Fatal Connections

Chapter 6

Marge Calhoun worked out of a home office in North Bethesda. Technically, South Rockville, but anyone could live in Rockville. Living in Bethesda meant you weren't one of the hoi polloi. The location may not have been as ritzy as Chevy Chase, but the two places did share a high school, which made it close enough.

When I first saw her house, I was impressed. The style blended right in with the Chevy Chase ethos. It was a brick rambler set on a wide swath of lawn adorned with shrubs and flowers that would have been the envy of many Better Homes and Gardens readers. A series of stone slabs had been placed so as to help visitors up the incline toward the entrance. I made my way to the front door and rang the doorbell.

It wasn't long before a woman who was probably in her late 40s opened the door. She had bottle-blonde hair cut short and coifed. I thought she was going to tell me to buzz off, until she smiled, raised an index finger, pointed toward her tiny ear piece, and held up a cell phone. I put on my "friendly Erica" expression and refrained from interrupting her call.

"Look. Someone's here. I've got to go." Calhoun disconnected the call. "Sorry about that. You're Erica, right?"

I squinted. "Have we met?"

Calhoun shook her head. "I make it a point to know who my clients deal with. I got your name from Nick. He speaks highly of you, but his description doesn't do you justice."

How nicey-nice of him. "May I . . . ?" I nodded toward the house.

Calhoun's pinkish complexion turned a shade deeper. "Yes, please come in." She waved the invitation.

She was so polite and matter-of-fact, I wondered if the police had told her yet. I figured they would contact the kids and any other close family first. How long would that take? Especially with all the paparazzi hanging around outside the house.

As we moved deeper into her home, I instinctively checked my surroundings. Living room to the right, small bathroom on the left tucked beneath the stairs, kitchen straight ahead down a short hallway. The kitchen was airy and bright, and it looked newly renovated. Sparkling and as up-to-date as in a model home. It opened into a dining room on the right, home office to the left. I followed Calhoun as she went into her office.

"Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?"

Silly question. "That would be great."

After learning that I take mine black, she waved an arm toward the office. "Have a seat. Be with you in a sec."

I walked past her and sank gratefully into a comfy leather guest chair. This room was obviously where Calhoun spent most of her time. The walls were lined with what I assumed were client photos. Naturally, the Harcourts featured prominently. But not so prominently as to take center stage. The photos front and center seemed to be focused more on Calhoun who stood smiling with various Oprah-level celebs. A bookcase covered one wall. I considered checking the books for dust but decided not to.

Calhoun came into the room holding two steaming mugs. "How can I help you?" she asked, while passing one of them to me.

I took a sip. Perfect. "Have you heard about the Harcourts?"

Calhoun licked her lips and set her mouth in a solemn line. "Yes. Just horrible."

"Any thoughts about who might have done this?"

She gazed in my general direction, avoiding direct eye contact. "People like the Harcourts can have plenty of enemies."

"Of course," I said. "But how many of them would do what this one did?"

I had the advantage of knowing exactly what that was, since I was the one who had stumbled across the mutilated corpses. If the police hadn't already told Calhoun, I wasn't going to be the one to provide the gory details.

Calhoun gazed at her lap and then at me, or more precisely, at a point on my shoulder. "Some people say that, given the right circumstances, anyone is capable of doing the most horrific things."

Sure. But usually the cops like to have a motive to hang their cases on. What could have prompted such violence against this particular couple and the ransacking of their basement, unless they were involved with some seriously unsavory types? Say, loan sharks. Or drug dealers.

I didn't dare toss those thoughts into the conversation. As a PR professional, Calhoun probably wouldn't give me a direct answer, even if I asked what color the sky was. I tried a different tack. "Why did the Harcourts want to hire a personal assistant?"

Calhoun's eyes widened just long enough for me to notice. Then back to her business-as-usual look. "My clients are always pressed for time," she said. "Everything they do takes away from doing other, better, more satisfying things. And having children doesn't make it easier—"

I cut her off. "But they're grown children now."

"You're not a mother. Even after your children have grown up, you never stop being a mother."

What about fathers? And how much do grown children really eat into one's time? Her answer seemed evasive. I had the distinct impression my role in this was new to her. "Were they ever threatened?" I asked.

Her face suddenly assumed an expression I couldn't read. "Why do you ask?"

I said nothing for a moment, but if I had spoken, I would have barked, "That's not an answer."

Before I could say anything, she added, "The police have already contacted me, and I have answered their questions. Perhaps it's best if we leave the job of finding the killers to them."