Marcia Talley - A Quiet Death

I was the first to blink, rejecting the pre-emptive strike scenario and choosing diplomacy, not normally one of my strong suits. ‘I’m working on my PhD in Political Science at Georgetown,’ I lied smoothly. ‘I was researching Jimmy Carter’s Peanut Brigade for my thesis when I stumbled across a folder containing some old correspondence between a woman named Lilith Chaloux and your husband, back when he was still calling himself Zan. I was able to track Lilith down for an interview – that’s when I learned about their affair – but your husband was always too busy to see me. I thought I might be able to get to him through you.’

Doro raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re a fool if you think I have any say-so where my husband’s calendar is concerned.’

‘I tried that route, too, but Jud Wilson certainly earns his salary, doesn’t he?’ I tipped an imaginary hat. ‘Great gatekeeper.’ I sighed, looked away, pensive. ‘Maybe if I had been able to talk to Meredith Logan it would have been a different story.’ When Doro didn’t react, I swooped in for the kill. ‘My daughter was a classmate of your husband’s production assistant, Meredith Logan. I knew her, too, although not as well.’

‘John had always been discreet,’ Doro mused, sounding distracted. ‘I appreciate discreet. One of the seven virtues, in my opinion. Meredith understood that, too.’ There was cold, hard steel in her gaze, a warning, perhaps: I expect you to be discreet, too, or maybe I’ll shoot you.

She who must be obeyed.

‘How did you know I’m not Lilith?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

‘I found a photo in John’s wallet. I admit that you – rather, she - could have changed, but…’ Doro looked me up and down, smirked. ‘But not that much.’ Like a sudden rainstorm, Doro’s face turned cloudy, dark with fury. ‘Look, whoever the hell you really are, I’m asking you to stay out of my life.’

‘My name is-’

She held up her hand, cutting me off in mid-sentence. ‘Shut it! I don’t want to know your name because I’m quite sure I’ll never see you again.’

‘I…’

‘Isn’t that right?’ Doro glared. She must have had practice at issuing threats. I bet she ran though housekeepers like Congress ran through money.

Thoroughly cowed, I nodded.

‘I see we understand one another.’ Doro executed a neat about-face, nearly yanked the powder-room door off its hinges and stalked out, leaving me alone, still clutching a tube of NARS lipgloss in a too-pink shade called Easy Lover that a saleswoman at Nordstrom had once talked me into. I had painted the color on my lips and dropped the tube back into my handbag when I heard a toilet flush.

I froze, hardly breathing, waiting to see who it was who had overheard my argument with Dorothea Chandler.

The door to the stall eased open. A woman emerged. She wore the blue and white uniform of one of the kitchen staff. A Bluetooth wireless cell phone was clamped to her ear. ‘I told you and told you, Mama, don’t you go listening to that woman. She’s so full of shit she could fertilize the whole state of Maryland,’ the woman said as she twisted the taps and began washing her hands.

I realized I was still holding my breath when I let it out. I’d caught one of the workers sneaking off to make a personal phone call, that was all.

Sometimes, I thought, it’s better to be lucky than smart.

I’d read Woythaler’s book, I’d seen her on Oprah, and I wanted like crazy to stay, but Dorothea Chandler had rapped my knuckles, hard, planted her size-eight Cole Haans firmly against my butt and pretty much booted me out. As I skulked out of the powder room, however, I caught sight of Doro at the podium, leaning into the microphone, calling the members to order, preparing to introduce the speaker. ‘Ladies, ladies. Take your seats, please.’

Sensing that the coast was clear, I slipped into a chair at the back of the ballroom and was just settling in when that damn reporter spotted me. As he homed in, I shot out of my chair, made a U-turn and headed for the cloakroom where I’d left my coat. Five minutes later, I was back on Newport Place, peeling a parking ticket off the windshield of my car. Sixty damn dollars fine.

Eight-five dollars down the tubes, and I never got to hear what Susan Woythaler had to say.

I waited patiently for a story about Aupry and Hoffner to break.

In-between meal prep and laundry and watching my grandkids, I logged so many hours watching Lynx News that Paul cheerfully concluded that I must have gone over to the dark side and joined the Tea Party Patriots. As if.

I checked the Washington Post daily, Style section, too. After a week went by with no story about Susan Woythaler’s appearance at the Women’s Democratic League, illustrated by a photograph featuring me masquerading as Lilith Chaloux, I began to relax.

Chandler was keeping a low profile. A full-page promo for his upcoming four-part series Stand by Your Man? appeared in prime real estate on the inside back cover of TV Guide and promos for the show were running 24/7 on all the major networks.

I couldn’t wait to tell Paul. ‘Seems our boy is going to be interviewing political wives who’ve been dumped by their husbands.’ I did an arm pump. ‘Or vice versa.’ Chandler was hitting all the biggies – Elizabeth Edwards, Jenny Sanford, Silda Spitzer, even Dina McGreevey who had stood on the dais wearing a sky-blue suit and a stoic perma-grin, while her husband, then governor of New Jersey, confessed to a long-time affair with another guy.

I telephoned Jud Wilson and left a message, but when he didn’t call me back, I took it as a sign that John Chandler was still covering his ass.

Until my brother-in-law gave me a call. ‘Hannah, this is Dennis. Just thought I’d give you a head’s up.’

‘On what?’ I’d been washing a wool sweater in the kitchen sink. I reached for a towel.

‘We’ve just arrested a suspect in the jogging trail attacks.’

‘We? Does that mean you ?’

‘The guy attacked another woman on Bayside Trail near Pearson’s Corner early this morning. But he definitely picked the wrong victim this time. She’s a former army helicopter pilot. She saw him coming, ducked, turned the tables on the sonofabitch big time. Broke the guy’s collarbone in two places.’

‘Good! I hope it hurts. Who is the creep, anyway? Can you say?’

‘It’ll be all over the news shortly. As soon as he gets out of the ER, he’ll be our guest in the Chesapeake County lock-up. I’m not sure where he’ll be heading eventually. Everybody wants a piece of this guy. DC, Maryland, Virginia. The murders took place in the District and in Virginia, so I imagine they’ll have first crack at him.’

‘Go for Virginia,’ I urged. ‘They still have the death penalty in Virginia. DC doesn’t.’

‘Hard-hearted Hannah, the hanging judge.’

‘Damn right. Meredith Logan deserved to live a long, happy life, and this creep deprived her of it. Some criminals commit crimes so heinous that they forfeit their right to live, Dennis. I truly believe that.’ After a moment of silence, I added. ‘Has the guy confessed?’

‘It’s early days yet, Hannah.’

‘Do this right, Dennis. Please. Make sure your people don’t mess up.’

‘Since I know you and Emily are close to this, I’ll let the implied criticism slide.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound snarky. So I guess Nicholas Aupry is off the hook?’

‘Maybe.’

‘How about Hoffner?’

‘We’ll see.’

But…’ I began. Something was niggling at me. The Jogging Trail Murders, the press was calling them. But, unlike the other girls, Meredith Logan hadn’t been attacked anywhere near a jogging trail.