Free Deadly Politics by Maggie Sefton Page A

photographer’s flash. Right behind me was Senator Russell.
    It wasn’t bad, I suppose, provided you liked the “deer in the headlights” expression. That, plus my somber black suit made me look like a funeral director who’d just been told one of the corpses got up and left.
    â€œDamn,” I said softly, so as not to be overheard by the rest of the posh café’s diners.
    My gaze dropped to the blurb beneath the photo. Molly Malone, former congressional wife and daughter of a former U.S. senator from Virginia, returns to Washington to work for the quirky Independent senator from Colorado.
    Quirky? The senator would love that, I thought. So far, so good. I almost hated to keep reading, but I couldn’t stop myself.
    Spies for the Dirt tell us Ms. Malone used to be quite the hostess years ago. If she intends to help the senator, we suggest she get a new wardrobe. Her dowdy evening ensemble was better suited for a wake than a Washington reception. Our advice to Ms. Malone: Go shopping or go back to Denver.
    I stared at the words, reading them again to make sure I hadn’t read it wrong. I hadn’t. “Dammit ! ” I exploded, startling the waiter who was leaning over our table with the water glasses.
    Karen motioned him away while I fumed, oblivious to the nearby diners’ scowls.
    â€œI cannot believe you read this trash,” I accused Karen, noticing a haughty look from an elderly woman walking to her table.
    â€œEverybody reads the DC Dirt , Molly,” she said apologetically. “It dishes. Lots of fun gossip.”
    â€œNot if you’re in it,” I retorted. “I haven’t been in town forty-eight hours, and I’m already pilloried in the press! I knew I should never have come back. Never, never, never !” I lowered my voice this time. Either that, or the café staff might throw me out.
    â€œMolly, calm down. It’s not so bad. The picture is kind of cute.”
    â€œI look like a jacklighted deer.”
    Karen laughed and sipped her coffee while I pouted.
    â€œShe called me dowdy. Dowdy ! I’ve never had a dowdy day in my life. On my worst day, I’m not dowdy. Who is that reporter anyway?”
    â€œDon’t pay any attention. She’s just trying to get headlines, according to Nan. I called her after I read the article. Nan said she’s heard the woman is some third-rate actress who wants to make it as a columnist. And someone told Nan she went to Mount Saint Mary’s when you did. Before you went to that big Arlington high school with Nan and Deb.”
    I glanced below and, sure enough, right under my photo was a gossip column and byline. I stared at the name. Diedre Turner . “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, as old memories resurrected themselves from the dusty past. “My old nemesis from Mount Saint Mary’s. Now it makes sense. Diedre hated my guts in high school. I guess she still does.” I dropped the paper onto the table. “What galls me is she’s right. I do have to go shopping. I left most of my wardrobe back in Denver.”
    â€œThere’re lots of shops on Connecticut and Wisconsin Avenues, but even more scattered around the city now. And a great one near Capitol Hill. Check out these.” She slipped a pen from her purse and scribbled a few names on a napkin.
    I scanned the napkin before shoving it into my jacket pocket. “Excellent. Maybe I’ll go shopping this afternoon.”
    â€œHow did you like Peter’s townhouse on P Street?” Karen asked, clearly trying to switch subjects to one less incendiary. “Your message said Albert was taking you for a tour early this morning.”
    â€œThe house is beautiful, even filled with dust and shrouded furniture. Dark wood, antique carved moldings, brick fireplace, updated kitchen with granite counters, bathrooms are updated, too,” I enthused. “There’s even a jacuzzi tub in the