"Tom, why would you even think of drinking a martini on top of a sleeping pill?"
"Because I'm a fool," Shipman snapped. "Because I was so sick of Arabella's loud voice and cackling laugh that I thought I'd go mad if I didn't drown it out."
Henry and Sunday stared at Shipman. "I thought you were crazy about her," Henry said.
"I was the one who broke it off," Shipman told him. "As a gentleman I thought it proper to tell people it had been her decision. Anyone looking at the disparity in our ages and personalities would certainly have believed that. The truth was that I had finally-temporarily as it turns out-come to my senses."
"Then why were you calling her?"
"Because she was phoning me in the middle of the night, every hour on the hour. I warned her that it could not go on. She pleaded for a meeting and I agreed to see her in the near future but not that night."
"Tom, why haven't you told this to the police? Everyone thinks it was a crime of passion."
"I think in the end it probably was. That last night Arabella told me that she was getting in touch with one of the tabloids and would sell them a story about wild parties during your administration that you and I allegedly gave together."
"That's ridiculous," Henry sputtered.
"Blackmail," Sunday breathed.
"Exactly. Do you think telling that story would help my case? At least there's some dignity to being punished for murdering a woman because I loved her too much to lose her. Dignity for her and, perhaps, even a modicum of dignity for me."
Sunday insisted on cleaning up the kitchen. Henry insisted on escorting Tommy upstairs to rest. "Tommy, I wish there were someone here with you," he said. "I hate to leave you alone."
"I don't feel alone after your visit, Henry." Nevertheless, Henry worried about his good friend. Constance and Tommy had never had children. So many of their friends from Westchester had moved to Florida. Others were still in Washington. As Shipman went into the bathroom off the master bedroom, Henry's beeper sounded.
It was Jack Collins, the head of his Secret Service detail. "Mr. President, William Osborne, the next-door neighbor, is insisting that Mr. Shipman must be given a message. He says Countess Condazzi is calling from Palm Beach and is distraught trying to reach him. The Countess insists that Mr. Shipman be notified that she is expecting his call."
"Thanks, Jack. I'll tell Secretary Shipman at once. And Sunday and I will be leaving in a few minutes."
"Right, sir."
Countess Condazzi, Henry thought. How interesting. Who can that be?
His interest was further piqued when on being informed of the call, Thomas Acker Shipman's eyes brightened and a smile hovered on his lips. "Betsy phoned. How dear of her!" But then the brightness disappeared from his eyes and the smile vanished and he said, "The Osbornes play golf with Betsy in Florida. That's why she phoned them."
"Are you going to call the Countess back?" Henry asked.
Shipman shook his head. "Absolutely not. Betsy must not be dragged into this mess."
A few minutes later, as Henry and Sunday were being hustled past the media, a Lexus pulled into the driveway beside them. A woman in her fifties, with a coronet of braids, used the diversion caused by the former president to slip up to the front door and let herself in. Henry and Sunday both noticed her.
"That has to be the housekeeper," Sunday decided. "She had a key in her hand. At least Tom won't be alone."
"He must be paying her well," Henry observed. "That car is expensive."
On the drive home he told Sunday about the mysterious phone call from Palm Beach, He could see from the way her head tilted to one side and her forehead puckered that she was both disturbed and thinking deeply.
They were riding in an eight-year-old black Chevy, one of the ten specially equipped secondhand cars Henry delighted in using to avoid recognition. The two Secret Service agents, one driving, one riding shotgun, were separated from overhearing them by a glass divider.
"Henry," Sunday said, "there's something wrong about this case. You can sense that."
Henry nodded. "Oh, that's obvious. I thought it might be that the details are so gruesome that Tommy has to deny them to himself." Then he paused. "But none of this is like him," he exclaimed. "No matter what the provocation I cannot accept that, even laced up on a sleeping pill and a martini, Tommy went so out of control that he killed a woman! Just seeing him today made me realize how extraordinary all this is. Sunday, he was devoted to Constance. But his composure when she died was remarkable. Tommy simply isn't the kind of man who flips out, no matter what the provocation."
"His composure may have been remarkable when his wife died, but falling hook, line, and sinker for Arabella Young when Connie was barely cold in her grave says a lot, doesn't it?" "Rebound? Denial?"
"Exactly. Sometimes people fall in love immediately and it works, but more often it doesn't."
"You're probably right. The very fact that Tommy never married Arabella after giving her an engagement ring nearly two years ago says to me that all along he knew it was a mistake."
"Henry, all this took place before I came on the scene. I read in the tabloids all about how much in love the staid Secretary of State was with the flashy PR person half his age, but then I saw a picture of him at his wife's funeral side by side with a picture of him snuggling Arabella and I was sure that he was on an emotional roller coaster. No one that grief stricken can be that happy a few months later." Sunday sensed rather than saw her husband's raised eyebrow. "Oh, come on. You read the tabloids cover to cover after I'm finished with them. Tell me the truth. What did you think of Arabella?"
"I thought of her as little as possible." "You're not answering my question." "Never speak ill of the dead, but I found her boisterous and vulgar. A shrewd mind but she talked incessantly, and when she laughed I thought the chandelier would shatter."
"That fits in with what I read about her," Sunday commented. "Henry, if Arabella was stooping to blackmail, is it possible that she's tried it before with someone else? Between the sleeping pill and the martini, Tommy passed out. Suppose someone else came in, someone who followed Arabella, and saw an opportunity to get rid of her and let Tommy take the blame?"
"And then carried Tommy upstairs and tucked him into bed?" Henry raised an eyebrow.
The car turned onto the approach to the Garden State Parkway. Sunday stared pensively at the trees with their copper and gold and cardinal-red leaves. "I love autumn," she said. "And it hurts to think that in the late autumn of his life, Tommy should be going through this. Let's try another scenario. Suppose Tommy is angry, even furious, but so groggy he can't think straight. What would you have done if you were in his position that night?"
"What Tommy and I both did when we were at summit meetings. Sense that we're too tired or too angry to think straight and go to bed."