Deadly Politics by Maggie Sefton Page A

elegant foyer. I walked slowly down the hallway until I reached the expansive living room. There, I hovered on the edge and watched. The room wasn’t crowded because almost everyone was enjoying the gorgeous spring weather outside.
    Sometimes Washington would be blessed with a springtime for the Gods. Mild temperatures, low humidity, and flowers bursting into bloom everywhere you looked. It never stayed long, but it was glorious while it lasted.
    I could see men and women outside in the garden, laughing and talking and drinking and talking and flirting and talking. Old instincts urged me to join them, but I stayed put. Sober-and-Righteous was still on the job. No mingling . Not yet . Too soon . I turned my attention to the staff that was serving the crowd, wondering if they were part of the caterer’s crew.
    A short, gray-haired woman with an old-fashioned Dutch Boy haircut moved efficiently around the room, offering glasses of wine. A young man, college-aged, I guessed, wove through the crowd as well, offering appetizers. I searched for more staff and spotted the bartender in the corner of the room. I edged closer, and noticed he appeared to be middle-aged and worked with smooth efficiency as he prepared drinks.
    Suddenly a low alto voice sounded at my elbow. “Would you care for some wine, ma’am?” Dutch asked.
    I declined. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”
    â€œYou’ll look less conspicuous with some wine,” she said, her gray eyes smiling at me as she offered a glass.
    This time, I took it. “Thank you,” I said as she backed away. There was something strangely familiar about Dutch. Maybe she’d worked my parents’ parties. Or Dave’s and mine.
    Edging around the room again, I sipped the Chardonnay. It was surprisingly good, and I decided I needed to see Russell’s entertaining expenses. The sooner the better. Nan and Deb could tell me where to get the best prices on …
    The accountant in me stopped analyzing as I spotted someone else in the crowd, edging around the room as I was. A tall middle-aged African-American man with a graying buzz cut, wearing a dark suit. Security . Had to be. Former military, no doubt. Retired military were thick as fleas in the Washington area. Thicker even than consultants, if that can be believed. In fact, most of the retired brass were consultants. Those salaries were too tempting to pass up.
    The blond college boy paused at my elbow, offering an appetizer. I took one, the better to absorb the wine. I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. He gave me an engaging grin before weaving through the guests again. I inhaled the small quiche and washed it down with Chardonnay.
    A voice sounded behind me then; a voice from the past. “As I live and breathe. Molly Malone,” the rich contralto flowed smooth as honey. “I’d given up hope of ever seeing you again.”
    â€œEleanor MacKenzie,” I said as I turned to see my elderly mentor and political confidante smiling at me. Still as tall and imposing as I remembered, silver hair coiffed in an upswept French twist, and attired in her signature peach silk. Designer peach silk, if I remembered correctly. Eleanor always wore couture. “Thank God you’re still in town, Eleanor. Maybe I’ll survive this homecoming after all.”
    â€œMolly, my girl, the sight of you truly makes my heart sing,” Eleanor said as she drew closer. Her step was as lively as I remembered, even though she must be over eighty by now. She reached out to take my free hand, capturing it between hers. “I never thought we’d see you on this side of the Potomac again. I’d heard you visited your family in Virginia and that’s all. Ignoring our cozy little nest of vipers in Foggy Bottom.”
    I laughed softly. Eleanor’s wry sense of humor was still intact. “Well, I never thought I’d be here either, Eleanor, but my mother’s declining health forced