The detective sitting in his unmarked car across the street from the Smiths’ home in Foggy Bottom seemed embarrassed when Annabel waved to him Saturday morning as she stepped through the front door. The air was crisp and clear at seven-thirty. A “fat day,” as Mac would say.
She retrieved their blue Caprice from their rented garage a few doors down the block and drove quickly through Washington’s empty streets to the Naval Observatory on upper Massachusetts Ave., where two Secret Service agents waved her through the entrance gate. She pulled up in front of the home of the vice president. The detective, who’d followed at a respectful distance, parked across the street. Another agent escorted Annabel inside, where Carole Aprile was waiting. After a hug and some preliminary chitchat, they settled in the Second Lady’s small office at the rear of the house.
“Another call?” Annabel said, accepting a cup of coffee.
“Yes. Steve Jordan picked up the tape a few minutes ago.”
“Who can it be, Carole? Is it some sick individual playing a hoax?”
“I don’t know. Whoever it is knows a lot about what’s going on. He mentioned you.”
“Mentioned me?”
“Yes. Here. I transcribed his message.” She handed Annabel a neatly typed note:
Now listen to me, Mrs. Aprile. If you and the government want this Grottesca mess resolved, you do exactly what I say. You’re a busy lady. But your friend, Mrs. Smith, isn’t so busy. Tell her to have her bags packed and be ready to go. More later.
“Did he leave this on your machine at the White House?”
“No. He called here on my private number. I picked up. The minute I realized who it was, I pressed a button on my machine that records both sides of the call.”
“How did he get your private number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it the same voice?”
“No. This time it was high-pitched, a whiny voice. Kind of a ‘dem and dose’ speech.”
“No Italian accent?”
She shook her head.
“Steve thinks it’s someone disguising his voice, maybe using some sort of gadget.”
“That makes sense considering it’s different each time he calls. Unless there’s more than one person making the calls. What’s Mac think of all this?”
“He’s concerned.”
“As well he should be. Annabel, when Steve heard the reference to you, he said he wanted to get us together, have a meeting, decide what to do if the caller gives instructions for you to follow.”
Annabel frowned and chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“Not that you’d have to do anything if you didn’t want to. But Steve made some comment about you being willing—no, he said you knew about this sort of thing.”
“I suppose I do. Keep a secret?”
“Sure.”
Annabel told Carole about how she’d helped Jordan recover the missing artifacts from Dumbarton Oaks. Carole listened with wide eyes and a bemused smile on her lips. When Annabel was through, Carole said, “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t do anything except act like a silly schoolgirl by not telling Mac about it until after the fact. I promised to let him know if I contemplated doing something like that again.”
“Bring him to the meeting.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“I told Steve I had an hour today at four. Joe and I are flying tonight to Colorado. A party fund-raiser. Back tomorrow.”
“Four? I can make it. The new assistant I hired is a godsend. She treats the gallery like it was her own. You’ll call me?”
“Yes. And bring Mac.”
“Pims here.”
“Scott, it’s Will Penny.” The White House curator, formerly with the Smithsonian Museum of American History, was calling from his apartment off Dupont Circle.
“Ah, Wilfred, my friend. I was meaning to call you. We haven’t broken bread in ages. Free tonight?”
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“Splendid. As I recall, you’re especially fond of smoked trout.”
“My favorite. But I wasn’t calling to arrange dinner.”
“But you will come.”
“Of course. Strange things going on at the big White House, Scott.”
A jovial, knowing laugh from Pims. “When aren’t strange things going on there? I always think of Stuart’s portrait of George Washington in the East Room as symbolizing the nonsense that goes on there.” He referred to Gilbert Stuart’s copy of his original portrait of President Washington, the only object still in the opulent East Room dating from its completion in 1800. Stuart painted copies in order to make a living. In the original, one of two books leaning against a table near Washington is Constitution and Laws of the United States. In his haste to paint this particular copy, Stuart misspelled a word in the book’s title: Constitution and Laws of the United Sates.
Penny laughed, too. “I’ve always thought Stuart might have done it deliberately. His private little joke. Mr. Jordan from the MPD art squad has been spending plenty of time there. Mrs. Aprile has another meeting with him this afternoon at four.”
“Her archivist. We’re close. Mrs. Aprile is meeting with Mrs. Smith, Jordan, maybe others. Just thought you’d want to know.”
“Oh, I do, Will, I do. You’ll have more to share with me at dinner?”
“It must have to do with Grottesca.”
“Perhaps.”
“By the way, I loved your show last night.”
“Thank you.”
“Poor Luther. I miss him terribly.”
“So do I. One of life’s truly decent people. And so knowledgeable. And I say, so what if he wanted to abscond with the love of his life? More power to him. But to die over it?” He sighed long and loud. “One day we must go to Indiana to lay a proper wreath on his grave. Sweet, his mother asking that he be buried there. I only hope Luther has found the peace he sought. Perhaps it is better to die at once, Will, than to lose one’s life a bit at a time, boredom nibbling pieces from you every day, frustration eroding your spirit, dreams dancing just out of reach. While we shall all miss our dear friend, we must celebrate his reach for his shining star.”
Penny said nothing.
“Amen,” said Pims. “Eight at my apartment. And bring good stories. You know how I love good stories. Must run. I have a difficult but necessary appointment this afternoon.”