Free Murder at the National Cathedral by Margaret Truman Page A

their honeymoon, Smith had called Woodcock and arranged for them to meet for dinner.
    Annabel continued to browse through the magazine. She lowered it to her lap and said, “I’ve been thinking a great deal about Paul Singletary.”
    “So have I. Hard not to.”
    “I’ve been thinking about his death, of course, but there’s more. He was so charming, and so committed to good deeds … but that’s really all we knew about him.”
    “What else would you like to know?”
    She shrugged.
    “We never know everything about anyone. If we did, no one would ever get along, or marry.”
    She laughed. “How true. Maybe I’m just naturally suspicious … no, skeptical, or at least wary, of anyone in the limelight here in Washington. How much do we really know about the whole life of Paul Singletary?”
    “Wary? Even of me?” Smith said.
    “
Especially
of you.”
    Smith grunted. “I’ll have to ponder that. What’s yourpleasure?” he asked as he pulled a restaurant takeout menu from a drawer.
    She tossed the magazine to the floor and sat up straight, the folds of her robe falling loose and exposing the slope of one lovely white breast. “
You’re
my pleasure, Mr. Smith.”
    “Are you about to make conjugal demands on this aging body?”
    “To the contrary. I am abandoning my role as a wife, and reverting to the whorish role that I enjoyed for so long
before
we got married.”
    “You’re sure this is the time for sex, Annabel? There’s been a murder in the national place of worship, of all things.”
    “And nothing will change that. If I am going to lose you so early in my marriage to your need to meddle in murder, I insist upon due compensation.”
    “What about dinner?”
    A tall woman, she stood up and allowed the robe to fall in a soft green pile around her feet. Nude, she looked down at him and said, “Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be hungry. But if we are, I’ll play wife again and whip up a sandwich for my dear husband. I make excellent tuna-fish salad. Or hadn’t you heard?”
    With a rolled-up magazine, they convinced Rufus to vacate the king-size bed, and for twenty minutes or so—neither was counting—forgot about everything except themselves. Murder would just have to wait.

8
    Friday Morning—Sunny, but Rain Forecast
    Long before the automatic coffee maker had a chance to trip on, the phone started ringing. Two calls were from press people; the other was from the bishop, who asked if Smith had time to meet with him late that afternoon. Smith said it looked like a full day, with two classes, one a seminar, but that he would find an hour. They settled on four o’clock at St. James’s home.
    “What should I tell others who call?” Annabel asked sleepily. She stood near the front door in robe and slippers as Smith prepared to leave for the university.
    “Tell them I expired,” he said, slipping into his raincoat.
    “Don’t even joke about something like that,” Annabel said.
    “Tell them there is no sense in calling me, because I have no official connection with the investigation of Paul’s murder.” He kissed her on the cheek, then changed his mind, found her lips, and pressed hard. “I wish I had time to stayaround. You exude a certain heightened sensuality early in the morning.”
    “Don’t feel you’ve missed anything,” she said. “I exude a certain exhaustion but I’ll be out of here in a half hour. Lots going on at the gallery today, including a meeting about the fund-raising exhibition we’re doing for St. Albans.” St. Albans was the Episcopal church on the cathedral grounds that served a local congregation. Annabel had recently taken over a vacant store next to her gallery in Georgetown and promptly committed the new space to St. Albans’s mission fund for a showing of artists who had some connection with the church. It would take a month for renovations on the gallery’s addition to be completed; the exhibition was scheduled to be hung in six weeks.
    Smith