Chapter One
Washington, D.C.
February 16, 1945
Sometime before midnight, freezing rain pelted out a maddening symphony on the window. Benjamin Franklin gazed compassionately from the bloody hundred dollar bill floating near Miss Chloe Lambert’s breasts. The redhead lay soaking in a claw-footed tub at Mrs. Grogan’s boarding house onNichols Avenue in the District of Columbia. Her skin was flushed from the steamy water, but she was sure she’d never feel warm again. With eyes dehydrated from crying, Chloe stared at her black, blue, green and yellow bruises.
* * * * *
Earlier that night, across town, Mrs. Anna Eleanor Roosevelt’s footsteps resonated army-like as she stormed the west wing. A black Scottish terrier rounded a corner and scrambled toward her. “No, Fala, no!” Dodging his excited leap, she caught the fluffy sash of her emerald evening gown on the edge of a marble pedestal displaying the bust of Abraham Lincoln. She twisted and caught old Abe,but the taffeta tore. Eleanor replaced the sculpture, picked up the little dog and marched to an office.
She shoved the door open. Stepping inside, Mrs. Roosevelt vigorously petted the wiry-haired pooch while closing the door with her back. It hit the jamb with an audible resolve. “Vera, I am well aware of your…your little game, and I’ve had quite enough of you.”
Mrs. Vera Blandings stopped typing. The long-legged brunette stood, removed her librarian’sglasses and snuffed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. She blew a plume of smoke at the first lady before running manicured fingers along her starched beige shirtdress. A smirk twitched the corners of her scarlet lips. She crossed her arms and turned toward the wall.
The first lady crinkled her nose and bent down. Fala leapt from the crook of her arm. He scampered over to sniff the closed door to the Oval Office.
Eleanor rose,thrusthershouldersbackandstompedtotherearofthedesk, launching a rolling chair out of her way. She squeezed between her husband’s newest secretary and a portrait of George Washington.
Vera took a step back, grinning.
Mrs. Roosevelt demanded, “Just what will it take to make you disappear?” “A new job.”
“Done.”
“A role in the next Alfred Hitchcock movie.” Eleanor laughed.
Vera glared. “I’m quite serious.” She cocked her head, retrieved her chair and tucked it under the desk. Pulling out the bottom drawer, Vera removed her reptilian pocketbook and gently shut the drawer.
Eleanor silently seethed in the stale smoky air while composing a response. I will not allow thiswoman to slip me into unsavory territory. “Fine then. So be it. Pack your snakeskin. No more games in the interim or—”
The magnetic purse clasp clicked when Vera opened it. After removing a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, the President’s secretary sashayed out of the office.
The first lady glanced at her diamond watch and groaned. She pulled the chair out and ploppedherself down. It hissed as the cushioned seat compressed. She opened Vera’s top desk drawer and rummaged through stubby pencils, rubber bands, a loose deck of playing cards, a crumpled issue of True Romance magazine that was caught in the back, a piece of yellow police chalk and several pistachios. Eleanor briefly picked up the waxy chalk. What in the devil is she doing with this? The stuff they outline corpses with… She shrugged her shoulders and dropped it back inside with a clunk.
Digging out a paper clip, the first lady wove the coiled wire through the soft frays of her ripped sash. It popped right off. She noticed a little chalk had transferred from her fingers to her gown. What else can happen?
