Free A Vote for Murder by Jessica Fletcher

of Congress that morning, but the rain, coupled with the library’s distance from the hotel, made me think twice about it. I
    went to the lobby, where I indulged myself a few minutes to soak in the stunning restoration of this historic beaux arts hotel’s public spaces. Its history went back more than 150 years, its rooms, suites, and bars and restaurants stomping grounds for world leaders, generals, poets, office seekers, inventors, and presidents of the United States. After being shuttered for eighteen years, it was restored to its original glory and reopened in 1986 to the delight of Washingtonians, many of whom consider it as important a monument as the Washington and Lincoln memorials.
    The friendly doorman hailed a taxi for me, and I soon found myself going through an elaborate security system at the main entrance to the library’s newest building, the Madison, one of three housing the LC’s huge collection of the world’s wisdom. My bag was thoroughly searched, and the jewelry I’d chosen for the day set off the machine. But the guards were friendly, and I was soon waved through. Dr. Lester had mentioned at the party that the security apparatus was as much for keeping bad people with bad things out of the buildings as it was for keeping others from leaving with books not belonging to them. I would find upon leaving that scrutiny of me would be as stringent as when I entered.
    I was directed to the first-floor Office of Public Affairs, where we’d been told to congregate, and joined the writers Marsha Jane Grane, Karl von Miller, Bill Littlefield, and others involved with the schedule. Niceties were exchanged, but talk soon turned to the events of the previous night.
    “It certainly was a dramatic ending to an otherwise pleasant evening,” von Miller said.
    “I’m sure the ‘drama’ of it wasn’t lost on you, Jessica,” Marsha Jane Grane said.
    “I can do without drama of that sort,” I said.
    “So typically Washington,” Littlefield said. “Did you catch CNN this morning? Looks like the senator might have had an interest in Ms. Farlow beyond their official duties.”
    The public affairs specialist, Eleanor Atherton, a lively middle-aged woman with a bright smile, loudly cleared her throat before saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, might I suggest that we all would be better served if we refrain from discussing what happened last night at the senator’s house? It will undoubtedly be a delicate subject around here for the next few days.”
    “ ‘Next few days’?” Ms. Grane said, incredulous. “Do rumors evaporate that fast in Washington?”
    “There’ll be a new and better one to take its place before we know it,” von Miller offered.
    “I’m afraid you’re probably right,” the PR woman said, shaking her head. “But in the meantime you know the saying, ‘The walls have ears.’ We wouldn’t want a casual comment to end up in the press.”
    My colleagues and I glanced over our shoulders and around the room to see if anyone was listening at the door. Ms. Atherton continued: “On a happier note, it’s time now for our breakfast with Dr. Lester. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, the food and Dr. Lester’s remarks. He’s delighted you’re here.”
    We were led to an upper floor and ushered into Dr. Lester’s spacious office, where the Librarian of Congress awaited our arrival. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases dominated two walls; a large rotating globe stood in front of one of them. There was a television set, a small, round conference table, and two distinct seating areas, three blue leather chairs with wooden arms on the opposite side of the desk, the other a group of tan leather furniture. Sliding glass doors led to a terrace, but the inclement weather precluded enjoying views of the city from that vantage point.
    He made a point of greeting each of us personally before suggesting we go to a conference room in which the conference table had been replaced by smaller tables covered with white