Murder at the Watergate Read Online Free PDF Page A

two years she’d been there, she’d established herself as one of the city’s most efficient and skilled purveyors of hospitality. Her energy was without bounds; she was in perpetual motion, the teasing of her sun-washed blond hair with her fingers the only sign of reacting to the job’s inherent stresses. She consulted a clipboard as she gave the serving staff last-minute instructions.
    “Okay, everyone should have their assignments down. The key with this group is to keep the drinks flowing and the hors d’oeuvres coming. Some of the guests will consider it dinner before heading for Kennedy Center. Vice President Aprile is scheduled to arrive about halfway through. Stay out of the way of the Secret Service. Back off when the VP arrives.”
    She looked at a young waitress, smiled, and said, “And no pained expressions when you’re serving a smoker.We’ve set the tables with ashtrays in one corner, and hopefully they’ll gravitate to it. But they’re free to smoke anywhere, so don’t go making editorial comments with your face. Got it?”
    The waitress nodded.
    “The baby lamb chops, crispy crab balls, and sesame chicken strips are likely to go the fastest. I’ve instructed the kitchen to stay ahead with those. Make sure everyone has access to the platters you’re carrying, but don’t intrude upon conversations. A few could determine the fate of the world. And others could fix your fate. For God’s sake, don’t butt heads with Mrs. Dorrance. Where she’s concerned, the customer is
always
right. Any questions?”
    “Should we continue to serve while the vice president is speaking?” a waiter asked.
    “Sure, but keep it low-key. No noise. Don’t push the platters on anybody, just be there if one of them decides he needs more substance than he’s getting from the speech. Let’s go.”
    Elfie Dorrance had taken a suite in the hotel for the evening. After making sure every subtle aspect of the affair was in order, she went to her suite, where her personal assistant, Sara, a middle-aged woman who’d been a costume designer on Broadway before falling under Elfie’s spell, helped her dress. Sara was a square, plain, and pleasant woman who considered serving Elfie just an extension of her show biz past. Elfie’s personal hairdresser was also there, and made last-minute adjustments to her already exquisitely arranged hair. While the hairdresser practiced her art, Sara handed Elfie the phone.
    “Jason, darling, how nice to hear from you. How did you track me down?”
    The caller, Jason Pauling, whose ability at self-promotion was as keenly honed as his ability to recognize young artists destined for success, was calling from his apartment on Dupont Circle.
    “You make it sound as though you’re a CIA spook,” he said, laughing. “You always take a suite at the hotel when you’re putting on one of those grotesque fund-raising events. Take their money, for God’s sake, but don’t touch the hand that gives it to you. They’re all dirty.”
    “I might say the same where some of your so-called patrons of the arts are involved. Why are you calling? Is there something I can do for you? I don’t have much time. I’m due downstairs.”
    “My dear Elfie, why do you always assume I call you when I want something from you? Of course I want something from you. When are you going to San Miguel?”
    “In a few days. London first.”
    “Wonderful. What I would love you to do for me while you’re in jolly old Mexico—I don’t know why they call the British jolly; they’re
soooo
serious—while you’re in San Miguel, try and talk sense into that pompous ass of an artist, Salas. He’s a talented slob, but he thinks he deserves prices that even Picasso wouldn’t have asked at this stage of his career. I want him in the gallery, but I’ll be damned if I’ll represent him at those prices. And the commission he’s offering me. Outrageous. I just thought you might have a word with him, tell him there’s no