Washington Masquerade Read Online Free PDF

good at managing her façade. She did not break down when she identified her husband’s body, although the color had drained from her face and her lips trembled. A passive-aggressive type, Fiona decided. One of those cold, nose in-the-air, blonde goddesses that Fiona despised from her school days, Mrs. Burns was dressed in the uniform of her ilk: cashmere cardigan open over color-coordinated sweater with a string of pearls around her neck. Fiona had never met her before. She was a real estate broker with a prominent firm that dealt in upscale housing.
    Fiona drove her back to the family home near Chevy Chase Circle, an early vintage brick colonial style house; low key, tastefully decorated, and upscale. Mrs. Burns’ teenage daughter Lisa, a tall, beautiful girl, her complexion ashen, eyes red and swollen, her blonde hair in disarray, fell into her mother’s arms as they entered.
    â€œI’m sorry, baby. It’s so awful,” Mrs. Burns said soothingly, looking up at Fiona, almost apologetically, her hollow look emphasizing her helplessness.
    â€œDaddy,” the daughter blurted, overwhelmed by her grief.
    â€œI know, sweetheart. I know.”
    â€œI want daddy.”
    Leaning on her mother, crying uncontrollably, she was slowly guided upstairs.
    Fiona roamed the living room and paneled den with ceiling-to-floor bookcases, noting that everything seemed in its place, expensive, comfortable, carefully chosen and coordinated, hardly an example of a rabble-rouser. There were plaques, awards, and generational family pictures of happy, athletic, successful people. This was not, Fiona decided, the home of a suicidal man. There were a number of awards also given to Mrs. Burns for her real estate sales efforts. She was apparently quite accomplished.
    Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Burns came down, her pale face scrubbed and her hair neatly brushed. She had changed her clothes and was wearing an olive turtleneck and beige slacks. Fiona noted that the combination brought out the green tint of her hazel eyes.
    â€œLisa doted on her dad,” Mrs. Burns said, sucking in a deep breath. “She’s devastated. It’s all so terrible.” A tiny sob escaped her.
    â€œIt’s always harder on the children,” Fiona said, leaving out what from her own experience she had learned would be a temporary phase. Children on the whole recovered from the loss faster than a spouse.
    Mrs. Burns slumped into a leather wing chair. When the telephone rang, she showed her annoyance, got up, disconnected it, and returned to her chair. The brief stab of anger seemed to steady her.
    â€œI don’t want to hear it,” she said with disgust. “All those sympathetic voices. Hypocrites! Most hated his politics. The whole thing is so awful.” She sighed and turned away. “I suppose it was to be expected.”
    â€œWhat was expected?”
    Sally Burns turned full face toward Fiona. Even in grief, she was a goddess. “Do you have any doubts, Detective?”
    â€œWe don’t deal in speculation,” Fiona said, impatient to begin the serious interrogation.
    â€œNor do I,” Sally Burns said, unable to control a quivering lip.
    â€œDo I understand you rule out suicide?”
    â€œNo way,” Mrs. Burns said, expelling a deep sigh, obviously fighting to maintain control, as she played with her wedding ring with long, well-manicured fingers. For a long time she was silent, then as if satisfied that she had gained full control over herself, she nodded and spoke in a firm voice. “He would not….” Her nostrils flared as if she was fighting against anger now. She moved her head vigorously from side to side. “No, he would not take his own life.”
    â€œYou can never be sure, Mrs. Burns. Are there suicides in his family history?”
    â€œCertainly not.” She hesitated for a moment as if she were mentally running down the family tree. “He comes from a long