“From what I recall,” Gregor Demarkian said, “she wasn’t standing in the receiving line the night of the reception—”
“Well, that isn’t entirely fair,” Julianne told him. “There really wasn’t much of a receiving line. Karla was standing next to the punch bowl in the main room. It was much the best place for her. Everybody had to pass by the punch bowl. And as soon as the arrival crowds died down, I was going to stand there too. That was the plan.”
“So everybody knew in advance that Ms. Parrish would be standing at that table,” Gregor Demarkian said.
“Everybody who had any part in the planning of the reception,” Julianne Corbett agreed. “Tiffany. And the other assistants. And the caterers and those people.”
“What about this plan to have you stand there yourself? Was that generally known?”
Julianne Corbett looked honestly bewildered. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘generally known.’ This wasn’t a secret, you know, Mr. Demarkian. This wasn’t as if we were planning campaign strategy or something like that. This was a party.”
“You weren’t worried about security?” John Jackman asked.
Julianne Corbett snorted. “In spite of the things you see in Clint Eastwood movies, most members of the United States Congress are not followed everywhere by Secret Service officers and have no need to be. Really. I’m just me. A middle-aged, middle-of-the-road woman who is going up to Washington to do her best. I’m not even on a committee yet.”
“You’re pro-choice, aren’t you?” John Jackman asked. “This is a pretty pro-life state. And there has been violence against pro-choice advocates in other places.”
“In the first place, what violence there has been on that score has been almost universally against abortion providers,” Julianne Corbett said, “and pro-choice or not, I couldn’t provide anybody anywhere with any kind of medical procedure. I can’t even look at the blood when I cut my legs shaving. In the second place, there is a lot of pro-life sentiment in this state, but it runs to the bleeding-heart let’s-get-down-and-pray-for-everybody variety. We don’t have a lot of radicals in Pennsylvania. Not of that stripe.”
“But pipe bombs do suggest radicals,” Gregor Demarkian put in. “In fact, pipe bombs were first used in this country in an anarchist bombing in New York City. I think in the popular imagination, radicals is exactly what it looks like we have here.”
“Maybe.” Julianne Corbett was skeptical. “But what about that woman last week or whenever it was? The one who blew her car up in a parking garage? She wasn’t a radical, was she?”
“Patricia Willis,” John Jackman said. “She was a middle-aged housewife from a place called Fox Run Hill. It’s—”
“I know what it is,” Julianne Corbett interrupted. “It’s one of those gated communities. Let’s all huddle together and put a fence up to keep the barbarians out.” She grimaced.
“Did you know that Mrs. Willis made several significant contributions to your campaign?” Gregor asked her.
Julianne Corbett bobbed her head vigorously. “Oh, yes. Tiffany found that out. It’s like I said. Tiffany’s a very good assistant in spite of the addiction to bimbo style. It was because of that that I asked Bennis Hannaford to make sure to bring you to the reception. I really am very sorry about Bennis, Mr. Demarkian, I didn’t mean to get her caught up in some sort of mess.”
“I don’t understand why finding out that Mrs. Willis had contributed to your campaign would lead you to ask Bennis Hannaford to bring me along to a party,” Gregor Demarkian said.
Julianne Corbett shrugged. “It’s because of the exposure. Everybody’s very worried about exposure. Anything at all, no matter how small, can sink you in politics these days. God only knows what I thought. That Mrs. Willis was stealing the money from her husband to contribute to my campaign. That she killed her husband when he found out about it. There’s a scenario for you. How can I tell how people are going to behave?”
“Fair enough,” Gregor said. He pointed at the picture on the desk. “You said that was taken at Vassar College. Did you graduate from there?”
“Yes, I did. Years and years ago.”
“Did you know that Mrs. Willis graduated from there?”
“Did she? No, I hadn’t heard that. What class was she in?”
“Class of 1969,” John Jackman said.
Julianne Corbett looked bewildered. “Are you sure? I was in the class of ’69. I saw her picture in the paper. She didn’t look like anybody I had ever met.”