When Day Breaks (13 page)

T
rying to keep the packages and newspapers balanced in his arms, Jason Vaughan fumbled for his keys and cursed the day he’d been forced to move into a building without a doorman. He held the door open with his hip, struggling to get the key out of the lock again, as the newspaper slipped from beneath his arm. He had to put the grocery bags down in order to gather up the pages of newsprint that had scattered over the vestibule floor. Another tenant in the building strode right by without stopping.

Jason hated living in this place.

He walked into his first-floor apartment, ever conscious of the iron bars on the windows that allegedly protected him from crime coming in from the outside world. Jason looked around the room. This was the richest city in the world. Why would a burglar even bother trying to get into this place? There was nothing worth taking. A sofa and a chair he’d bought on sale at a furniture store already known for its low prices and low quality. A television that at least worked, but had none of the bells and whistles that were so popular. A table and a couple of lamps he’d picked up at a secondhand store. Even the computer that sat on his card-table desk, the computer on which he’d written
Never Look Back,
was the one he’d had for years. It needed to be replaced. A new computer would be his first purchase when the money from the book started flowing in. A new computer and a better apartment, for sure.

Jason spread the newspaper on his kitchen table and studied every page. It looked as if the
Daily News
had assigned at least a dozen reporters to the Constance Young story, and Jason was reading details he hadn’t gotten from the television news reports.

One that grabbed his attention was a sidebar story about a woman named Ursula Bales, the woman who discovered the body. The story said that Bales, a widow, worked as Constance’s housekeeper and also gave knitting lessons to make ends meet. The
News
photographer had taken a picture of her as she walked into the Dropped Stitch Needlecraft Shop.

Ursula Bales was quoted as saying, “Please, leave me alone. I’m so nervous about this whole horrible thing. My sister talked to the police once, and when the media found out, she ended up dead. I don’t want what happened to her to happen to me.”

Jason sympathized with Ursula Bales. He knew what the media could do to a person. He had experienced it firsthand.

T
he Hvizdak family lived in a thirteen-thousand-square-foot French château–style home that sat on four acres of property. Out front a graceful fountain greeted visitors, and limestone lions guarded the path to the imposing double doors. Hundreds of purple, yellow, and white irises bloomed from carefully tended beds.

After the breakfast of pancakes, bacon, yogurt, and some early strawberries from her own garden, Michele suggested that everyone go out to the backyard to enjoy the beautiful day.

“We can stay for a little while longer, Janie,” Eliza warned.

“I just want to see the fish, Mommy,” said Janie as she and Hannah ran to the pond at the back of the property.

“That’s Wilbur, Copper, Lady, and Princess,” Hannah said, pointing at the koi that traveled gracefully in the water.

Eliza turned to Michele. “Thanks so much for having us. This was fun.”

“You’re welcome, but it’s fun for me, too,” said Michele, her eyes on Hudson as he played with his plastic dinosaur. “Richard is away so much. It’s great to have another adult around.”

“I’m sorry to be eating and running,” Eliza apologized.

“You know, you can certainly leave Janie with us,” Michele offered. “It would probably be more fun for her than going with you.”

Eliza looked at her daughter. “What do you want to do, Janie?”

“I want to go with you, Mommy.”

“Good,” said Eliza. “I want you to come with me, too.”

“Who’s going to watch Janie if you’re working?” asked Michele.

“I’m only going to be there for a couple of hours, and Paige, my assistant, is meeting us there. She’ll be able to keep an eye on Janie when I can’t.”

Suspecting that it might be cool by the Hudson River, Eliza and Janie stopped back at home to get sweaters. Inside the house Eliza made a phone call to the KEY News assignment desk and asked to be connected to Boyd Irons.

“Boyd, this is Eliza Blake.”

“Oh, hi, Eliza,” said Boyd, sounding a bit surprised.

“I want to ask you about this unicorn that everybody’s talking about. I saw it on Constance at the lunch. Do you know how she got it?”

Boyd hesitated. “I think it was a gift.”

“Do you know who gave it to her?”

“I think it was from a man named Stuart Whitaker.”

“Stuart Whitaker? The guy who made millions manufacturing those video games with the jousting knights and fire-breathing dragons?”

“That’s the one,” said Boyd. “Poor guy. He was smitten with Constance, but she wasn’t giving him the time of day before…” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, he asked me if I could get the unicorn back for him.”

“When did he ask you that?”

“Just as the luncheon was getting under way,” said Boyd. “He was sitting at the bar waiting for Constance to arrive. I tried to tell him as tactfully as I could that he should leave and not cause any unpleasantness. He only agreed when I promised I would try to get the unicorn for him.”

“And did you try to get it back from her?” Eliza asked.

“Are you kidding? I wasn’t going to ask Constance for it! I never intended to get it for him,” said Boyd. “I just wanted him to leave the restaurant.”

Eliza reached for a pen. “Boyd, do you have Stuart Whitaker’s phone number?”

O
nce the search-engine page was on the computer screen, “URSULA BALES” was typed in the box provided for the name of the subject to be researched. A moment after the search button was hit, several results appeared, most of them fresh newspaper articles regarding the death of Constance Young and the fact that the anchorwoman’s body had been discovered by her housekeeper, Ursula Bales. There was only one other hit on the results page: a story that had appeared in the
Journal News
over two years ago. At first it seemed to have nothing to do with Ursula Bales.

The article went on to explain the details of the drug case, but a line near the end was more interesting.

In this morning’s
Daily News
article, Ursula Bales said she didn’t want to end up like her sister. Why would she say that if she’d merely discovered Constance’s body?

Could she have witnessed the murder?

F
aith stole in through the garage door, hoping she wouldn’t have to explain why she’d been out so long. But Todd was sitting in the kitchen wearing a baseball cap and cleats, waiting for her.

“Where were you?” he asked, scowling.

“Church,” Faith replied, tossing the parish bulletin onto the counter.

“You left three hours ago, Faith.”

Faith tried to keep her emotions in check as she answered. “I found out yesterday that my sister is dead, Todd. I wanted to take some extra time to sit and reflect and pray. I talked to the priest. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah, it’s okay with me, but you should have let me know you’d be gone so long.”

“What’s the difference, Todd? It’s Sunday. The kids don’t have games or lessons or anything they need to do.”

“As a matter of fact, now that you’re back, I’m going over to the field and play some ball with the guys.”

Todd walked out of the kitchen, leaving Faith alone. She took a box of Mallomars from a cabinet, walked over to the picture window, and looked at the backyard. She couldn’t help but admire the pink and white azalea flowers. She had always loved May. It was such a beautiful month. Good for weddings, good for funerals. Tears streamed down Faith’s cheeks.

After eating a half dozen comforting cookies, Faith went down the hall to her mother’s room. Mercifully, the old woman was sleeping. Mercifully for Mother at least, though probably not for Faith. Slumber during the day meant little sleep later, and Faith knew she would be hearing her name called repeatedly in the middle of the night.

She listened to her mother’s thick snore, watched her chest slowly rise and fall. Her eyelids flickered but did not open.

Faith spoke to her. “What should we do now, Mom? Should we have Constance buried or cremated? I don’t want to decide by myself.”

There was no response from the old woman who lay asleep in the bed. And that was merciful, too, thought Faith. No parent should have to endure the death of a child. It was a good thing, a mercy that Mother hadn’t seemed to grasp the idea of Constance’s death when Faith told her of it yesterday.

Faith inhaled the smell of medicine and disinfectant and old age, but she groaned as she recognized the other odor. She would need to give Mother a bath, getting her from the bed to the tub and then lifting her out after she’d washed her frail body. Faith would change the bed linens, do more laundry, get everything clean and fresh just to have the cycle repeat itself, over and over again.

She really didn’t want her mother to die, but the fatigue and chronic worry of being a caretaker made Faith daydream about how long it would be before their mother went to join Constance in heaven.

If heaven was where Constance was.

T
he assortment of news vans and crew cars that crowded the Cloisters’ parking lot suggested that all the other media outlets were eager to pursue the angle of the missing unicorn as well. While the news organizations waited for the results of Constance Young’s autopsy, they didn’t know what they were dealing with. It could be a heart attack, an accidental drowning, a murder, or something else. But making a connection between Constance Young and the purloined medieval artifact was something concrete to pursue.

When Eliza and Janie arrived, Paige was there to greet them as they got out of the car.

“There’s a children’s program going on that I thought would be fun to take Janie to, if you don’t mind me not being available to help you, Eliza.”

“That sounds like a plan,” said Eliza. “What’s the program about?”

“Shoes,” said Paige. She leaned down to Janie. “Would you like to learn how people dressed their feet in the Middle Ages?” she asked the little girl.

Janie stared back with a blank expression on her face.

“It’s never too early to learn about shoes, Janie. And we can get some ice cream afterward.”

As her daughter went off with her assistant, Eliza spotted Annabelle Murphy. “So you’re working on the
Evening Headlines
now,” said Eliza, giving her a hug. “I couldn’t be more pleased.”

Annabelle smiled and shook her head. “I can’t believe how well all this is working out. Yesterday at this time, I was working for
KTA
and trying to keep Linus and Lauren happy.”

“No mean feat,” observed Eliza. “But don’t worry. We’ll do our best to drive you crazy as well.”

The two women began to discuss their ideas on what they wanted to accomplish that afternoon.

“I called Boyd Irons, who told me that Constance received the ivory unicorn from Stuart Whitaker,” said Eliza.

“Stuart Whitaker, the video-game wizard?” Annabelle asked.

“That’s the one,” said Eliza.

Annabelle whistled softly. “So we’re thinking what? That Stuart Whitaker
stole
the unicorn?”

“Don’t know what to think,” said Eliza. “But I called him, and he’s agreed to come up here and be interviewed this afternoon. He says he’ll only talk to us.”

“Nice. An exclusive.” Annabelle nodded with appreciation. “You’re doing my work for me, Eliza,” she said. “I think I’m going to like this job.”

“What about the curator, Rowena Quincy?” asked Eliza.

“We have to get in line for that one,” said Annabelle. “We may be the only ones who know about Stuart Whitaker’s involvement with Constance, but everybody now knows that the unicorn is missing. All our competitors will be interviewing Rowena Quincy, too.”

Because the museum administration wanted the Cloisters to be cast in the best possible light, and because Stuart Whitaker was a major do-nor, Annabelle was able to obtain permission to have Eliza’s interview taped on the West Terrace, overlooking the Hudson River. The area was cordoned off so the visitors who were touring the museum couldn’t interrupt.

Stuart Whitaker arrived wearing a dark suit, a white shirt, and a green tie, fairly formal dress for a Sunday afternoon. He immediately came forward and took Eliza’s hand. “May I?” he asked.

Before she could respond, Stuart leaned forward and lifted her hand to his lips. “It is an honor and pleasure to meet such a fine lady,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Whitaker,” said Eliza, withdrawing her hand and wondering what this guy’s story was. “Won’t you take a seat?”

Stuart did as she suggested. He looked out across the water to the New Jersey side of the river.

“It’s such a glorious spot here, isn’t it?” Eliza commented.

“Yes, it truly is,” answered Stuart as a microphone was clipped to his jacket. “And we can thank John D. Rockefeller Jr. for funding this wonderful place and for buying all that land across the river and giving it to the state of New Jersey so that nothing would be built on it.” He gestured widely. “The view may change with the weather and the seasons, but it will always be as magnificent as it is today.”

“Yes, we can all be thankful that some people are as generous as they are, can’t we?” said Eliza. “I understand that you, too, have been a major contributor to the Cloisters.”

“I do what I can,” said Stuart.

Eliza didn’t want to go any further until the camera was recording. She waited while B.J. finished setting up and then gave the signal to begin. “Let’s talk first about your affinity for the Cloisters, Mr. Whitaker.”

“I could not begin to describe how much this place means to me.” Stuart made another expansive gesture. “Look around. It is remarkable.”

“So the Middle Ages interest you?” Eliza asked.

“That is putting it mildly,” Stuart answered. “It was an absolutely fascinating period in the development of Western civilization, and its impact is felt these many centuries later, though we do not stop to think about it.”

“Can you give me some examples?” prompted Eliza.

“Well, the heroes of the Middle Ages—King Arthur, Joan of Arc, and Robin Hood—are still heroes to twenty-first-century Americans. The dragons, giants, dwarfs, and witches—the supernatural villains of the Middle Ages—are in our fairy tales and fantasy novels and young people’s video games. Even the castle standing in the center of a Disney theme park is based on modern notions of a medieval castle.”

“Interesting,” said Eliza.

Stuart continued, eager to express his feelings. “But what has always moved me the most is what the Middle Ages did for love.”

“What do you mean?” asked Eliza.

“Medieval poets wrote about the heart as a symbol of passion. They came up with romantic metaphors that we now think of as clichés—the ‘wounded’ heart, the ‘broken’ heart, the ‘stolen’ heart, and so forth. The idea of courtly love developed in the Middle Ages. Knights would accomplish heroic deeds to win the hearts of the ladies they loved.”

“Romantic,” said Eliza. “But I suppose it could be dangerous, too.”

“Sometimes it was,” said Stuart. “But I bet if you asked them, those knights would say it was worth risking everything for the women they loved.”

“Changing the subject for a moment, Mr. Whitaker, I understand you were a good friend of Constance Young’s.”

Stuart’s demeanor grew solemn. “Yes. She was a remarkable lady, and I was privileged to know her. Her death is a great loss, to me and to the nation.”

“Yes, it is a tragic thing,” said Eliza. “And there are so many troubling aspects to it. Constance was an accomplished swimmer. For her to die in a pool doesn’t make sense.”

“For her to die at
all
does not make sense,” Stuart said.

“Yes, you’re certainly right,” agreed Eliza. “But there’s also this report of a carved unicorn missing from the Cloisters’ collection here, along with the images we have of Constance wearing that same unicorn, or one remarkably similar, on the day she died.”

Eliza paused, hoping that Stuart might volunteer some information. When he didn’t, she decided to come out and ask him point-blank. “Did you give Constance Young the unicorn she was wearing, Mr. Whitaker?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“You
did
?”

“Yes. I did.” Stuart sounded defiant. “She admired the one in the collection here when we visited one day. I had a reproduction made for her.”

“So you’re saying Constance was wearing a copy, while the authentic medieval unicorn is missing from the Cloisters’ collection.”

“Yes,” Stuart said firmly. “That is what I am saying.”

“But there’s still a problem,” said Eliza. “As far as we know, the police haven’t found the unicorn that Constance was wearing. So that would mean both the genuine unicorn
and
the reproduction are missing. That seems like an unlikely coincidence, Mr. Whitaker, doesn’t it?”

Stuart stared straight into Eliza’s eyes. “It may seem like an unlikely coincidence, but I do not know how else to explain it. Strange things happen,” he said, shrugging. “But I agreed to come up here to talk with you today because I wanted an opportunity to announce what I would like to do to honor Constance.”

“And what would that be?” asked Eliza.

“I would like to donate twenty million dollars to the Cloisters, five million of which would go to create a Constance Young Memorial Garden here. If Constance’s family agrees, and we get permission from the museum board of directors, I would hope to see Constance spend eternity in this perfect place.”

KEY News had a chance to interview the Cloisters’ curator after ABC and CBS did. To save time, Annabelle arranged for Rowena Quincy to come to the West Terrace as well, so B.J. wouldn’t have to pack up his gear and then set up all over again.

In her hand Rowena held a large, glossy close-up photo of the missing ivory unicorn, which she handed to Eliza. The detail was so defined that the filigree engraving on the eight-pointed crown was clearly visible.

“First of all, let’s straighten out some confusion,” said Eliza once they started talking. “I thought King Arthur and Lady Guinevere were only fictional characters, that Camelot was a place that never existed.”

“That’s what many do believe,” Rowena answered. “But there are other theories, and one of them is that Arthur was inspired by a fifth-century ‘king’ of the Britons, named Riotamus. We think our ivory unicorn might have come from him.”

“So you’re not exactly sure?” asked Eliza.

“No,” admitted Rowena, “and that is something we will make absolutely clear when we open the exhibit on Thursday.”

“So the exhibit will open as scheduled?” Eliza asked.

“Yes,” said Rowena. “Our unicorn was a star of the show, but we have many other wonderful things for the public to see. And let’s hope we’ll have some luck and get the unicorn back by then.”

“Do you have any leads at all on what happened to it?” asked Eliza.

“The police are investigating. You’ll have to ask them.”

“Obviously, Ms. Quincy, there’s more intense interest in this artifact because of the fact that Constance Young was seen wearing it.” Eliza held up the photo. “Or something remarkably like it.”

Rowena nodded.

“What’s your opinion?” asked Eliza. “Do you think that Constance Young had in her possession your King Arthur unicorn?”

“Again, I wouldn’t venture an opinion,” said Rowena. “That’s for the authorities to determine.”

When their conversation ended and Rowena Quincy had left for her next interview, Eliza and Annabelle waited while B.J. packed up.

“She knows something she’s not saying, doesn’t she?” asked Annabelle.

“Yes. I was thinking exactly the same thing.”