Part 13 (1/2)
11.
Ryan walked me to my car after a detour through Jefferson's rooms, the beautiful suite he called his Cabinet and his sanctum sanctorum. I told him I was leaving tomorrow night for a week in London and had written to the general information address at the Chelsea Physic Garden, asking to meet with someone to discuss the Fairbairn letter.
”The person you want to see is Zara Remington, the curator. She's good people. I can write her on your behalf, if you'd like. In return, I'd like to be kept in the loop of anything you find out.”
”Fair enough,” I said. ”So, what about you? Do you have any ideas where these seeds might be?”
”No, but I certainly intend to start looking.”
”And in return, you'll keep me in your loop.” I gave him a bright smile. ”If you find anything, I'd like to be the photographer who gets the first pictures. I owe it to Kevin. It's his story, you know.”
He nodded. ”Now I understand why he was keeping this so quiet.”
I got in the Mini and rolled down the window. ”If someone killed him, he wasn't keeping it quiet enough.”
He looked startled. ”I suppose you're right.”
”Be careful.”
He reached through the window and patted my shoulder. ”You be careful, too.”
Sole Brothers Shoes was located on Columbia Road, the main commercial drag in the colorful, noisy heart of Adams Morgan. Years ago the store had been an elegant French patisserie called Avignon Freres, in the middle of a largely immigrant Hispanic community. The Sole Brothers, whose surname was Weinstein, had managed to keep the Old World emporium charm when they renovated the place, and now the shoe store had become as popular a destination spot as the bakery had once been. That they were closing for a morning for ”a private event” was a big deal, and as one of the brothers told me, ”The good publicity don't hurt us, neither. Everybody in the neighborhood has been in, buyin' shoes and showin' their support. Plus, we've had a bunch of donations. We got at least another two hundred bucks for you just in the past three days.”
The children arrived in s.h.i.+fts beginning at nine o'clock, by grade, the littlest ones first, or else we figured the store would turn into a mob scene. Grace, Tommy, and I had arrived earlier, along with every teacher in the school and the entire staff of Sole Brothers. Though I would have loved to take pictures as souvenirs for the kids, I left my camera at home. Not everyone was in the country legally and we didn't want to scare any of the parents away. The goal was for every child to leave the store with a new pair of shoes.
My phone rang halfway through the third wave of kids, the fifth and sixth graders. I had been reaching for a shoe box on a high shelf for a ten-year-old girl with a sweet smile and big dark eyes who looked enough like me that we could have been related. I answered the phone and looked down to see who was calling. A D.C. number I didn't recognize.
”Hey,” a male voice said, ”it sounds like you're in the middle of Union Station. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”
”Who's this?”
”Sorry,” he said. ”It's David Arista.”
I handed the box to the little girl and walked to the end of the aisle where the shoe sizes were too big for any of the kids so it was quieter.
”Actually, I'm in a shoe store,” I said, ”and I'm kind of busy. What can I do for you?”
”I never get in the way of a woman on a shopping mission,” he said with a grin in his voice. ”Especially when it involves shoes. I'll be brief. My friend at the Arts and Industries Building is willing to meet us next week and you can photograph the inside of the building to your heart's content. I was just wondering what day would work for you.”
I leaned against the end of a tall shelf and closed my eyes. ”Thank you, but unfortunately I'm not available next week.”
”Sophie?”
I looked up. Grace stood at the end of the aisle and beckoned me. I held up a finger to indicate I'd be a moment.
”You're not free any day next week? Can't you rearrange something?” he was saying. ”He's making an exception to let you in. I'm not sure I can pull this off again.”
”It's very kind of you, but I won't even be in the country. I'm going to London for the week. What about the following week?”
He made a noisy, unhappy sound. ”I got the mountain to come to Mohammed, but I'll see what I can do. You'll have e-mail while you're away, right?”
”Yes. I'm really sorry, but I've got to go.”
”All right. Cheerio. I'll let you get back to your Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks. Sounds like they're giving them away if that din is anything to go by. Where are you, anyway?”
”It's a private event and actually they are giving them away,” I said. ”Goodbye, David.”
I joined Grace, who said, ”We're almost done. The older kids knew exactly what they wanted, so once that big line at the cash register is finished, that's it. I thought we could stick around and tidy up so the place doesn't look like a war zone and then I'll buy you lunch.”
”Yes to everything, but I need to pa.s.s on lunch. I haven't packed for London, plus I'm going to try to make five thirty Ma.s.s at the cathedral before Tommy comes by to take me to Dulles.”
”You have a sweet brother.”
”I know. He was going out to Middleburg anyway since he's on spring break and the house will be empty. He figured he'd get a lot of uninterrupted studying done.”
Tommy left, telling me he'd see me later, and Grace and I stuck around with several of the teachers to restock boxes that had been left in piles like snowdrifts and pick up tissue paper and cardboard shoe inserts flung about like haphazard decorations. It was just after twelve thirty when we left, both on foot, since I lived about twenty minutes from the store and Grace's house was around the corner. We exchanged hugs at the intersection of 18th Street and Columbia Road, where we went in different directions.
”What can I bring you from London?” I asked.
”I'd love some tea from Fortnum and Mason, if you have time. Any kind of tea, as long as it's English.”
”I'll have plenty of time. It's a pleasure trip.”
”By the way,” she said, ”I meant to tell you. Two things. I'm still covering the story on Kevin and I checked in with my contact in the medical examiner's office this morning. They haven't done the autopsy yet.”
”Will you let me know if you hear anything?”
”Of course.”
”You said two things.”
”You'll have company from home while you're in London. I saw a story on the International Press Service wire this morning. Archduke Orlando, Victor's father, is in the hospital recovering from pneumonia. There was a picture of Victor with Yasmin Gilberti entering St. Mary's Hospital with a scrum of photogs around them. Yasmin's turned into quite a little media sensation.”
So that's what Ursula's secretary had meant when she said Yasmin and Victor were called away on family business.
”How's his father doing?” I asked. ”I knew he was too frail to come to the party the other night, but I didn't realize he had pneumonia.”
”I think it came on suddenly. Apparently he's not doing well at all.”
”I'll write Victor and tell him I'm thinking about him.”
She gave me another hug and crossed Columbia Road. When I was halfway down 18th Street, I thought of Ursula's neighbor's remark the other night, that Ursula wished the older prince would die before the wedding so Victor would inherit his father's t.i.tles and his share of the family fortune. It had been a snide, snarky comment, but maybe there had been some truth in it.