‘Mortal Friends’: A murder mystery to die for
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Jimson thrust his arm forward and pointed down at the orchestra section. A spotlight hit the middle of the fourth row. A woman stood up and turned to face the auditorium. As the applause grew louder, she seemed to brace herself, as if she understood that she was now the focus of attention, curiosity, and more than a little envy. She was no beauty, but she was striking. With her pale skin, bright green eyes, and russet hair, she was exotic and sleek — an Abyssinian cat among the dowdy squirrels of Washington.
I took special note of her chunky diamond earrings — Rocks of Gibraltar on prongs — clearly designed to illuminate her bank account as much as her face. They were the sorts of jewels that draw the attention of people who usually notice little else but themselves. She had a voluptuous body that she simultaneously advertised and hid under a tight-fitting black dress, slim at the hips, straining across the bust. An enigmatic smile fluttered on her lips, as if she relished both the spotlight and the ill will. Along with everyone else, I craned my neck to get a better look at this woman who had, like Athena, sprung full-blown out of nowhere onto the Washington social scene.
“She’s too young to be so rich,” I whispered to Violet.
“Oh, she’s not that young. But she is that rich. She does business with the bank. Anyway, you’ll love Cynthia. She’s terrific.” Violet had mentioned Cynthia Rinehart a couple of times in passing, describing her only as this “really interesting woman” I absolutely had to meet.
“She’s totally self-made,” Violet continued with admiration. “Something to do with the insurance business. I’m not sure exactly what. But she’s all gung-ho about philanthropy.”
Apparently, Cynthia had already given money to several worthy causes around town — including Trees of Georgetown, one of Violet’s pet projects.
“I need to introduce her to some cool women before she gets into the wrong clutches,” she added now. Violet fancied herself the town’s social arbiter.
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On our way to the gala dinner, the Boltons got waylaid by some muckety-mucks. As president of the Potomac Bank, Grant was always getting waylaid by muckety-mucks who wanted to talk to him about the economy and interest rates and other really dreary stuff. Dutiful Violet stood by her man, as always, chatting amiably with people she both liked and disliked so that even I couldn’t tell which was which. I always marveled at the way Violet could disguise her true feelings and maintain a pleasantly social facade.
I went ahead, on patrol, searching for a cute new face, someone I could possibly date or just have a decent conversation with. Unfortunately, this evening was mainly Washington’s A-list, meaning that nearly every man there was older, married, world-weary, and political — definitely not the crowd in which to find a fun boyfriend.
The large white tent in the South Plaza was dotted with dozens of round tables of twelve, set with musical instrument centerpieces and sparkling votive lights. Not the best decorations, but I’d seen worse. Much worse. I plowed my way through the dressy crowd, wishing that Congress would ban pastels. Black-tie Washington is a sartorial stew of bad clothes and good jewels — a little like London. You can always count on a few bra straps hanging out. Up until quite recently, well-dressed women were suspected of being superficial.
I was trolling along when I ran into my old pal Carmen Appleton, the sassy, savvy special events director who organized the best parties in town, including this one. Clipboard in hand, she breezed past me with little more than a curt nod.
“Hey, Carmen! How’s it going?” I called out.
Carmen stopped dead in her tracks, whirled around, and assumed a divalike hands-on-hip posture, obviously itching to get something off her chest.
“It seems that God’s latest gift to philanthropy isn’t happy with her seat,” she said in her famously throaty, cigarette-stained voice. “She wants to be at the head table. So guess who has to quickly scamper around like Peter f---ing Cottontail, switching place cards and telling certain nitroglycerin-tempered people they aren’t sitting where they thought they were sitting ...? And you know what fun that is in this town!”
“Who are you bumping from the head table?” I asked.
“Try the schnauzer, Maestro Slobovkin, and his lovely wife.”
“No!”
“Yes! Orders from Jimson on high. Where does the hundred-million-dollar gorilla sit?”
“Anywhere she wants!” we sang out in unison. Flashing me a furious grin, Carmen hopped on.
It’s one thing to complain about your seat in Washington, and quite another to get it changed. Only people with real clout got that. Obviously, giving away a hundred million dollars was now as cloutworthy as holding high political office. Maybe more so.
I made the rounds, doubled back, and spotted Violet talking to Cynthia Rinehart. Several people were hanging around them, angling to ooze their way into the conversation. Clearly, everyone was anxious to meet this woman. But the two ladies were acting like royalty, focusing solely on each other in a vacuum of self-importance. I marched over and crashed their airspace. I wasn’t shy when it came to Violet. I’d known her far, far too long to be intimidated by such pretensions. To her credit, Violet immediately introduced me. Cynthia shook my hand with a noticeably firm grip. She was a little coarser looking up close. She wore a lot of makeup. However, she did have an undeniable magnetism, amplified by her direct manner.
“Well, hi there!” she exclaimed in a voice tinged with a slight southern accent. “Violet here tells me you have a fabulous antiques shop! Tell me your name again?”
“Reven Lynch,” I said.
“Reven ...?” Cynthia repeated thoughtfully. “What kind of name’s that?”
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