
She turned and said angrily, “I don’t trust anyone connected with that family.”
“Suit yourself, but I’ll keep my part of the bargain. I’ll be here tomorrow night at the same time. I hope you’ll be here, too.” He looked at Marcia. “Are you coming with me?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll stay with her a while.”
“Fine. You know where to reach me. Good night.”
Smith was angry, and the speed at which he drove back to Washington reflected it. He went to the Watergate suite, where Tony Buffolino sat alone watching television.
“Where’re your wife and kids?” Smith asked.
“Ah, they came up here, but I got into a hassle right away with my wife and they took off. Typical, man—I want to do good, but I shoot off my mouth and we end up in a brawl. I’ll make it up to them. What was your trip all about?”
“Nothing, wasted time. Anything new here aside from a near-homicide fight with your wife?”
“I made my reservation to go to Frisco tomorrow.”
“Good.” Smith picked up the phone and dialed Joe Riga’s number. To his surprise, he reached him immediately. “Joe, Mac Smith, I need to talk to you.”
“Now?” Riga said.
“Now, or in the morning.”
“Let’s make it tomorrow, Mac.”
“As early as possible. Will you be in at eight?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here.”
“Sorry your party didn’t work out, Tony,” Smith said as he prepared to leave for home.
“Story of my life, Mac. Have a good night. I’ll keep in touch from Frisco.”