A Meeting In The Ladies' Room (5 page)
Read A Meeting In The Ladies' Room Online
Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs
7
I'M NOT LOOKING FOR THAT
C
ries of grief, dismay, and disbelief ripped through the crowd but I was too astonished to react in any way until I saw Pamela Silberstein sag in her chair with tears running down her face. Although I had friendly relationships with all my colleagues with the exception of Astrid Norstromm, Pam was my hands-down favorite person on the staff. She was a tall white woman in her mid-fifties with shocking red hair and a razor-sharp wit who had been in charge of the health books for the past two decades.
ries of grief, dismay, and disbelief ripped through the crowd but I was too astonished to react in any way until I saw Pamela Silberstein sag in her chair with tears running down her face. Although I had friendly relationships with all my colleagues with the exception of Astrid Norstromm, Pam was my hands-down favorite person on the staff. She was a tall white woman in her mid-fifties with shocking red hair and a razor-sharp wit who had been in charge of the health books for the past two decades.
I managed to reach her on legs that felt wobbly. I leaned down and asked the same stupid question that one always asks in these situations. “Are you all right?”
She looked up at me, her green eyes filled with pain, and said, “Never felt better, Jackie. How about you?”
How about me? It had been fourteen years since I'd received such stunning news. During the summer between high school and college a neighborhood girl named Carmen Rivera had been thrown from the roof of a dinky hotel over on 46
th
Street. According to pedestrians, Carmen screamed as she fell and then pretty much exploded when she hit the unyielding concrete. Her boyfriend was on the roof with her when it happened but, even though the Rivera family pressed the police to arrest him, nothing was done because he said they'd been sniffing cocaine together and she lost her balance. Carmen was known to dabble in drugs and there was no one left to contradict his story, so he went free.
th
Street. According to pedestrians, Carmen screamed as she fell and then pretty much exploded when she hit the unyielding concrete. Her boyfriend was on the roof with her when it happened but, even though the Rivera family pressed the police to arrest him, nothing was done because he said they'd been sniffing cocaine together and she lost her balance. Carmen was known to dabble in drugs and there was no one left to contradict his story, so he went free.
Would Annabelle Murray's killer also get away with the crime?
Carmen had been a sweet, peaceful girl who had shared her candy necklace with me one day in kindergarten. Although we weren't friends after elementary school, her terrible death left me feeling miserable and wracked with pain, long after the funeral was over.
What were we supposed to do now?
Leigh asked us not to talk to the media and said we could go home if we felt like it.
Pam rose from her chair, we hugged briefly, and then, like cattle in a herd, followed our stricken colleagues out of the room.
I parked myself in Pam's office, which was so crammed with manuscripts and books that it usually made me claustrophobic after five minutes. Today was different. I was too traumatized to care about the untidiness surrounding me. It seemed impossible that Annabelle was not going to pop in on the marketing meeting that afternoon, lead the pre-sales conferences next week, secure a publishing deal for Craig, give me the raise, or . . .
“Poor little girl,” I said aloud.
Pam's head was resting on her hand. “Dora?”
“Yes, life is hard enough without losing your mother.”
“What in the world happened?” Pam sighed.
“When I saw Annabelle this morning, she was already dressed for work. Maybe she got mugged outside the park. She would definitely have resisted if someone tried to snatch her bag.”
“You saw Annabelle this morning?”
Uh-oh. Annabelle had sworn me to secrecy on the Moms Mabley project and I wasn't about to betray her trust, especially now. “Yes, I was campaigning for a promotion.”
Pam's eyes were riveted on me. “Oh, my God! Where was she? How did she look?”
I told her what Annabelle had been wearing and that I'd seen her at The Dakota but omitted the fact that she looked as though she'd been crying.
It was time for me to leave before I ended up putting Annabelle's business in the street. I stood up. “Pam, I'll see you later. Are you going to be okay?”
Her green eyes welled up with tears again and she nodded.
On the way back to my office I noticed that the atmosphere was hushed and dismal, although there were several knots of assistants standing around whispering about how the crime might have happened. The junior staff had very little contact with the head honchos like Annabelle and Leigh, so they really couldn't be expected to mourn.
On impulse, I walked into the bullpen-like area where Asha spent her working hours. She was on the phone but hung up immediately when she saw me approaching her desk. Asha's face looked just a little sad and confused.
“Do I have any messages?”
She handed me a stack of pink slips.
I leafed through them quickly: Penelope Aaron, a few writers, and Alyssa.
My line rang again while I was standing there. Asha put the caller on hold. “It's Paul,” she said.
“I'll take it in my office.” In my disoriented state, a chat with a trusted friend would provide a tiny bit of relief.
“I guess you heard about what happened,” I managed to say before bursting into tears.
“No. I was just calling to chat. Why are you crying?” He paused for a moment. “Jackie, what's wrong? Did Victor get married or something?”
Perish the thought. “Paul, somebody killed my boss this morning.” The words clogged up my throat and the tears continued to slide down my face.
He gasped. “That's terrible! I just ran into her at a cocktail party last week. She told me she had just booked a cruise to Bermuda.”
“I'm not talking about Leigh. I meant Annabelle.”
“Jesus Christ! What the hell happened?”
“If Leigh knows anything, she's not saying.” I filled him in on the morning's events and then weariness overtook me. “Paul, I'm going to grab some manuscripts to read and go home.”
Penelope Aaron called while I was packing to leave.
“Hey, girl, a great proposal came in yesterday. I figured a shout out to you was what time it is.”
Penelope did not know how stupid she sounded and the shock of Annabelle's death had left me too wiped out to say anything.
“Tell me about it,” I said wearily.
“Is something wrong, Jackie?”
“Yes, but I don't want to discuss it.”
Penelope and everyone else would find out about the tragedy soon enough.
“Maybe I should holla at you tomorrow.”
“No, go ahead.”
She plunged right in. “It's called
Hell on Wheels
and it's a memoir by an ex-gang leader out of Los Angeles. He really gives up the goods. There is murder, rape, extortion, and shady dealings with the police department. Fascinating stuff. I'm telling you, Jackie, it has best-seller written all over it.”
Hell on Wheels
and it's a memoir by an ex-gang leader out of Los Angeles. He really gives up the goods. There is murder, rape, extortion, and shady dealings with the police department. Fascinating stuff. I'm telling you, Jackie, it has best-seller written all over it.”
It was the type of book I hated but Penelope was right about the sales potential. For some reason, tales of Black degradation and depravity usually did extremely well at the cash register and my superiors would chop my head off if I didn't at least consider it.
“Sure, I'll take a look.”
“Great! I'll messenger it right over.”
“Fine.”
“Hang in there, chile.”
“ 'Bye, Penelope.”
It was noon when I stepped out of the building. It seemed strange to see the whole world marching on as though no tragedy had occurred.
To make matters worse, there was an e-mail waiting for me at home. It said
Jackie:
I have my hands full with my girlfriend and career. Thank you for the offer but I'm not looking for THAT.
If you have any business-related requests, I will help you if I can.
Victor
THAT. He had referred to the most precious part of my body as a THAT . . . like it was an old piece of liver, not fit for human consumption. It felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach with a steel-toed boot and, like a fool, I wrote him back and told him so. Now I had no dignity either.
8
BAD NEWS
I
tossed and turned all night and woke up feeling exhausted. It was nine o'clock, which meant Richard's Soul Food Diner was open for breakfast. After a quick shower, I slid into a black knit dress with a cowl neck and knee-length black boots. It was freezing outside and as I turned the corner onto 112th Street, a blast of cold wind hit me in the face, forcing my head down to my chest. The little Spanish man who sold newspapers next to the subway station was doing a brisk business. I paid for
The New York Times
, the
New York Daily News,
and the
New York Comet
.
tossed and turned all night and woke up feeling exhausted. It was nine o'clock, which meant Richard's Soul Food Diner was open for breakfast. After a quick shower, I slid into a black knit dress with a cowl neck and knee-length black boots. It was freezing outside and as I turned the corner onto 112th Street, a blast of cold wind hit me in the face, forcing my head down to my chest. The little Spanish man who sold newspapers next to the subway station was doing a brisk business. I paid for
The New York Times
, the
New York Daily News,
and the
New York Comet
.
A smiling photo of Annabelle was on the cover of each.
It was only a two-minute walk from the newspaper guy to Richard's Soul Food Diner. He was sitting at the counter watching his customers eat and his face lit up when I came through the door. I gave him a quick kiss and climbed onto the next stool.
“Jackie, I was just thinking about you. Did you know that woman who was killed yesterday morning?”
“Richard, it was my boss who was killed.”
His jaw dropped. “The one you went to see on Saturday?”
“Yes. It's awful. I'm surprised Paul didn't tell you.”
“He called me yesterday but this place was so crowded, I didn't have time to talk. I heard about the murder on the radio this morning and when they said she worked in book publishing, I figured you might know her, but damn, I never expected this.”
“Richard, I really want to take a look at the papers,” I answered impatiently.
“Yeah . . . sure . . . are you hungry?”
It had been more than twenty-four hours since I'd last had anything to eat. I ordered pancakes and orange juice and opened the
Comet.
Richard yelled my request to his cook, seized the
News,
and we buried ourselves in stories of Annabelle's life and premature death.
Comet.
Richard yelled my request to his cook, seized the
News,
and we buried ourselves in stories of Annabelle's life and premature death.
PUBLISHING EXECUTIVE FOUND STRANGLED,
read the
Comet
headline. The paper reported that Annabelle Welburn Murray, publisher of Welburn Books and daughter of the late John Welburn who had inherited the illustrious publishing house from his parents thirty years before, was strangled sometime before nine-thirty Monday morning. Her sister, noted Park Avenue decorator Sarah Jane Welburn, discovered the body, fully clothed, in a bathroom of the sumptuous penthouse. “There were signs of a desperate struggle and Mrs. Murray fought hard for her life,” Detective Marcus Gilchrist of the NYPD was quoted as saying.
read the
Comet
headline. The paper reported that Annabelle Welburn Murray, publisher of Welburn Books and daughter of the late John Welburn who had inherited the illustrious publishing house from his parents thirty years before, was strangled sometime before nine-thirty Monday morning. Her sister, noted Park Avenue decorator Sarah Jane Welburn, discovered the body, fully clothed, in a bathroom of the sumptuous penthouse. “There were signs of a desperate struggle and Mrs. Murray fought hard for her life,” Detective Marcus Gilchrist of the NYPD was quoted as saying.
The story went on to say that there was no sign of forced entry and police had no suspects.
My hands were shaking so badly, the newspaper fluttered to the floor. Up until then, I had assumed that Annabelle was attacked on her way to work, but now it seemed that the killer had struck only minutes after I left her apartment. If I had stayed just a little longer, there might have been two dead bodies in the morgue right now instead of one.
Richard caught me just as the room began to sway.
9
GOOD-BYE
T
he torrent of media interest, which accompanies any murder of someone rich or famous, overwhelmed the staff of Welburn Books. Our offices were flooded with calls and e-mails from journalists, television producers, a couple of film companies, and radio news directors. When members of the Black Pack called, I gave them what little information I had, but each representative of the media who managed to get me on the phone only received a terse “no comment” for their trouble.
he torrent of media interest, which accompanies any murder of someone rich or famous, overwhelmed the staff of Welburn Books. Our offices were flooded with calls and e-mails from journalists, television producers, a couple of film companies, and radio news directors. When members of the Black Pack called, I gave them what little information I had, but each representative of the media who managed to get me on the phone only received a terse “no comment” for their trouble.
It was only natural that the workers began to panic once the initial shock of Annabelle's death wore off. Pam Silberstein popped in one afternoon wearing a crisp navy blue suit and black pumps. She closed the door behind her and plopped down into a chair. “I've just come from my first job interview in more than twenty years. It was arduous.”
“Where did you interview?”
“Can't tell you that, kiddo, but I suggest you get moving, too.”
I shrugged. “One of the other Welburns will take Annabelle's place.”
“I doubt that. When her father died, she was the only one who had any interest in the company. The Welburns will sell it.”
After that conversation, I told Paul to start leaking the word that I might be available to speak with interested parties. The week went by so fast that I didn't have too much time to obsess over Victor's disinterest in fondling the most precious part of my bodyâthe part he had so callously referred to as THAT.
Since Annabelle had come to such a terrible end, it was very selfish of me to worry about how the tragedy would affect my own life or career. I should call Craig and ask if he needed me to help him in any way. My feelings about his book weren't important. He had loved his wife and now had to bury her and raise their bewildered and heartbroken child alone. But every time I called, someone would answer and say that he was not home or too grief-stricken to come to the phone. One morning I turned on the TV while I was getting dressed for work. A stony-faced newscaster said
“Police are still investigating the murder of Annabelle Welburn Murray at her luxurious apartment in The Dakota last Monday morning.
Dakota residents interviewed say that they have not seen any suspicious activity in or around the building and officials admit that they have no leads. However, police are reviewing video surveillance tapes of the area.”
Annabelle's funeral was held the following Tuesday at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. According to the morning newscast, a veritable Who's Who of American industry were expected to be among the mourners.
Four gigantic bunches of pink roses surrounded the altar which held Annabelle's closed white casket. Every seat in the place was filled with her family and friends, leaving the Welburn employees to stand in the back.
I was flanked by Pam and Astrid. The three of us wept softly throughout the short service. Annabelle had been a good person and she didn't deserve to come to such a horrible end. As the tears poured down my cheeks, I wished fervently that whoever murdered her was caught by sundown and electrocuted by morning.
There was only one eulogy, given by a distinguished-looking, elderly gentleman who spoke succinctly yet with feeling about Annabelle's life and the sorrow that now held her family captive. As a soloist burst into what sounded like an aria, I glimpsed another Black face in the room. It was Victor. I twisted and turned to get a better look until Pam gave me a disapproving glance.
Another musical selection followed, and then it was over.
We all filed somberly out of Frank E. Campbell's, and into the media frenzy. As we fought our way past the camera crews, I saw that Victor had somehow worked his way up to the front of the mob. What was he doing there? I pushed and shoved my way through the crowd to ask him, but he was gone by the time I broke free.
A week after the funeral, Leigh Dafoe called another meeting to announce that Welburn Books was not going to be sold and our jobs were, for the most part, secure. Craig Murray was our new publisher and editor-in-chief. He would address his employees and take over his new duties as soon as the family's affairs were in order.
Visions of a truckload of horrible books aimed at African-American book buyers danced through my head and I left the meeting determined to land a new job before Craig took the reins.
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