The Roswell Legacy by Frances Statham (ebook pdf reader for pc .TXT) 📕

actress ready to walk onstage at Ford’s Theatre. “Rad, I have something to confess.” No, that sounded too much like an intentional sin. She started again. “Rad, you remember my telling you that Coin was killed in Virginia?”

No matter how she tried to frame them, the words still sounded foreign, like a monologue chosen for her by an unsympathetic playwright. But if she felt sorry for herself in being forced to say them, she felt equal sympathy for Rad, so unsuspecting of what the evening would bring.

She adjusted the bowl of musk roses, gathered from the garden. A small dark ant fell from the nectared sepal of a full-blown rose and landed on the white tablecloth. Like an Indian apologizing to a deer before drawing his bow, Allison murmured an apology even as she quickly removed the ant from the table.

And then she heard the small creak of the staircase, an indication that Rad was coming downstairs after his wash.

“We’re going to have supper on the porch, Rad,” she called out, walking toward the threshold of the large dining room.

She stopped in the doorway, smiled, and waited for her husband to appear. A lingering ray of sun pierced the shadows gathering around her, framing her into a snow-white frieze of stone until the breeze tugged at the sleeve of her delicate white lawn blouse.

He loved the way she looked: the pure, uncluttered simplicity of her dress with its single brooch, so different from the other Washington wives who decorated their bosoms as lavishly as they did their parlor mantelpieces.

“Go on and have a seat, Rad. I’ll bring the food out.”

“Isn’t Browne here?”

“No. I let him go early. You remember he and Crete have a revival at their church tonight.”

Rad didn’t remember, but he nodded, anyway.

As Allison brought the food to the table—cold chicken, fruits, vegetables, bread, and cheese—Rad voiced his appreciation. “I’m so glad, Allison, that you recognize how hungry a man can get even in this hot weather.”

Allison smiled. “I thought of giving you a presidential supper instead.…”

Rad laughed. “Crackers and buttermilk, my pet, and you would be sent home in absolute disgrace.”

Allison’s smile faltered for a moment. But quickly she remarked, “That must have been quite a blow to the hostesses in Chicago to have the president end the day at the exposition with such a snack, when they’d gone to such trouble preparing a feast for him.”

“Well, I can understand how tired he was after such a long day. And who knows? If this investigation drags out as long as most of us think it will, I’ll probably be too old for solid food.”

“Well, then, enjoy your chicken while you still have your teeth, Mr. Meadors.”

A comfortable silence wrapped around them, the product of years spent together when words were not a prerequisite to a feeling of oneness. And if Rad did not sense the deliberate attempt by Allison to maintain this state of being, perhaps it was because of his own troubled conversation with Stanley Quail before his committee meeting that afternoon.

The twilight lingered; there was a lazy hum of bees in the garden. Gradually, the sun sank beyond the terraced lawn that disappeared into the darker shadowed row of trees.

Rad finished the fruit and cream dessert but made no effort to leave the table. Instead, he moved his chair and reached over to take Allison’s hand.

“I didn’t want to bring this up while we were still eating, Allison, but we have to face some unpleasant news.”

“Oh? What news?”

“It concerns the Forsytes. I’m afraid it might put Jonathan’s engagement in peril.”

No. Those were her words—the lines she’d rehearsed to say to Rad. They shouldn’t be coming from her husband’s throat, but from her own.

At the alarm registered on Allison’s face, Rad continued. “Just hear me out, Allison. Because the two of us need to decide what to do about the situation before Jonathan comes back to Washington next week.”

CHAPTER

9

“Stanley Quail is one of the attorneys who will be censured by the committee for fraud in the government pension windfall.”

His remark made no sense to her. “Am I supposed to know this Mr. Quail?”

“Perhaps not by name. His wife is Ginna Forsyte’s older sister. So you see how embarrassing it is for everyone concerned.” Rad didn’t wait for Allison to respond. “I don’t think the man started out to do it deliberately. I fully believe he was reasonably honest. But the temptation became too great when he saw all the boodling going on around him.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. For Jonathan’s sake-—” Allison stopped short. She had almost given herself away, speaking of her late brother. For with Rad’s mention of Ginna’s married sister, she realized it had to be Cassie, her brother Jonathan’s child by Araminta, who was married to Stanley Quail.

Unaware of the slip, Rad said, “Yes. It won’t be too comfortable for Jonathan, especially with the enmity between Quail and me. We had a regular shouting match today.”

“You have proof of his guilt?”

“Undoubtably.”

The legislation passed in a previous session to give away hundreds of thousands of dollars to veterans from a war that had been over for more than twenty years had now resulted in a scurrilous scheme. For the legitimate claims of veterans had given way to fraud, with clients and certain attorneys banding together to share in the retroactive disability windfall that neither deserved.

“One of Quail’s clients broke down today, under oath, and confessed that he’d never fought in the war, much less been injured. He’d gotten drunk ten years ago and hurt himself when he fell from his wagon.”

“Perhaps Mr. Quail didn’t know that, Rad.”

“The man also testified that Quail had agreed to represent him and file all the necessary papers, including a bogus army discharge, in exchange for half of the windfall.

“But if it gives you any comfort, there are a dozen more lawyers guilty of the same thing. Only none of their actions has a direct bearing on our