Free Murder at the National Cathedral by Margaret Truman

with George and others at the cathedral, I really don’t see much need for me. Okay, I am once again a college professor, and you are my obscenely beautiful, talented, brilliant, and successful wi—uh, wanton harlot.” He was tempted to turn her toward the bedroom, but there was something unseemly about that idea for the moment. Would he have hesitated before they were married to dismiss the nasty brutish business of murder and then act upon his carnal, lover’s instincts?
Had
marriage changed them?
    Hell, no, he decided, wishing he were more convinced.
    For the rest of the afternoon he graded papers, while Annabel went back to her gallery to pay some bills. She returned at six, and they settled in front of the TV to watch the evening news.
    Singletary’s murder was the lead story. The police issued a terse statement—the priest had been murdered by an unknown assailant, the method of death a blow to the head. His body had been found in a chapel of the National Cathedral. There were no leads at the moment. The body had been discovered by a woman, identity unknown, whereabouts unknown. The tag line on the newscast: “Former top D.C. attorney Mackensie Smith, now a professor at George Washington University, has been retained by the cathedral in this matter. Stay tuned.”
    “Damn,” Mac said, pouring himself a small glass of Blanton’s bourbon over ice.
    Annabel was sitting on a couch. She’d changed into a Kelly-green silk robe over nothing else, and was flipping through the latest issue of
Art in America
while watching the news. In her hand was a delicately shaped balloon glass witha small amount of white wine. She looked up. “Have you been retained by the cathedral?”
    “Can’t they get anything straight? Of course not.”
    “Have you told George that you would do more?”
    “No. Well, I did say that I would do what I could to make his life a little easier … give some advice, that’s all.”
    Annabel smiled, the sort of smile Mac could do without and this for the second time that day. “Uh-huh,” she said with deliberate sweetness, returning her attention to the magazine.
    The phone rang, not an unwelcome interruption for Smith. It was a reporter from
The Washington Post
, who wanted to confirm a rumor that Smith had been retained by the cathedral to defend one of its clergy in the Singletary murder.
    “Nonsense!” Smith said.
    Other calls came over the next hour, each an attempt to run down a rumor concerning Smith’s involvement, or a likely suspect.
    “Let’s go out for dinner,” Smith said after hanging up on yet another caller.
    She shook her head. “Put the answering machine on. I’d just as soon bring something in from the American Café.”
    “All right. What’ll you have?”
    “Mac.”
    “Yes?”
    “Reality has set in. You are going to be up to your neck in this, aren’t you?”
    “An overstatement, but yes, I do feel I have to help find the murderer of the man who married us.”
    She smiled gently and genuinely. “I understand. What will you do first?”
    Smith sat down next to her and shrugged. “I told George I’d make some inquiries here and also while we’re in London.”
    “Inquiries about what?”
    “About Paul’s movements there prior to his returning to Washington. About whatever we can learn here about motives and such.”
    “The trip to London is our honeymoon. You are aware of that?”
    “Of course. And remember that we decided to combine business and pleasure. I have to address that group of barristers, and you wanted to trace down leads on those Tlatilco female masks. I’m not suggesting an extensive investigation of what Paul did in London, just some questions. Jeffrey Woodcock should be helpful. I’m eager for you to meet him. He’s a nice guy.” Woodcock was a highly respected London solicitor, whose firm’s clients numbered, among others, the Church of England. He and Smith had been friends for many years, and when Smith and Annabel were planning