Free Murder on the Potomac by Margaret Truman Page B

War general, W. S. Ketchum of Georgetown, and borrowed twenty-six hundred dollars from him. She never repaid it, not even the interest. When he learned she was planning an extended European stay, he and a lady friend paid her a visit, a kind of reminder about the I.O.U. Became weekend guests, as a matter of fact, and were elegantly entertained. But after breakfast and a cup of Mrs. Wharton’s tea, the general fell ill. A few days later, after he’d been served a large glass of lemonade in the same house, he took to what would be his deathbed.”
    “Lemonade?” Smith said.
    “Yes, lovingly prepared by Mrs. Wharton herself.” Jamison stopped talking to finish his scrambled eggs.
    Smith said, “And Mrs. Wharton was accused of murder. The case is coming back to me.”
    “She certainly was. One of the most celebrated trials of Washington. Of course, it would be more than a vague memory for you if you were with us at Tri-S. We’ve devoted a considerable number of evenings to discussing Mrs. Wharton and her lemonade.”
    “I see what I’ve missed.”
    Jamison leaned on the table. “You do?”
    “Yes. Go on, Monty.”
    “She was judged innocent by a jury of her peers. Itwas one of the first cases in which forensic medicine was used in a trial.”
    Smith nodded. “You’re absolutely correct. There was confusion over whether the general died of a dose of tartar emetic or some natural disease like meningitis.”
    “Exactly. Both produce the same symptoms. The autopsy on General Ketchum revealed a large amount of tartar emetic in his stomach, certainly enough to kill him. And it was proved that Mrs. Wharton had purchased a supply of it just days prior to the general’s visit.”
    “Open and shut, you might say.”
    “Not in that era, Mac. There were only two types of woman back then, weren’t there? A virtuous lady or a whore. Everyone knew that virtuous ladies did not go around serving poisoned lemonade to distinguished generals.”
    Smith dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin and pushed back his chair. “I really have to run, Monty. This was fascinating.”
    “I’ve only skimmed the surface, of course. There are myriad provocative details. Perhaps one night when you attend a meeting of Tri-S, I’ll reopen a discussion of this case. Say, how come you know so much about this, when you said you didn’t?”
    “A good lawyer searches for precedents, Monty. And conveniently forgets cases, as well.”
    As Smith was about to walk away, Jamison said, “Oh, Mac, I understand you were summoned to Wendell’s house the day Pauline’s body was discovered.”
    Smith frowned. “ ‘Summoned’ isn’t the word I would use. I did meet with him that afternoon.”
    Jamison’s arched eyebrows asked, And?
    “Wendell is naturally concerned about the ramifications of this. He asked my advice.”
    “Cherchez la femme,”
Jamison said.
    “Why look for the woman? What woman?”
    “Mackensie, you sly devil. You aren’t fooling me one bit. You are going to become directly involved in this case, most likely as Wendell Tierney’s legal counsel. And I have a feeling that when all is said and done, it will be a woman who takes front-and-center in this tragic melodrama. Will make for a tremendously interesting case for a future Scarlet Sin session—say, in the year 2500.”
    “My class is waiting,” Smith said.
    “So are we, Mac.”

13
    That Afternoon
    Sun Ben Cheong left Gary’s Restaurant on M Street NW, where he had lunched with a large pension fund’s investment manager. It had been pleasant enough. Although the manager, whose name was Barrenstein, seemed enthusiastic about the investments Cheong had outlined for him, Cheong instinctively knew nothing would come of it. He judged Barrenstein to be a man who enjoyed being wooed but who would act upon only the most conservative opportunities. What Cheong had suggested—using money from the fund to buy and rehabilitate a block of downtown buildings that had fallen into