Read Online Murder at the Library of Congress by Margaret Truman - Free Book Online Page A

acknowledged as a Las Casas expert, I was hoping you’d be gracious enough to give me a few good quotes, perhaps tell me why you predicted you would prove in two years—that was a year ago—that the diaries do, indeed, exist. Will you?”
    “Give you a quote?”
    “Yes.”
    “The diaries written by Bartolomé de Las Casas exist.”
    “That’s it?”
    “Next year’s federal budget will be squandered on military hardware and not on the arts. It will be a warmer winter in Washington this year than last year. And I will be out of this hovel and in a larger, private office this time next month, even if I have to kill someoneto accomplish that. You can quote me on all three subjects.”
    “I’m sorry to have kept you so long,” Annabel said.
    “No, actually you saved me, but I should run. I’d enjoy continuing this conversation. If I come off as slightly prickly, it’s because I am prickly by nature, especially when amateurs intrude on a subject to which I’ve devoted a considerable portion of my adult life.”
    “Thanks for your time.”
    “Dinner tonight? Been to Taberna del Alabardero?”
    Annabel stared at him.
    “The tapas and paella are good, don’t you agree?”
    “I’m having dinner with my husband tonight.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Only tonight? Is it an event?”
    “Every time we meet.”
    She watched him slip on his suit jacket, check himself in a small mirror he’d hung on the wall next to the coat hook, and leave.
    “Bastard,” she murmured as she moved to her desk and went over notes she’d made the day before in the rare manuscripts room. Before she knew it, it was noon, and she was hungry. She went down to Consuela’s office. “Feel like lunch?” she asked.
    “Can’t. A division chiefs’ meeting. How did it go with our Dr. Paul?”
    “Hardly the picture of helpful cooperation. He’s so arrogant it’s almost charming. He hit on me, as the saying goes.”
    “I knew he’d like being interviewed by a tall, attractive redhead. Were you flattered?”
    “No.”
    “Mac would be unhappy at the news.”
    “Mac would only be unhappy if I invited it, or fell for it. Paul reminds me of a bullfighter, dangling that redcape, and confident that no matter how strong the bull is, it can be killed at the end.”
    “An image I’m sure he’d enjoy. Rain check on lunch?”
    “Sure.”
    Annabel turned to leave but her way was blocked by a woman standing in the doorway.
    “Hello,” Annabel said.
    “Hello.”
    “Dolores, this is Annabel Reed-Smith,” Consuela said. “I’ve told you about her.”
    “Of course.” They shook hands.
    “Dolores is one of our top specialists in Hispanic,” Consuela said. “Her field is Mexican culture.”
    “More specifically the impact of the pre-Columbian era on later Mexican culture,” Dolores added.
    “Why don’t you two grab lunch together?” Consuela suggested. “Annabel will be here for a few months researching a piece for Civilization .”
    “So I understand. I was just heading out. Join me?”
    “Love to.”
    Dolores suggested they skip the cafeteria on the sixth floor of the Madison Building and “eat on the economy.” They walked to a strip of small restaurants a block away on Pennsylvania Avenue, decided on a place called Hill Street Brews, and were seated by the hostess in a booth.
    Dolores, whose last name Annabel learned was Marwede—“People tend to pronounce it Mar- weed , but it’s really Mar wee-dee ,” Dolores said—was one of those individuals to whom Annabel took an instant liking. They were approximately the same height, tall, and might have been mistaken for sisters if their coloring was ignored. The redheaded Annabel was fair-skinned; Dolores was dusky, her hair, which like Annabel she wore long, was inky black. It had crossed Annabel’s mind while walking to the restaurant that the anachronisticstereotype of librarians as granny-goose types, hair in a bun, round glasses, spending their days quieting children