When Day Breaks (25 page)

D
uring the cocktail hour, many people came up and introduced themselves to Eliza. She shook hands and made small talk, trying to be as gracious as possible. As each person turned and walked away, Eliza found another waiting, all of them wanting to meet the anchorwoman.

“Hello, Eliza.”

“Boyd,” she said with surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I read about your hosting in the paper and thought I’d give it a shot. When Constance was scheduled to emcee tonight, the museum sent over a couple of complimentary tickets. I helped myself to one.” Boyd’s expression became more serious. “Security won’t let me in the Broadcast Center anymore, so I can’t come up to your office, but I wanted to thank you personally for your kindness and support. That was really very nice of you to call the legal department to help me.”

“You’re welcome,” said Eliza. “I’m glad I could help. But I was so sorry when I heard that Lauren let you go, Boyd. Do you have any idea what you’re going to do now?”

“It was stupid of me to talk to Jason Vaughan for his book. I can’t say that I blame Lauren for firing me. I wouldn’t trust me either, if I were her.”

A waiter with a tray stopped beside them. Boyd took a Bellini and held it out to Eliza. “Want one?” he asked.

“Thanks, but better not,” she said. “I have to speak in a little while.”

Boyd swallowed some of the drink. “Anyway,” he said, “I can find another job, as long as I get cleared legally. No employer is going to want to hire somebody being brought up on murder charges.”

“Do you really think it will come to that, Boyd?”

“God, I hope not,” he said, frowning. “I think having that unicorn in my pocket was a bad sign, but they can’t prove I took it from Constance the night she died, because they can’t say for certain that Constance had it with her then. They’ll need more evidence against me.” He paused for just a moment. “But if someone is trying to frame me, who knows what will happen?”

A
nnabelle had just scooped out some frozen yogurt for the twins when the phone rang. It was Margo Gonzalez.

“I tried the Broadcast Center, but Eliza had left for the day. I don’t want to call her at home with this, so I asked the assignment desk to connect to you at home. Let me run something past you.”

Annabelle put her index finger up to her mouth, signaling to the kids to be quiet, as she walked from the kitchen into the bedroom. She shut the door and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Okay. Now I can talk. What is it?” asked Annabelle.

Margo described what she had noticed in the news piece.

Annabelle thought back to when the videotape was shot on Sunday. “I don’t know, Margo,” she said. “I was right there. Ursula Bales just seemed nervous to me. That’s understandable.”

“There’s a difference between nervousness and sheer terror,” said Margo. “The pupils of the eyes actually dilate when confronted with something terrifying.”

“I know,” said Annabelle. “I did a story about that once. The pupils can also dilate when you have a migraine headache or when you lie. And besides, Margo, Ursula Bales had only a short time before watched as Constance’s body was pulled out of the pool. That’s a pretty terrifying thing to see.”

E
liza escaped to a secluded corner, pulled the cell phone from her evening bag, and called home.

“Janie? It’s Mommy.”

“Hi, Mommy.”

“I just wanted to call and say good night, sweetheart.”

“I’m not going to bed yet, Mommy. Mrs. Garcia says I can stay up till we finish the game.”

“What game are you playing, Janie?”

“Candy Land.”

“That sounds like fun,” said Eliza.

“’Bye, Mommy.”

Click.

Eliza stood with the phone in her hand. This morning she had felt that Janie was aching for attention. Now Janie couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.

Never overestimate your own importance,
thought Eliza, smiling to herself. Satisfied that Janie was just fine, and not wanting it to interrupt her once she got up to speak to the audience, Eliza turned off her phone.

I
t was growing dark as Stuart Whitaker walked with Faith Hansen on the hilltop overlooking the Hudson River. Just to the south, the lights on the George Washington Bridge came on. In the distance a strand of lights delineated the Tappan Zee Bridge.

“This is where I envision it,” said Stuart as the museum’s outdoor lights came on, illuminating the area. “This is where the Constance Young Memorial Garden will be built.”

“It’s a beautiful spot, Mr. Whitaker,” said Faith, looking around at the blooming azaleas and rhododendron. “It truly is.”

Stuart’s arm swept through the air, indicating the spots where the highlights of the garden would go.

“The reflecting pool will be here, the memorial walk will be there, and the six stained-glass panels based on the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries in Paris will stand over there, each of them with an image of Constance’s face as the maiden.”

Faith was impressed. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you, Mr. Whitaker?”

“I find myself thinking about it all the time,” Stuart said earnestly. “But it’s been a great diversion for me. If I spent all my time thinking about Constance being gone, I wouldn’t be able to function.”

“You really loved her, didn’t you?”

Stuart looked down at the ground. “With all my heart,” he said. “I want to have an eternal flame burning here to symbolize forever how much your sister meant to me.”

What a strange little creature he was, Faith thought as she looked at the man in the beautifully tailored suit. She felt sorry for him. He was alone in the world. He had no children, no one who depended on him emotionally, no one to shower with love. As much as caring for Mother was trying and exhausting, Faith could take satisfaction in the devotion she showed her parent. And though her marriage was a disappointment on so many levels, the children of that union were everything to her. The boys loved their father, and she wasn’t going to rob them of his daily presence in their lives.

Faith looked at Stuart Whitaker, knowing that although he was exceedingly wealthy and successful, what he really wanted couldn’t be bought. Stuart, God help him, had wanted to have Constance. Now, failing that, he wanted what was left of her.

E
liza checked her watch. It was almost time for the program to begin. As she glanced around to see if she could spot Rowena Quincy, she was approached by a man accompanied by a woman wearing a simple sleeveless black cocktail dress.

“Ms. Blake, my name is Jason Vaughan.”

Eliza recognized the name immediately.

“Hello, Mr. Vaughan,” she said warily. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you and your book lately, though I haven’t caught you being interviewed about it on TV myself.”

“I’m flattered you know who I am,” said Jason. “This is my wife…uh, former wife, Nell.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Eliza as she offered her hand to the woman.

“My pleasure,” said Nell, smiling.

“Lovely event, isn’t it?” asked Eliza politely.

“Yes, it is. I can’t wait to see the unicorn,” said Nell.

Eliza turned to Jason. “I hear your book is doing quite well,” she said.

“Knock on wood, yes, it is,” said Jason. “In fact, I received the happy news this afternoon that
Never Look Back
is debuting at number three on the
New York Times Book Review
Best Sellers list.”

“Congratulations,” said Eliza. “What brings you here tonight?”

“Mixing a little business with pleasure,” answered Jason. “I wanted Nell to have the chance to see the exhibit, but honestly, I have another motive.”

“What would that be?” asked Eliza.

“I’m beginning work on another book,” said Jason. “This one will be about the death of Constance Young. It seemed natural to come tonight to see the unicorn returned to the Cloisters after Constance was killed for it.”

“I see,” said Eliza, wanting to get away.

“Would it be all right if I called you? Would you be willing to answer some questions for me in an interview?”

“What kinds of questions?” asked Eliza.

“I’d be asking how you, as a colleague and anchorwoman, view Constance’s death. Do you think in some way Constance was only getting what she deserved?”

“No one deserves to be murdered, Mr. Vaughan.”

Eliza turned, said good-bye to Nell, and began to walk away.

Jason called after her, “What goes around comes around, Ms. Blake.”

W
ith the twins finally settled into bed and Mike at the firehouse, Annabelle brewed herself a cup of herbal tea. She sat down on the sofa and picked up a magazine, but the call from Margo Gonzalez nagged at her.

What if Ursula Bales had been truly terrified when she was interviewed in front of Constance Young’s country house? What could that mean?

Annabelle went over to the desk and switched on the laptop. She did a Google search on Ursula Bales, reading the recent articles where her name appeared in conjunction with Constance Young’s death, the ones from today announcing that Ursula herself had been found dead, and the article from a few years ago when Ursula was listed as the sister of a woman suspected to have been murdered because she came forward as an eyewitness to a crime.

The needlepoint poem indicated that Ursula had witnessed Constance’s murder. After what had happened to her sister, it was understandable she’d be afraid to come forward. But in their excitement at determining that Ursula had been a witness, maybe they’d overlooked something. What if there was something else in the poem? Some clue they had missed.

Rifling through her tote bag, Annabelle found the notebook in which she’d written down the words of the poem.

She read the lines several times, gleaning nothing from them. Then Annabelle pulled out her cell phone.

“B.J., it’s me, Annabelle. I think there’s something in that poem, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. Will you take a look at it? Two heads are better than one.”

I
t was almost nine o’clock when Eliza took the podium. Large video screens at the four corners of the vast room had close-ups of her face, allowing those at a distance from the podium to feel as close to Eliza Blake as those who were fortunate enough to be seated in front.

“Good evening and thank you for coming to celebrate the opening of the new Camelot Exhibit here at the historic and beautiful Cloisters. I’m Eliza Blake, and it’s an honor and a pleasure to be with you tonight.”

Enthusiastic applause reverberated off the stone walls. Eliza looked out at the assembled audience. Among the many faces staring up at her, she spotted Linus and Lauren, Boyd, Faith Hansen, Jason and Nell Vaughan, and Stuart Whitaker.

Eliza looked at her notes and then back to the crowd.

“As everyone here undoubtedly knows, the past days have been especially difficult ones—for the family and friends of Constance Young, for her colleagues at KEY News, for her admirers around the country, and for the staff here at the Cloisters, who until just this afternoon weren’t sure if they would have the centerpiece of their new exhibit available to be unveiled tonight.”

Eliza gestured to the draped box that stood at the side of the room.

“The ivory unicorn, rumored to be a gift from King Arthur to his Lady Guinevere, has had an intriguing history. It has traveled through the ages, through sometimes romantic, sometimes tragic, and always complicated circumstances until, ultimately, it found its way to us.”

Eliza paused deliberately before continuing.

“How fortunate we are to be among the first people to view this wonderful exhibit. And to have the opportunity to behold Lady Guinevere’s ivory unicorn.”

With that, all eyes turned from Eliza to the side of the room, where a royal blue velvet cloth was whisked off the glass box, revealing the ivory unicorn standing proudly inside. Cameras trained on the case zoomed in so that the large video screens around the room revealed the tiniest detail.

B
.J. finished his beer, paid the bill for his dinner, and walked the few blocks back to the Broadcast Center. The lobby was empty, save for the receptionist at the front desk and a security guard. B.J. swiped his ID across the glass panel on the security turnstile, and the gates slid open.

The halls were quiet. B.J. went directly to the editing booth and found the video he’d recorded up in Bedford earlier in the day. He slid the disk into a viewing deck and shuttled down until he located the shots he’d taken of the needlepoint Ursula Bales had been working on when she died. He read across the lines but gleaned nothing new from them.

He froze the video at the point where the full poem appeared on screen and studied it.

 

Lady of allure,

A lonely shining star,

Determined and so sure,

And worshipped from afar.

Men wooed her as a queen,

Sought after for her charms,

Known only on the screen,

If rarely in her arms.

Left lying in a pool,

Left sinking like a stone,

Ending up so cool,

Dying all alone.

Careful not to tell,

Yet I was there as well.