that led
through fenced pastures just beginning to turn emerald green. Grazing horses
paid little attention as their car passed them on their way to the main house.
Shipley and his wife were waiting in the den. Madeline
Newton was wearing jodhpurs and a green plaid shirt buttoned low to display her
ample bosoms. The green set off her violet eyes and the afternoon light washed
away any after forty flaws. She wore no make-up and looked quite beautiful.
Shipley wore brown corduroy's and a beige flannel shirt. His complexion was
ashen and his expression was sullen and mournful, perfectly appropriate for a
man who had just put his mother to rest that morning.
A fire had been lit to take the chill out of the April air.
It was Clayton, the massive bodyguard, who led them into the room. He stood
waiting for orders.
"It's alright Clayton," Madeline said once again
revealing who called the shots as far as he was concerned. He nodded and left.
The room itself with its polished oak paneling and English
style furnishings had the flavor of high dedication to the horse culture. It
was cluttered with paintings of horses, bronzes of horses, authentic whips and
blue ribbons galore signifying winning entries. There were also numerous
pictures of Madeline in her Hollywood heydays and William at the high moments
of his political life.
A framed picture of the tomb of the Unknown Soldier sat in
a silver frame on a polished table. It struck Fiona as out of context, but she
did remember a vague reference to it in the Post article on Deb Shipley,
something about fantasizing that the Unknown Soldier was none other than her
dead husband. Apparently Shipley had bought into the fantasy.
Shipley and his wife sat in matching leather wing chairs
while Gail and Fiona took seats opposite them on a leather couch.
Between them was a large polished table on which was a
setting of English bone china cups. Beside the cups was a silver carafe. Madeline
Newton poured a cup of black coffee for Fiona, one for her husband and one for
herself. Gail had declined.
"May we record, Governor?" Fiona asked holding up
a small tape recorder. It was a routine request almost always engendering full
cooperation.
"I'd prefer not," the Governor said shooting a
glance at Madeline who nodded her agreement to his decision. Fiona shrugged and
returned the tape recorder into her pocketbook.
"We're sorry to have to.... "Fiona began.
"Never mind," Madeline Newton interrupted.
"In the interest of getting to the bottom of this awful tragedy as fast as
possible, we've agreed to this interview. This has been an appalling event
which both us believe was exacerbated by your Captain for his own agenda. We
still believe it could have been downplayed."
"He did the best he could. The media can be
persistent?" Fiona said, put off by the woman's superior arrogance.
"He could have handled it a lot better," Madeline
said.
"Is everything public relations?" Gail suddenly
interjected. "We have a murder here...."
"Please," Madeline Newton said, raising her palm
imperiously. "We know what we have here."
"Someone paid this boy five hundred dollars to....
"Fiona began.
"It's too painful at this juncture to go over old
ground," Madeline said. "My husband is fully aware of every aspect of
this situation. Your wonderful Captain has been painfully detailed in his
explanation to us ... and, regretfully.... the media."
"It's alright, darling," Shipley said after a sip
of coffee. He balanced the saucer on his knee. "We can't continue to worry
about how it plays. Above all, we need to know the truth. Why was that little
monster hired to murder my mother?" He paused and shook his head.
"It's so incredibly awful."
"Sick little rat bastard," Madeline Newton said.
"It makes me cringe."
Peripherally, Fiona could see Gail's eyes flash with anger.
Thankfully, she did not react vocally.
"Did your mother have any enemies?" Fiona asked
William Shipley. It was a homicide detective's traditional
through fenced pastures just beginning to turn emerald green. Grazing horses
paid little attention as their car passed them on their way to the main house.
Shipley and his wife were waiting in the den. Madeline
Newton was wearing jodhpurs and a green plaid shirt buttoned low to display her
ample bosoms. The green set off her violet eyes and the afternoon light washed
away any after forty flaws. She wore no make-up and looked quite beautiful.
Shipley wore brown corduroy's and a beige flannel shirt. His complexion was
ashen and his expression was sullen and mournful, perfectly appropriate for a
man who had just put his mother to rest that morning.
A fire had been lit to take the chill out of the April air.
It was Clayton, the massive bodyguard, who led them into the room. He stood
waiting for orders.
"It's alright Clayton," Madeline said once again
revealing who called the shots as far as he was concerned. He nodded and left.
The room itself with its polished oak paneling and English
style furnishings had the flavor of high dedication to the horse culture. It
was cluttered with paintings of horses, bronzes of horses, authentic whips and
blue ribbons galore signifying winning entries. There were also numerous
pictures of Madeline in her Hollywood heydays and William at the high moments
of his political life.
A framed picture of the tomb of the Unknown Soldier sat in
a silver frame on a polished table. It struck Fiona as out of context, but she
did remember a vague reference to it in the Post article on Deb Shipley,
something about fantasizing that the Unknown Soldier was none other than her
dead husband. Apparently Shipley had bought into the fantasy.
Shipley and his wife sat in matching leather wing chairs
while Gail and Fiona took seats opposite them on a leather couch.
Between them was a large polished table on which was a
setting of English bone china cups. Beside the cups was a silver carafe. Madeline
Newton poured a cup of black coffee for Fiona, one for her husband and one for
herself. Gail had declined.
"May we record, Governor?" Fiona asked holding up
a small tape recorder. It was a routine request almost always engendering full
cooperation.
"I'd prefer not," the Governor said shooting a
glance at Madeline who nodded her agreement to his decision. Fiona shrugged and
returned the tape recorder into her pocketbook.
"We're sorry to have to.... "Fiona began.
"Never mind," Madeline Newton interrupted.
"In the interest of getting to the bottom of this awful tragedy as fast as
possible, we've agreed to this interview. This has been an appalling event
which both us believe was exacerbated by your Captain for his own agenda. We
still believe it could have been downplayed."
"He did the best he could. The media can be
persistent?" Fiona said, put off by the woman's superior arrogance.
"He could have handled it a lot better," Madeline
said.
"Is everything public relations?" Gail suddenly
interjected. "We have a murder here...."
"Please," Madeline Newton said, raising her palm
imperiously. "We know what we have here."
"Someone paid this boy five hundred dollars to....
"Fiona began.
"It's too painful at this juncture to go over old
ground," Madeline said. "My husband is fully aware of every aspect of
this situation. Your wonderful Captain has been painfully detailed in his
explanation to us ... and, regretfully.... the media."
"It's alright, darling," Shipley said after a sip
of coffee. He balanced the saucer on his knee. "We can't continue to worry
about how it plays. Above all, we need to know the truth. Why was that little
monster hired to murder my mother?" He paused and shook his head.
"It's so incredibly awful."
"Sick little rat bastard," Madeline Newton said.
"It makes me cringe."
Peripherally, Fiona could see Gail's eyes flash with anger.
Thankfully, she did not react vocally.
"Did your mother have any enemies?" Fiona asked
William Shipley. It was a homicide detective's traditional
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