Brazen Virtue

serious than I suspected, but I’m afraid I’m lost.”
    “Kathleen Breezewood was murdered on the evening of April tenth.” Ed waited until Morgan had sneezed into another tissue. “Can you tell us where you were between eight and eleven?”

    “April tenth.” Morgan rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “That would have been the night of the fundraiser at the Shoreham. Election year, you know. I was just coming down with this miserable flu, and I remember I dragged my feet about going. My wife was put out with me. We were there from seven until, oh, just after ten, I believe. Came straight home. I had a breakfast meeting the next morning.”
    “Nothing in the log about flowers since the Parson baby.” Smug, Margaret walked back in and handed the oversize book to Ben. “It’s my business to know where and when to send flowers.”
    “Congressman Morgan,” Ed began, “who else has access to your credit card?”
    “Margaret, of course. And my wife, though she has her own.”
    “Children?”
    Morgan stiffened at that, but he answered. “My children have no need for credit cards. My daughter is only fifteen. My son’s a senior at St. James’s Preparatory Academy. Both receive an allowance and large purchases have to be approved. Obviously the clerk at the florist made a mistake when noting down the number.”
    “Possibly,” Ed murmured. But he doubted the clerk had misunderstood the name as well. “It would help if you could tell us where your son was on the night of the tenth.”
    “I resent this.” Flu aside, Morgan sat up straight.
    “Congressman, we have two murders.” Ben shut the log. “We’re not in the position to walk on eggshells here.”
    “You realize, of course, I have to answer nothing. However, to close the subject, I’ll cooperate.”
    “We appreciate it,” Ben said mildly. “About your son?”
    “He had a date.” Morgan reached for the juice and poured a tumblerful. “He’s seeing Senator Fielding’s daughter, Julia. I believe they went to the Kennedy Center that evening. Michael was home by eleven. School night.”
    “And last night?” Ben asked.
    “Last night Michael was home all evening. We played chess until sometime after ten.”
    Ed noted down both alibis. “Would anyone else on your staff have access to your card number?”

    “No.” Both his patience and his need to cooperate had reached an end. “Quite simply, someone made a mistake. Now if you’ll excuse me, I can’t tell you any more.”
    “We appreciate the time.” Ed rose, tucking his notebook away. He’d already decided to dose himself with extra vitamin C when he got back to the station. “If you think of any other reason the flowers might have been charged to your account, let us know.”
    Margaret was more than happy to see them out. When the door closed behind them with a resounding thud, Ben stuck his hands in his pockets. “My gut tells me the guy’s on the level.”
    “Yeah. It’s easy enough to check on the fundraiser, but I vote for the senator’s daughter first.”
    “I’m with you.”
    They walked toward the car. Over Ben’s mutter, Ed took the driver’s side. “You know, something Tess said’s been bothering me.”
    “What?”
    “How you can pick up the phone and order anything. Do it all the time myself.”
    “Pizza or pornography?” Ben asked, but he was thinking too.
    “Drywall. I had some delivered last month and had to give the guy my card number before he’d send it out. How many times have you given out your credit card number to somebody over the phone? All you need is the number and name, no plastic, no ID, no signature.”
    “Yeah.” On a whoosh of breath, Ben took his seat. “I guess that narrows the field down to a couple hundred thousand.”
    Ed pulled away from the town house. “We can always hope the senator’s daughter got stood up.”

Chapter 10
    M ARY BETH MORRISON HAD been born to mother. By the time she was six, she’d possessed a collection of baby dolls that required regular feeding, changing, and pampering. Some had walked, some had talked, but her heart had been just as open to a button-eyed rag doll with a torn arm.
    Unlike other children, she’d never balked at the domestic chores her parents had assigned to her. She’d loved the washing and the polishing. She’d had a pint-size ironing board, a miniature oven, and her own tea set. By her tenth birthday, she’d been a better hand at baking than her mother.
    Her one true