When Day Breaks (7 page)

S
aturdays were busy at the Cloisters. On a hill overlooking the Hudson River, this place might have been the closest approximation of a monastic setting in an American city, and people flocked there in the spring. Children and adults streamed in for gallery talks and family workshops on subjects ranging from medieval motherhood to magic and medicine in the Middle Ages. Visitors listened to audio guides as they wandered through the chapels and halls of the museum, immersing themselves in the world of monks, kings, knights, tapestries, stained glass, and carved stone. Outside, picnickers and sunbathers spread their blankets on the lawn, enjoying nature and serenity.

Today Rowena Quincy was scheduled to give a special lecture on the Unicorn tapestries. As she headed to work, Rowena wasn’t nervous. She knew her subject so well that notes were unnecessary. Sitting on the uptown bus, she relaxed and read the
New York Times.
She dutifully flipped through the first section before turning to her favorite part, the Arts.

There, below the fold, was a picture of Constance Young. Rowena read the caption: “Constance Young trading one morning show for another.”

The story went on to chronicle Young’s last day on
KEY to America
on Friday and the luncheon held in her honor at a restaurant in the theater district.

Rowena finished reading the article and then studied the picture. Constance Young was photogenic, but even more attractive in person. Rowena had realized as much the day Stuart Whitaker had requested a private tour for himself and the
KEY to America
host. Rowena had greeted the couple when they’d arrived, and she’d been impressed with how pretty Constance was.

Even in this newspaper picture, Constance’s hair shone and her eyes sparkled as she walked into the restaurant. That green suit she was wearing was beautifully tailored. Rowena looked harder at the picture, trying to make out what Constance Young was wearing around her neck.

No. It couldn’t be.

T
he little girls in red-and-white uniforms were gathered at the side of the field waiting for their turns at bat. Eliza watched as Janie broke from the group and made her way to home plate.

“Remember, Janie, don’t throw the bat!” Eliza called. At last weekend’s game, Janie had carelessly tossed her bat after smacking the ball off the tee. The bat had hit her teammate Hannah in the leg.

Janie glanced over at her mother, and for an instant Eliza wished she had cheered her daughter on to a good swing rather than calling out a warning. But Janie looked unperturbed. She positioned herself behind the raised tee, holding her bat back as she’d been coached to do.

“She’s looking good.”

Eliza turned toward the voice, smiling when she recognized her neighbor standing beside her. Michele Hvizdak was holding her four-year-old son’s hand.

“Good morning. How’s it going, Michele? Is Hannah’s leg all right?”

“Eliza, yes. Her leg’s fine. And it has been fine every one of the half dozen times you’ve asked since last weekend. Stop worrying, will you?” Michele nodded to the young players. “Look at her over there. Does she look hurt to you?”

Hannah Hvizdak’s chestnut-colored hair flew through the air as she executed a perfect cartwheel.

Satisfied, Eliza leaned down to Michele’s son. “Hi, Hudson. How are you today?”

The little boy’s face lit up, but he said nothing.

“What I’d give for those eyelashes,” said Eliza as she stood upright again. She noticed that Hudson was wearing the same sweatshirt and shoes that he’d worn at last weekend’s game, and at the game the weekend before that and at the one before that, too. Eliza knew it was a pretty good bet that Hudson had been sporting that sweatshirt on many of the week-days as well. His mother had explained his penchant for wearing the same jacket and sneakers over and over and his insistence on donning his favorite Power Ranger sweatshirt, even in the heat. Obviously, Michele had to do laundry almost every night so Hudson’s attire would be clean.

Cheers erupted from the sidelines and Eliza looked over just in time to see Janie rounding first base. Novice fielding ensured that Janie scored a home run. Eliza was grinning and giving the thumbs-up sign to her daughter when she felt the BlackBerry vibrating in her pocket. With a sinking heart, she read the text message: URGENT. CALL RANGE BULLOCK ASAP.

Eliza strode from the ball field and found a relatively quiet spot from which to make the call to Range. Urgent? That couldn’t be good. Eliza had never gotten a weekend call from the executive producer of
The KEY Evening Headlines
just to chat about the weather—unless, of course, there was a hurricane brewing.

“Range. It’s me. What’s up?”

“There’s no way to break this easily, Eliza.”

Eliza braced herself. This must be personal. Range would normally just blurt out headlines. “What is it?”

“Constance Young is dead.”

“Oh, my God,” Eliza gasped as she bent at the waist to absorb the blow. “That can’t be, Range.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“What happened?” she asked, closing her eyes, bracing herself for his answer.

“Not sure. Her housekeeper found the body this morning. In the swimming pool.”

“Constance drowned?”

“It looks that way. I assume there will be an autopsy to determine the cause of death. But here’s the deal. We want you to anchor tonight. Everybody at KEY News is going to be involved in covering this.”

Eliza recognized the pragmatism their profession required. A plane could crash, a bomb could blow up a bus on its way to school, a friend and colleague could die—and there was limited time to feel, or mourn. Always the immediate concern was how the story was going to be covered. Tears and sadness were luxuries that had to wait. “Of course,” Eliza managed to say, collecting her wits. “But I don’t love bigfooting the regular Saturday-evening anchor.”

“You won’t be. He’s on vacation. We were just having Mack McBride do a tryout as a fill in tonight.”

Eliza felt her chest tighten. She hadn’t seen Mack since they’d broken up months before, but the sound of his name made her pulse race.

“I didn’t know Mack was interested in anchoring.” Eliza restrained herself from asking when Mack had gotten in from London, how long he would be in New York, and where he was staying.

“They’re
all
interested in anchoring,” said Range. “Anyway, where are you now?”

“At Janie’s T-ball game.”

“All right. I’ll see you when you get in.”

“Fine, I’ll be there as soon as I can. But you know what, Range? Constance Young was a fabulous swimmer, and I’d bet my life that she didn’t drown.”

T
he sound of the hooves as they pounded the soft earth was music to Lauren’s ears. Urging her horse on, she was exhilarated by the spring wind in her hair, the morning sun on her face, and the fact that she, Lauren Adams, was now the cohost of
KEY to America.
Monday morning she would take her place alongside Harry Granger and welcome millions of Americans into the
KTA
living room. She hoped those millions would reciprocate by inviting her to stay in theirs in the weeks, months, and years to come.

Linus had been right to insist she come up here for a nice long ride this morning. The ride was relaxing. It had been such a tense month. All the attention and media interviews and photo sessions and Botox injections and hair and makeup experiments. There was another rehearsal scheduled in the studio at the Broadcast Center this afternoon. Lauren still hadn’t made a final decision about the outfits her stylist had brought for her to choose from to wear on the first morning. She’d narrowed it down to two: a marine blue jacket and a red one. Either one she intended to team with a cream-colored skirt she knew cut her legs at the most favorable spot.

Lauren dismounted, stopping to pat the horse’s neck before handing the reins over to the stable hand. She took off her riding helmet as she walked toward her car. Opening the door, she reached for her canvas bag, pulled out a bottle of water and a pack of gum, and checked her BlackBerry. Five messages from Linus. She took a deep breath and called him.

“Lauren, I’ve been trying to reach you.” Linus sounded angry.

“I know, Linus, that’s why I’m calling you back.” Lauren slipped a stick of Juicy Fruit into her mouth.

“Nice answer. Do I need to remind you that now you need to be available for breaking news? You’re not doing lifestyle stories anymore.”

“Okay, Linus. You’ve made your point.” Lauren rolled her eyes as she checked her reflection in the visor mirror. “What’s up?”

“Tell me you’re still upstate.”

“Yes. I just finished my ride. I can be at the Broadcast Center in an hour if you need me.”

“No. I want you to go to Constance’s country house. You can’t be too far from it.”

“I’m not. I think I remember how to get there from that party she had last summer. Why?”

Linus voice softened. “Lauren, honey, this is a helluva way for you to start your new job, but I’m just going to tell you. Constance is dead.”

“What?”

“She was found at the bottom of her swimming pool this morning.”

Lauren let out a nervous laugh. “Very funny, Linus. Dead bodies don’t sink.”

“They do until the gases build up inside,” said Linus. “I’m serious, baby. Constance is dead.”

“Don’t call me ‘baby.’ I hate it when you call me ‘baby,’” Lauren snapped.

Though he was tempted to correct Lauren, letting her know that it was never all right to talk to him in that tone when they were communicating professionally, he decided to let it pass. Not because he knew that he himself had been unprofessional in calling her “baby,” but because he didn’t want to upset her. He needed her to be at the top of her game, focusing only on her job. He didn’t want her to waste a bit of energy being angry with him or resentful of his pulling rank with her.

“All right, I won’t call you ‘baby.’ But the sad fact of the matter is, what I’m telling you is true, Lauren. Constance Young is dead, and you need to drive over to her place right away.”

Flashing lights emanated from the tops of the police cars parked on the road in front of Constance Young’s country house. When Lauren arrived, the police had already cordoned off the driveway. She pulled the yellow tape up and slid beneath it, striding with confidence up the gravel trail.

“Ma’am, this is a crime scene. You’ll have to leave.”

Lauren looked at the tall young police officer who blocked her path. Her mouth formed a tight smile.

“I’m Lauren Adams with KEY News.” She showed him her press pass.

“Glad to hear it,” said the cop. “But the fact remains, you have to get off the property.”

“Surely you know that this is Constance Young’s home. Constance, until just yesterday, was with KEY News as well. I’m sure she would want us to have access.”

“No dice.”

“I want to speak to your superior.”

“Be my guest. But the chief isn’t going to tell you any different. In the meantime, please get off the property, ma’am.”

Lauren turned and stomped down the driveway. She saw a CBS van pulling up and a CNN truck behind it. Newspeople were setting up all over the place, staking their claims to the best live-shot locations. Lauren was the only KEY News presence to have arrived so far, and she felt outnumbered and outmatched. When she returned to her car, she called Linus and told him what was happening.

“Look, Lauren,” said Linus, “Annabelle Murphy and B.J. D’Elia’s crew are on their way up. They should get there any minute. Just stay put until they arrive.”

Lauren rifled through the glove box hoping to find a forgotten pack of cigarettes, but she had to settle for another stick of gum. She was snapping away impatiently when her KEY News backup team arrived.

“It took you guys long enough,” she greeted her colleagues.

“We got here as fast as we could, Lauren,” said Annabelle.

“Well, what do you propose we do now?” Lauren asked. “The police won’t let us on the property to shoot.”

Annabelle was about to answer when a middle-aged woman emerged from the driveway and walked into the street. Her face was ashen, her eyes swollen, her hair in disarray. Correspondent, producer, and camera crew converged on the stricken woman.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The woman looked at Lauren with fear in her eyes. “Well, I don’t want to get involved. Witnesses always end up getting the short end of the stick.” Her voice trembled.

“We’re with KEY News, too. We’re friends of Constance’s,” Lauren reassured the woman.

“You are?”

Lauren held up her KEY News card. “Yes, all of us worked with Constance on
KEY to America
every day.”

The woman blew her nose with the balled-up tissue that was in her hand. “I really don’t want to talk to you,” she said.

B.J. balanced his camera on his shoulder and reached into his pocket. “Here. Take this,” he said, holding out a snowy handkerchief.

With a shaking hand, the woman reached for the folded linen. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you,” she said.

“Just a few questions, please,” Annabelle urged. “I promise we’ll be brief, and then we won’t bother you anymore.”

The woman’s eyes darted around, and she looked as if she wanted to run away. Finally she swallowed and sighed, clearly just wanting to get it over with. “All right, then,” she said, bracing herself. “Go ahead.” B.J. clipped a small microphone to the collar of her blouse.

“How do you know Constance?” Lauren asked as B.J. started recording with his camera.

“I help her with the house,” said the woman.

“What’s your name?” asked Lauren.

“Ursula. Ursula Bales.”

“So, Ursula, what happened?”

“I came in this morning, just like I always do, trying to be quiet. I thought Miss Young was still asleep. So I started some coffee and cut up some fruit and mixed up a batch of the low-fat blueberry muffins she likes so much.”

Lauren listened, a concerned expression arranged on her face.

“Then I went out on the deck,” Ursula continued. “I could tell that Miss Young had had a drink the night before. She’d left a glass out there. So I brought it inside and put it in the dishwasher.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears again.

“Then what happened?” urged Lauren.

Ursula’s hand trembled as it wiped her cheek. “I went back out on the deck, and I looked down to the pool. I could see a towel on one of the lounge chairs, so I went down to straighten up. But as I got closer, I saw something dark under the water. At first I didn’t recognize it. And then I realized what it was. It was Miss Young, in her black bathing suit, at the bottom of the pool.” Ursula lowered her head and cried.

Annabelle made a notation in her notebook, marking the time of Ursula Bales’s statement.

“And then what happened?” asked Lauren.

“I called the police,” said Ursula, her voice quivering.

“You didn’t try to get Constance out of the pool?” asked Lauren.

“There wasn’t much point in that.” Ursula looked hurt. “There was no saving Miss Young.”

“Why were you so sure?”

“Sure of what?”

“Sure that she was dead,” said Lauren.

Ursula stopped, unable to continue.

Lauren repeated the question. “How did you know for sure Constance Young was dead?”

“I’ve told you everything I know,” said Ursula, finding her voice. “I have nothing else to say. I have to go now.” She pulled the microphone off and hurried away.