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Summary
Summary
NATIONAL BESTSELLER
MARGARET TRUMAN
Bestselling author of MURDER AT THE PENTAGON
MURDER ON THE POTOMAC
"A first-rate mystery writer."
--Los Angeles Times Book Review
First time in paperback!
"Harry's daughter knows her milieu; better still, she knows how to portray it convincingly."
--The San Diego Union
Law professor Mac has unflagging passion for two things in his life: his wife Annabel and the majestic Potomac River. When Mac discovers a weed-shrouded body in the latter, the former gets edgy. Lovely Annabel, owner of a flourishing Georgetown art gallery, must not only endure her husband's obsession with another killing, but she must believe Mac when he says that a stunning female former student is one of the only people who can help him.
They discover that the corpse was once the confidante' of a wealthy Washingtonian, which leads to the Scarlet Sin Society, a theatrical group that--perilously--reenacts historical murders. And soon, the only thing that matters more to Mac than solving this serpentine case is preventing Annabel's untimely death (.
"Truman 'knows the forks' in the nation's capital and how to pitchfork her readers into a web of murder and detection."
--The Christian Science Monitor
"Margaret Truman has settled firmly into a career of writing murder mysteries, all evoking brilliantly the Washington she knows so well."
--The Houston Post
Author Notes
Mary Margaret Truman, daughter of President Harry S. Truman, was born on February 17, 1924 in Independence, Missouri. She graduated from George Washington University in 1946. She was also known as Margaret Truman or Margaret Daniel. She was an American singer who later became the successful author of a series of murder mysteries and a number of works on U.S. First Ladies and First Families, including a biography of her father, President Harry S. Truman. The only child of Harry Truman and First Lady Bess Truman; she was called "Margaret" for most of her life.
Truman made her concert debut with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra in 1947 and her first television appearance on Ed Sullivan's Toast of the Town. She substituted for Edward R. Murrow on Person to Person, and later had her own radio shows (Weekday in the 1950s and Authors in the News in the 1960s). She was active with organizations such as the Harry S. Truman Scholarship Foundation and the Truman Centennial Committee.
She published her first book, Souvenir: Margaret Truman's Own Story in 1956. She also wrote a series of mysteries set at historic locations in Washington, D. C. She died on January 29, 2008 following a brief illness.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Mining crimes of the past and politics, Truman ( Murder at the Pentagon ) scants the basic plotting requirements of her 11th Capital Crimes case, which is marred by superfluous unsolved murders and an unconvincing conclusion. When the body of Pauline Juris, personal secretary of wealthy developer Wendell Tierney, is found in the Potomac River, Tierney calls former attorney, now law professor, Mackenzie Smith for advice. Mac, whose beloved wife Annabel wants him to stop dabbling in detection, agrees to see Wendell, but he refuses to ferret out the police line on the case, even though a former student of his heads the investigation team. Tierney, becoming chief suspect when love letters, purportedly from him, are found in the dead woman's apartment, again begs for Mac's help. Both Mac and Annabel are drawn into the case, which takes on another twist when the suspect's adopted son, Sun Ben Cheong, is arrested for money laundering. Truman plumps up Mac's low-key sleuthing with the goings on of the fictitious Scarlet Sin Society, a fundraising group that sponsors reenactments of local historical crimes. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Truman's latest in her Capital Crime series is tasteful and highbrow, every Yuppie's dream mystery. Set in Washington, D.C., the story stars the glamorous, wealthy, and powerful elite seen at the most prestigious charity fund-raisers, the trendiest restaurants, and the poshest cocktail parties. Mac and Annabel Smith, current beautiful people and former lawyers, have "retired" to become a GWU law professor and a Georgetown gallery owner, respectively. This doesn't stop Mac from becoming involved in the occasional murder case, much to Annabel's chagrin. When Mac's friend, wealthy developer Wendell Tierney, finds himself in hot water--his closest aide has been murdered; his marriage is crumbling; his adopted son has been accused of money laundering; his daughter is demanding a million dollars to launch her own one-woman show; and his multimillion-dollar financial standing is in jeopardy--Mac, with the help of ravishing D.C. cop Darcy Eikenberg, comes to the rescue, albeit reluctantly. The plot's pretty standard, and the writing's just okay, but Truman's quirky characters are amusing, and her insights into the lives of the rich and famous are heady and fascinating. Predictable but entertaining--and certain to be popular. (Reviewed Apr. 15, 1994)0679433090Emily Melton
Kirkus Review
Whether Truman's mirroring recent Washington scandals or just running out of landmark sites in which to dump bodies, her latest corpse is Pauline Juris, personal assistant and bagwoman to Wendell Tierney, of Tierney Development and the National Building Museum board, who is found floating in the relatively obscure current off Roosevelt Island, home of the Theodore Roosevelt memorial. So there's less tourist lore than usual, and more workaday plotting, as Tierney and his family--actress-daughter Suzanne, heir-apparent Chip, adopted son Sun Ben Cheong--take turns incriminating themselves. (Did Tierney write those typed love letters to Pauline? Was Chip having an affair with her? Was she holding the purse strings of the money Suzanne hoped to get to launch her one-woman show in New York? Did she know about Sun Ben's money-laundering?) Mackensie Smith (Murder at the Pentagon, 1992, etc.), dragged into the case over his wife, Annabel's, objections and his own misgivings about adoring Det. Darcy Eikenberg, his former student, gets the answers, honors his friendships, and doesn't defile his marital bed. Writing of an amateur troupe specializing in historic DC murders, Truman says that their ``staged reenactments, despite patches of bad acting, were historically accurate and drew large audiences.'' Not a bad review of her own long-running series, and this entry in particular.
Library Journal Review
Truman's favorite protagonists, Mac and Annabel Smith, are called in when a weed-covered body is discovered along the banks of the Potomac. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 When Mackensie Smith closed his criminal-law practice to teach law at George Washington University, he vowed to find time to smell the proverbial roses. Which didn't necessarily mean he planned to turn to gardening. In truth, he did not enjoy gardening, although his appreciation of a delicate scent, especially from Annabel's throat or shoulders, was as strong as anyone's. For Smith, indulging in quiet leisure time could mean many things, for he was a man of many interests. But two purely personal pursuits were most important to him: spending more time with Annabel, his wife, and enjoying reflective hours on or along the banks of the Potomac River, a Washington symbol as surely as most of the city's monuments. Like most rivers, it was one of the principal reasons the city had sprung up there in the first place. Somehow, for Smith, the Potomac and Annabel were kindred spirits. Not in any strained philosophical or poetic sense; Smith was too much the pragmatist for that sort of thinking. Maybe it was that both woman and river provided him with the sort of peace he craved. Annabel was an oasis of calm, as was the river. Both moved smoothly and with a touch of the stately, but no pretenses of grandeur. And there certainly was a parallel beauty. Annabel Reed-Smith was the loveliest female creature on earth as far as Mac was concerned. That she'd chosen him as her life's mate was a reality for which he thanked Someone on a fairly irregular basis. This day in late August, after having done so again, and taught a class and lunched with a friend from the State Department, he'd thought to stop by the river for an hour. Ordinarily, he would have found a secluded spot near the city and strolled the river's bank, watching crews from the universities practice their smooth but arduous sport, appreciating lovers walking hand in hand or lounging on the grass, or just taken time to drink in the river's tranquillity as it quietly slid past the city to empty into Chesapeake Bay. He occasionally fished the river for bass, smallmouth upstream, bigmouth down, usually in the company of a friend, Wendell Tierney, who fished to catch fish. Not Smith. Sure, it was fun hooking one on his barbless hooks, carefully guiding it to Tierney's bass boat and gently releasing it to be caught another day. But catching fish wasn't as important as being there. Yes, that was it. Just being there was worth it. Maybe that's what rivers were for. But he decided to do something different this particular afternoon. He drove north on the Virginia side of the river until reaching Great Falls, whose foaming rage creates Washington's most stunning act of nature. (Its tumultuous waters, Smith thought, were rivaled only by the turmoil of politics-as-usual downriver.) He walked to the edge of the Potomac River Gorge and looked out over this scenic, moving masterpiece. Far below, water that had poured over the falls swirled in fast-flowing circular patterns. Like all intense beauty, awe-inspiring, producing fear as well as admiration. The sunny warmth of the day had lured hundreds of tourists. Schoolchildren squealed with noisy delight as they romped through groves of oak and hickory trees. Photographers propped their cameras on tripods and waited for the perfect slant of sunlight. Bird-watchers trained binoculars on the sheer granite slopes that formed the gorge, fractured in many places after the molten lava of millions of years ago had cooled, the resulting fissures now filled with rich deposits of white quartz. Lovely, thought Smith. Like her. In time, with the visceral pleasure of warm sun on his face and the bracing clean air off the falls, he decided to head home. He might get dinner started. Or at least set up the ice in glasses. He turned and walked a few steps in the direction of his car, thinking that this might be one of life's big moments, not big at all but a quiet time when you want nothing more than you have, and then the scream sliced the air like the fissures in the rocks. He turned and saw people running to the gorge's edge. He quickly went to the rail and looked down. The small body below was caught in the swirling currents, tiny arms flapping in vain search of a grip. There was no sound, although the child must have been screaming; there was only the roar of a hundred thousand gallons of water a second cascading over the falls, majestic in its power, unforgiving in its violence. 2 Somewhere in Washington, D.C., on the Sunday following the tragedy at Great Falls, a funeral was conducted for the girl who'd drowned. The newspapers made even more of it than usual because the tragedy had happened where it did: another fatality claimed by the falls. Of all the parks across America managed by the National Park Service, Great Falls produced the highest number of victims--seven, eight, sometimes ten drownings a year. Few were the result of falls into the gorge. Most stemmed from reckless swimmers or boaters failing to respect the water's power. In this case, the child, part of a class that had made a visit to Great Falls to celebrate the end of a hot summer-school session, had slipped away and had gone around the low railings that defined safety. What glorious freedom after two months in a sweltering classroom. You could almost think you could spread your tiny wings and fly. The grieving family had already announced a lawsuit against the Park Service, as well as the administration of the school attended by the deceased girl. But aside from those people emotionally involved in the child's death, for most D.C. residents nothing had changed. It was too pretty an afternoon to dwell upon unpleasant events. People were out on the streets. The heat of the summer, like the death of the child, would soon be another pale memory. Autumn beckoned, Washington's finest, most palatable season. " 'Morning, Sam," a tall, slender young man with a neatly trimmed black mustache said to another young man he'd intercepted. He wore a soft tan leather vest over an American University T-shirt, tight jeans, and sneakers. As the two men exchanged banal words, a few men and women sauntered past them. Then a third young man approached wearing a SAVE THE EARTH T-shirt beneath an outlandishly oversized gray double-breasted suit jacket, a small revolver in his right hand. Sam backed away, although the weapon was pointed at the other fellow. "You bastard!" The newcomer's voice matched the threat in his hand. And then the revolver's report violated the scene's tranquillity. Others who watched recoiled with horror, then braced like mannequins, mouths and eyes opened wide. The young man slowly backed away, hands raised as though shields against another bullet. "Don't murder me," he said. "Please don't murder me." Another shot, this time the weapon pointed at the victim's groin. His expression was more bewilderment than pain. "I'm ..." He gasped, wrapping his arms around a tree in an attempt to stay erect. But his thigh and groin melted into a wet red stain, and his body seemed to melt, too, into the ground. His attacker stood over him and now held the revolver inches from the man's head and squeezed the trigger. A misfire, a dull, metallic thunk. The assailant recocked the weapon, pressed it to the chest, and fired again. The fallen man's shirt became a crimson Rorschach. Again, the revolver was held to his head. Another misfire. He placed the weapon in his pocket, smiled at the stunned onlookers, and asked of no one in particular, "Is he dead yet? Is the bastard dead?" He walked off, slowly, casually; one expected to hear him begin whistling a happy Disney tune. Another dramatic scene in the larger production that is the nation's capital. Excerpted from Murder on the Potomac by Margaret Truman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.