Alfred Barker was not a man who invited instinctive liking, Sunday thought as she sat across from him in the office of the plumbing supply store that she knew was a cover-up for nefarious activities.
He appeared to be in his mid-forties, a thick, barrel-chested man with heavy-lidded eyes, a sallow complexion, and salt-and-pepper hair, which he combed across his skull in an effort to hide a bald spot. His open shirt revealed a hairy chest and there was a scar on the back of his right hand.
Sunday had a moment of fleeting gratitude as she thought of Henry's lean, muscular body, the quick smile that showed his firm white teeth, the rugged features that were enhanced by a stubborn jaw, the sable-brown eyes that could convey or, if necessary, conceal emotion. At times she chafed at the presence of her Secret Service men, pointing out that since she'd never been First Lady, she didn't see why she had to have protection now. But at this moment, in this squalid room with this hostile man, she was glad to know they were outside the partially open door. She had introduced herself as Sandra O'Brien, and it was obvious that Alfred Barker did not have a clue that the rest of her name was Britland.
"Why do ya wanna talk to me about Arabella?" Barker asked her as he lit a cigar.
"I want to start by saying that I'm very sorry about her death," Sunday told him sincerely. "I understand you and she were very close. But I know Mr. Shipman." She paused, then explained, "My husband at one time worked with him. There seems to be a conflicting version of who broke up his relationship with Ms. Young."
"Arabella was sick of the old creep," Barker told her. "Arabella always liked me."
"But she got engaged to Thomas Shipman," Sunday protested.
"Yeah. I knew that would never last. But he had a fat wallet. Ya see, Arabella was married when she was eighteen to some jerk who needed to be introduced to himself every morning. She was smart. I mean, that guy was worth hanging on to 'cause there were big bucks in the family. She hung around for three or four years, went to college, had her teeth fixed, let the guy pay for everything, waited till his rich uncle died, got him to comin-gle the money, then divorced him."
Alfred Barker lit the tip of his cigar and exhaled noisily. "What a shrewd cookie. A natural."
"And then she started seeing you," Sunday prodded.
"Right. Then I had a little misunderstanding with the government and ended up in the can. She got a job at a fancy public relations firm. The chance to move to their Washington branch came up two years ago and she grabbed it."
Barker inhaled deeply, then coughed noisily. "You couldn't hold Arabella down. I didn't want to. When I got sprung last year she used to call all the time and tell me about that little jerk Shipman, but in the meantime he was giving her fancy jewelry and she was meeting lots of people." Barker leaned over the desk. "Including the President of the United States, Henry Parker Britland the Fourth."
He looked at Sunday accusingly. "How many people in this country ever sat down at the table and traded jokes with the President of the United States? Have you?"
"Not with the President," Sunday said honestly, remembering that first night at the White House when she'd declined Henry's invitation. Instead she and her parents accompanied him on Air Force One back to New Jersey the next day after his successor was sworn in.
"See what I mean?" Barker crowed triumphantly. "Mr. Barker, according to Secretary Shipman he was the one breaking off the relationship with Arabella." "Yeah. So what?" "Then why would he kill her?"
Barker's face flushed. His hand slammed on the desk. "I warned Arabella not to threaten him with the tabloid routine. But she got away with it before and wouldn't listen to me."
"She got away with it before!" Sunday exclaimed, remembering this was exactly what she had suggested to Henry. "Who else did she try to blackmail?"
"Some guy she worked with. I don't know his name. But it's never a good idea to mess around with a guy with the kind of clout Shipman had. Remember how he flushed Castro down the toilet?"
"How much did she talk about blackmailing him?" "Only to me. She figured it would be worth a coupla bucks." Tears welled in the unlikely pool of Alfred Barker's eyes. "I was just thinking," he said. "I'm nuts about quotations. I read them for laughs and for insight, if you know what I mean." "My husband is very fond of quotations too," Sunday encouraged. "He said they contain wisdom."
"That's what I mean. Wha'duz your husband do?" "He's unemployed at the moment." "That's tough. Does he know anything about plumbing?" "Not much." "Can he run numbers?" Sunday shook her head sadly.
"Arabella had a big mouth. A real big mouth. I came across this quote and showed it to her. I always told her her mouth would get her in trouble."
Barker rummaged through the top drawer of his desk. "Here it is. Read it." He thrust a page that had obviously been torn from a book of quotations. One entry was circled:
Beyond this stone, a lump of clay
Lies Arabella Young
Who on the 24th of May
Began to hold her tongue.
"It was on an old English tombstone. Except for the date, is that a coincidence or is that a coincidence?" Barker sighed heavily. "I'm sure gonna miss Arabella. She was fun."
"You had dinner with her the night she died."
"Yeah."
"Did you drop her off at the Shipman house?"
"I put her in a cab. She was planning to borrow his car to get home." Barker shook his head. "She wasn't planning to return it. She was sure he'd give her anything to keep her from spilling muck to the tabloids. Instead look what he did to her."
Barker stood up. His face turned ugly. "I hope they fry him."
Sunday got to her feet. "The death penalty in New York State is administered by lethal injection. Mr. Barker, what did you do after you put Arabella in a cab?"
"I've been expectin' to be asked that, but the cops didn't even bother to talk to me. They knew they had Arabella's killer. After I put her in the cab, I went to my mother's and took her to the movies. I do that once a month. I was at her house by a quarter of nine and buying tickets at two minutes of nine. The ticket guy knows me. The kid who sells popcorn knows me. The woman who was sitting next to me is Mama's friend and she knows I was there for the whole show."
Barker thumped his fist on the desk. "You wanna help Shipman? Decorate his cell."
Sandra's Secret Service men were suddenly beside her. They stared down at Barker. "I wouldn't pound the desk in this lady's presence," one of them suggested coldly.
Thomas Acker Shipman had not been pleased to receive the call from Henry's aide, Marvin Klein, ordering him to delay the plea-bargaining process. What was the use? He wanted to get it over with. This house no longer felt like a home but had already become a prison. Once the plea bargain was completed, the media would have their usual field day and then they'd drop interest and move on. A sixty-five-year-old man going to prison for ten or fifteen years didn't stay hot copy for long.
It's only the speculation about whether I'll go to trial that has them camped out there, he thought as once again he peered out from behind a tiny opening in the drawn drapery.