Murder at the Kennedy Center Read Online Free PDF Page B

a hand in creating the evening, he asked for a warm round of applause for the “next president of the United States, Ken Ewald.”
    The applause he wanted was forthcoming, and Ewald bounded up onto the bandstand and took the microphone. As he began, Mac Smith thought, He’s an effective speaker in any situation, no doubt about that, and always natural. And in a nation that thought itself suspicious of oratory, what a wonderful—and critical—ability that was for anyone seeking office … seeking success in any endeavor, for that matter. This night, Ewald almost threatened to burst with honest enthusiasm, and when he’d finished his brief talk, the applause was twice as loud as when he’d been announced.
    Suddenly, a detonation of Vesuvius fountains and Catherine wheels sprayed broad strokes of lacquered, multicolored light—greens and reds and yellows—across the black sky, the vividness of the colors dissipating as they trickled down the canvas to the horizon. All eyes turned in the directionof the fireworks; “ooohs” and “aaahs” blended with the snap, crackle, and pop of the display.
    The sky show lasted ten minutes. As the last traces of sulfurous smoke wafted toward the party and the applause by a few overzealous souls continued, the band began playing, the dancers flocked to the floor, the portable bars were surrounded once again, and the party moved back into high gear. Washingtonians were often ready to party, Smith thought, for what they did by day was no party.
For
the party, perhaps, but no fiesta.
    He waited until he felt it was appropriate for him to leave—a few minutes before midnight on his watch—and sought out those to whom he should say good-bye. He started toward the Ewalds, but they were busy. He thought of Andrea Feldman, but saw that she was in a shadowed area of the terrace talking with a man who looked like Ed Farmer, and although Smith could not hear what they were saying, their faces and body language suggested that theirs was not a pleasant chat. He found a few others he was looking for, then left the Kennedy Center, enjoying the pristine night that had displaced the wet weather of the previous day.
    As soon as he entered his Foggy Bottom home ten minutes later, he threw off his raincoat and called Annabel at her New York hotel.
    “It was a wonderful show, Mac,” she said. “I loved every minute of it.”
    “Thanks. From a pragmatic point of view, everything worked, everyone seemed to be happy with it, we’ll pay the bills, make some money, advance the candidacy, and I’m glad it’s over. As little as I had to do with it, it still took too much of my time. How are things with you?”
    “Fine. My dinner with the investors went well. Damn, Mac, I am sorry I couldn’t be there, but you know that—”
    “Annie, when you have serious investors from Europe who tell you the only time they can meet is for dinner one evening, you don’t beg off because you have a party to go to. Of course I understand. I’m just glad it went well. When are you coming home?”
    “I’m shooting for the noon shuttle. I’ll go directly to the gallery.”
    “I’ll call you there.”
    “Call me every minute. I miss you, Mac.”
    “I miss you, too, although I have to admit that what I missed most was not being able to do the funky chicken with you.”
    “Mac, are you …?” She started to laugh, wished him a good night’s sleep, and they ended the conversation.
    Eleven o’clock was Smith’s usual bedtime. This night, however, he found himself wide awake, and picked up where he’d left off reading Edmund Wilson’s
The Thirties
. He finished a series of entries on the famous Scribner’s editor Max Perkins, and looked at the Regulator clock in his study. It was almost four in the morning. Smith marked his place with a bookmark and said to Rufus, “Come on, it isn’t often you get to be walked at this hour.”
    He put on a George Washington University windbreaker, slipped the choke chain