Death of a Washington Madame Read Online Free Page B

Perry's offer in dark limbo.
    The persistent ring of the telephone blasted into the black
tunnel of her dreamless void. Opening her eyes to painful spears of sun, she
grabbed for the phone and noted the green digital number. Ten to twelve.
Christ! It was the Eggplant's gruff voice, not a sign of apology, hoarse and
ominous.
    "Here's one we don't need, Sergeant."
    "What?"
    "Clippings. Data. History. I hate the ones with
history."
    "What are you talking about Chief?"
    "A rich older lady, mid-seventies, stone cold dead,
stabbed and possibly raped."
    "Raped? Mid-seventies? Real sicky."
    "Maid came home after a night out. The uniforms are
there waiting, say it's a mess. You take scene FitzGerald. Get Prentiss."
    "Where?"
    He gave the address. Her heart banged against her chest and
her throat constricted.
    "Name of Shipley."
    He paused, letting the name sink in. When she didn't
respond, he spoke.
    "You there?"
    "Yes."
    "Strike a chord. Maybe before your time. The hostess
with the mostest."
    "I know."
    "Get my drift. Mother of the Governor of the old
Dominion, mother-in-law of..."
    "I know."
    "So here it is in your lap, FitzGerald. The team's big
chance. Let's shove it to them Fi."
    She liked that. Him calling her Fi. She rushed to the
bathroom, turned on the shower, then shut it off and moved to the sink. She'd
take a whore's bath instead, smiling inwardly at the reference.
    She drove at full speed, sirens blazing, portable lights
flashing, pushing her memory of Deb Shipley, who she had actually met years
ago, the tall lovely beauty who, in her father's day, presided over the best
table in Washington and was the star of the Society Pages in the days when
Washington newspapers devoted pages to report those events. Her dinners were
legendary, right up there with Perle Mesta and Gwenn Cafritz.
    She recalled an article in the Washington Post Style
section a few months ago."Socialite Shipley Sails in a Calmer Sea," was the oh so clever headline that floated into her memory bank. She was not
surprised at the fidelity of the memory since her parents had once taken her to
an Easter Reception for Senatorial families at the three-story Shipley mansion
where the lady had made an indelible impression.
    Concentration embellished the physical memories of that
visit, and she saw again in recall the massive great room, two stories high.
There was the huge fireplace that could accommodate a standing human, and above
it, commanding the room, a painting of a young handsome man in uniform
emblazoned with decorations, heroically posed with a cape over his shoulder and
in the background, bursts from falling artillery rounds and other imagery of
war's chaos.
    Fiona had held her cup of pineapple punch in her
white-gloved hand and looked up at that painting. Odd, how she could still
remember looking up at the young man's face and imagining that the eyes,
nuggets of cerulean blue, seemed to move following her. Suddenly, she had felt
a trill of fearful panic and had darted off to find her father's comforting
hand.
    There were other aspects of the room that also impressed
herself on Fiona's memory, the profusion of paintings of dogs of many breeds,
Shepherds, Collies, Poodles, Rottweilers all beautifully rendered by an expert
and glorified in pose and detail. Scattered on surfaces around the room were
various bronzes, mostly of dogs and horses.
    She remembered other paintings as well, serene scenes of Washington's stately landmarks, the various memorials, the White House, the Capitol, the
dome in a sunburst as if to emphasize the spiritual aspects of the structure as
well as it's Hellenic lines.
    There were photographs, too, scattered over every flat
surface, Mrs. Shipley with the various celebrities of the era, even one with
her father.
    The article in the Post had featured a large color picture
of the old lady, posed in that very same room, with the picture of the young
heroic warrior in the background. Although the man's identity had not crossed
her mind at