Free Murder on the Potomac by Margaret Truman Page A

greeting, and went back to reading. Smith took a seat across the small table.
    “Damn shame what happened to that young student last night,” Jamison said.
    “But fortunate it turned out the way it did.”
    A freshman at the university had been attacked on a side street on the fringe of the campus. Using a can of mace she always carried, she’d subdued her attacker and attracted the attention of a passerby, who called the police.
    “No young woman is safe these days unless armed,”Jamison said. He put down the paper and stared at Smith through Coke-bottle glasses. “Another example of society gone to rot. Have you read the story this morning about poor Pauline Juris?”
    “Most of it. I was interrupted. Excuse me.”
    Smith returned from the serving line with a lightly buttered bagel and cup of tea. His feeling for coffee was sufficiently strong to preclude, unless the circumstances were dire, drinking coffee brewed anywhere but in his own kitchen.
    “Here. Finish it,” Jamison said, turning the paper and sliding it on top of Smith’s plate. Mac retrieved his bagel from beneath the paper, bit in, rearranged things, and quickly finished the article. It was primarily a profile of Pauline Juris culled from various sources, including interviews with several people who’d requested anonymity. A significant portion was devoted to her former husband, Lucas Wharton, a thoracic surgeon in New York City. According to the reporter, Lucas and Pauline had met while undergraduates at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Wharton’s hometown. The marriage had lasted eleven months. No children. Dr. Wharton, the article said, had been contacted by the police and would be questioned in Washington. Pauline’s relationship with Wendell Tierney was also explored. In the best tradition of innuendo journalism, it hinted—but only hinted—that the bond between Tierney and Pauline Juris might have exceeded the boundaries of business.
    Smith folded the paper, sighed, and took another bite of bagel.
    “I find the name of her former husband interesting,” said Jamison.
    Smith looked up. “How so?”
    “Wharton. I think I’ll do a little research into his family background.”
    Smith couldn’t help but laugh. “Why?”
    “To see whether he might be related, no matter how tangentially, to the infamous and stylish Elizabeth Wharton.”
    Bagel poised halfway between plate and mouth, Smith said, “Someone I should know?”
    Jamison’s chuckle was mildly scolding. “There you have it, Mackensie Smith, a prime example of what you miss by not joining Tri-S.”
    Here we go again. Smith sat silently; the bagel proved a useful shield.
    “Surely, Mac, you must remember Elizabeth Wharton.”
    “Not personally. Yes, in fact I do know a little about her. Sort of Washington’s early 1870s Lucrezia Borgia.”
    “Exactly. That’s why you should join us. A remarkable story. Mrs. Wharton was a society lady from Philadelphia who settled in Baltimore—interesting coincidence that Dr. Lucas Wharton hails from that same city—and glided easily through the upper strata of Baltimore and Washington. Problem was, she had a habit of borrowing money and not paying it back.”
    “That doesn’t make her unique,” said Mac.
    “It does when coupled with a tendency to murder those who asked for it back. Their money, that is. Those unfortunate souls would visit Mrs. Wharton at her home in search of repayment, be served tea, and die mysteriously.”
    “Black or …?”
    “No, they were white. Upper crust.”
    “I meant what kind of tea did she serve, black, green, or oolong?”
    This time Jamison’s laugh was defensive. “Kind of tea? How would I know that?”
    Smith shrugged and smiled. “If you were a modern French historian, you’d know that everyday details are important. Or a detective. Go on, Monty. Just kidding.”
    “I should say,” Jamison said. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, it seems Mrs. Wharton eventually befriended a famous Civil