When Day Breaks (8 page)

A
s soon as she arrived at the Broadcast Center, Eliza went directly to the Fishbowl, where Range Bullock and the other producers were going over coverage plans.

“You’ll, of course, anchor from here, Eliza. For the lead piece, Lauren Adams will do a live-to-tape report from Constance’s house.”

“Who’s producing?”

“Linus sent up Annabelle Murphy. She and Lauren already have an interview with the housekeeper who found the body.” Range paused and shook his head slowly. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” he said.

“Neither can I,” said Eliza.

Range took a deep breath and shifted back into “coverage” mode. “Anyway, Lauren and Annabelle are sniffing around to see what other elements they can gather.”

“Good,” said Eliza. “What else?”

“We’re trying to get police authorities to speak to us, maybe get a doctor to describe what happens when someone drowns.”

“Are you sure we want to go with the doctor?” asked Eliza. “We don’t know for sure that Constance drowned.”

“No, we don’t.”

“I’m still reeling,” said Eliza, incredulous. “I can’t believe that this has happened. I was just with her. Yesterday she was on top of the world, and today…”

Range took a Tums tablet from the bottle he kept on the desk and popped it into his mouth. “No. You never know, do you?” he said. “I’m thinking I better get that will of mine together.” He bit into the antacid tablet. “Do you think Constance had a will? She was only thirty-six.”

“Probably,” said Eliza. “Constance has a sizable estate, and she wasn’t the sort of person who left much to chance.”

“I wonder who inherits,” Range mused.

“She has a younger sister,” said Eliza. “I met her yesterday. Faith seemed very different from Constance.”

“Well, now she stands to become a very wealthy woman.”

“That can be cold comfort when you’ve lost your sister,” said Eliza. “But getting back to tonight’s broadcast, we don’t know how Constance died—only that she was found in her pool. Maybe we should do a piece toward the end of the broadcast on water safety. Summer is about to start, and it might be a good idea to go over the hazards at the pool and at the beach. Get some statistics on the number of drownings and other water-related accidents and what can be done to prevent them.”

“Yeah. A cautionary piece. News they can use,” said Range. “All right with you if I get Mack McBride to do that story?”

Eliza nodded.

“Fine,” said Range. “At least he’ll be part of the show. He was pretty bummed out to hear he wasn’t anchoring tonight.”

“I don’t blame him,” said Eliza. “I’d be disappointed, too, if I came all the way from London thinking I was going to get the chance to anchor and then found out I was being pushed aside.”

Range shrugged. “That’s the breaks,” he said. “You’re the top dog. Mack’s not.” He turned his attention back to planning the evening news. “We’ll want to do an obituary, tribute-style piece on Constance. I think you should voice that, don’t you, Eliza?”

“Yes.”

“And I thought it might be interesting to do something on how anchorpeople affect the lives of their audience. How, in Constance’s case, millions of Americans started their day with her every morning. Viewers felt they knew her. We’ll get reaction from around the country. I was also thinking of calling in Margo Gonzalez to get a psychiatrist to talk about how Constance’s death might be affecting our viewers.”

“Getting reaction from people on the street sounds like a good idea,” agreed Eliza, “but isn’t calling in a psychiatrist a bit much? Won’t we be overstating the influence of an anchor? Come on, Range, will viewers really be psychologically affected by Constance Young’s death?”

“Don’t kid yourself. Of course they will be. That’s why the networks pay you guys the salaries they do. Because people tune in to see
you,
not just the news. They can get their news from many different sources. But they’re loyal to the anchor they trust and love. That’s the person they invite into their kitchens, their living rooms, and their bedrooms. When one of them dies, it’s personal.”

The door to the makeup room was open. Eliza peered inside, hoping that only Doris Brice would be there. The tall, erect woman, wearing a leopard-print tunic, black leggings, and a gold-sequined baseball cap, stood with her back to the door. She was alone and arranging bottles, containers of powders, and brushes on the top of the makeup table.

“Do you have any?”

Doris looked up at the light-rimmed mirror and saw the reflection of Eliza standing behind her. She smiled, knowing exactly what Eliza meant. She drew open the top drawer and pulled out a Butterfinger.

Eliza tore open the orange wrapper and bit into the candy bar. “I needed this,” she said. “What a day.”

Doris looked sympathetically at Eliza. “Yeah, it’s absolutely horrible about Constance. Just horrible.”

Eliza nodded.

“Do they know what happened yet?”

“Not exactly,” said Eliza. “They don’t know if she drowned, had a heart attack, or even if she’s been murdered or committed suicide. Nobody’s sure. It’s just so unexpected and terrible.”

Eliza climbed into the makeup chair and looked into the mirror. Wide-set blue eyes crowned by perfectly arched brows stared back. The lipstick had worn off, but the natural color of her full lips still provided contrast to her pale skin. Eliza rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and fingered the scar on her chin, the vestige of an eleven-year-old’s miscalculation and diving too deep in a Newport, Rhode Island, swimming pool. The scar was just out of camera range, but Eliza often absentmindedly rubbed it when she was deep in thought.

“Quit picking at that scar,” Doris commanded.

Eliza put her hand down and laid her head back against the headrest. “And to top things off, Mack’s here,” she said, closing her eyes.

Doris tightened the cap on a bottle of moisturizer. “Yeah, good news travels fast. I heard the skunk was in town.”

“You know everything before I do, Doris.”

“A lot of people come through this door, Eliza. And I’ve been here a long time. People tell me stuff.”

“I know they do,” said Eliza. “You knew Mack had slept with that woman in London way before I did. In fact, let’s remember, you were the one who told me.”

Doris’s big brown eyes moistened. “I hated telling you about that, honey, but I figured it would be better coming from me. I didn’t want someone catching you off guard and then gossiping to everyone about how you took the news. You know how everybody talks around here.”

“You did the right thing, Doris. It was better to hear it from you.” Eliza bit off more of the Butterfinger.

“How do you feel about Mack being back?” asked Doris.

“Glad that he’s just here for a few days,” answered Eliza. “But as much as I dread seeing him, I want to see him, if that makes any sense. I want to hate him, but I don’t.”

“You better watch out, Eliza. My mama always told me once a cheater, always a cheater.”

Eliza found herself defending him. “Mack and I had a good thing going. I enjoyed being with him. He’s smart and sensitive and fun to be with.”

“And he couldn’t keep it in his pants,” Doris continued for Eliza.

“I know,” said Eliza. “I know. But is a drunken one-night stand, when one of you is in a foreign country feeling alone and sad, enough to negate an entire relationship? Is one mistake enough to sink everything that we had together, everything we could have together?” asked Eliza.

“I guess you have to answer that for yourself,” said Doris. “But be careful and quit frowning, will you? It’s not good for your face.”

B
y two o’clock scores of visitors had gathered in the large hall at the Cloisters, listening to the explanation of the giant woven masterpieces on the walls.

“These hangings are a mystery,” explained Rowena to the people who stared up at the seven enormous tapestries depicting the hunt of the fabled unicorn. “We aren’t certain who commissioned these weavings, nor do we know why this extraordinary set was produced. What we are fairly certain about is that these rich hangings, shining with brilliant silks, wools, gold, and silver, were woven in the Netherlands and the costumes of the men and women featured in the tapestries establish the time of the design to be around the year 1500.”

Rowena paused and cleared her throat.

“In no other work of art has the symbolic pursuit and killing of the unicorn been presented in such astonishing detail,” she continued. “The history of the unicorn is complex and varied. The idea of a creature with a single horn growing from the center of its head is an ancient one; sculpted figures of such beasts have survived from as early as the eighth century B.C. The unicorn continued its mythical evolution through the Holy Roman Empire, coming to be considered a representation of Christ and the implied twin virtues of strength and purity—might and right. But even as the unicorn came to symbolize earthly and heavenly love, it also came to signify death and violence.”

Slowly Rowena traveled, in her thick-soled walking shoes, from tapestry to tapestry, pointing out the vulnerable unicorn in various stages of the hunt. Found, fleeing, fighting to stay free, and then killed and brought to the castle. She pointed out the individualized faces of the hunters and the naturally and accurately depicted flora and fauna that formed a dominant part of the setting of each piece.

“What about the unicorn’s horn?” a man asked. “Wasn’t that supposed to have mystical powers?”

“Yes,” said Rowena. “The unicorn was believed to have many practical applications for humanity, most of which revolved around its magical horn. Legends arose about the unicorn’s ability to purify poisoned water, to cure impotent men and barren women of their afflictions, and to prevent plague, epilepsy, and a host of other diseases.”

Rowena gave the visitors an opportunity to study each of the tapestries before concluding her talk. Having taken the time to answer a few individuals who came up to her afterward to ask questions, Rowena left the hall and made her way through a labyrinth of corridors until she got to the large back storeroom where the most important items were housed for the special exhibition devoted entirely to the Camelot legend. It had been years in the planning and was set to open next week.

All the items in the room sat in their respective cases or crates, awaiting their final placement in the exhibit hall. Every artifact would have its own distinctive placard describing what it was and giving a short explanatory history of its provenance.

The ivory unicorn with the golden crown that King Arthur was thought to have given Lady Guinevere was to be the highlight of the exhibit. Its image was the focus of all the brochures and banners that heralded the show. Unicorn-inspired stationery, scarves, jewelry, books, and games were being stocked in the museum gift shop. But, more important, the love story—the legendary love
triangle
involving Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot—had intrigued and fascinated countless people over the centuries, and the Cloisters was counting on that magic to attract throngs through its doors.

With just a few days to go until the debut of the exhibit, Rowena opened the box. She searched intently, then desperately, through the special batting. The unicorn wasn’t there.

As she walked to her small office, Rowena tried to stay calm. She was uncertain about what she should do first. Should she call security or the police and alert them that the amulet was missing? If she did that, the story would be out of her hands. There could be a lot of negative publicity, and Rowena very much wanted to avoid that. Scandal wouldn’t be good for the museum.

Stuart Whitaker was one of their largest donors. Rowena herself had arranged the private tour for him and Constance Young while the exhibit was being constructed. Maybe there was some misunderstanding that could be cleared up and rectified without bringing law enforcement into it. That would be better for everyone involved.

Rowena made up her mind. She went to her small office, closed the door, and found Stuart’s number in her Rolodex. The phone rang half a dozen times, and Rowena was about to hang up when Stuart answered.

“Hello?” his voice sounded raspy.

“Yes. This is Rowena Quincy from the Cloisters. Is this Mr. Whitaker?”

“Yes, it is.” There was no note of recognition in his voice.

“I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Whitaker. You asked me to set up a private tour for you a few months ago.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before Stuart replied. “Oh, yes, I remember you, Ms. Quincy. Thank you. We had a lovely tour.”

“I’m so glad, Mr. Whitaker. I wish you had allowed me to escort you around myself.”

“That is very kind of you, Ms. Quincy, but as you know, I did not need a docent, because I know a fair amount about the Cloisters myself.”

“Of course you do,” said Rowena.

“Providing a guard to take us to the areas closed to the public was more than enough. You were very gracious.”

“Again, it was my pleasure, Mr. Whitaker.”

Stuart waited for her to continue.

“This is very awkward, Mr. Whitaker. I’m not quite sure how to bring this up.”

“Why not just say whatever it is you have to say?” Stuart suggested quietly.

“Well, I remember that Constance Young was with you then, Mr. Whitaker. In fact, after that, Miss Young agreed to be the mistress of ceremonies for our Camelot Exhibit preview and reception Wednesday night. But in the newspaper this morning, I saw a picture of her taken yesterday, and she was wearing what appeared to be a carved ivory unicorn that we had procured for our upcoming exhibition.”

“Yes?”

“I checked, and the ivory unicorn is no longer in its case here, Mr. Whitaker.”

“And your point is…?”

“My point is, I thought I would confer with you before I did anything else.”

“What are you suggesting, Ms. Quincy?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Whitaker. I was just letting you know, in case…” Her voice trailed off.

“In case what?”

“In case you might know what happened to it.”

“Why would I know that?” asked Stuart.

“It’s just that I didn’t want to go to the authorities…in case there was a reasonable explanation,” said Rowena.

“How can you be sure the unicorn you saw Constance wearing in the picture came from the Cloisters?”

“I’m
not
sure, Mr. Whitaker. But I do know the unicorn that should be here is missing.”

“Don’t tell me you think Constance Young obtained the unicorn illegally.”

“I don’t want to think that, Mr. Whitaker. Believe me.”

Stuart’s voice rose in anger. “To suggest that Constance Young would steal something is an outrage.”

Rowena ran her free hand through her mousy brown hair. “No, no, no, Mr. Whitaker. I’m not suggesting that she stole it. Of course not.”

“You had better not be, Ms. Quincy.” Stuart warned. “It is wrong to speak ill of the dead.”

Rowena recoiled. “What do you mean?”

“You have not heard?”

“Heard what?” asked Rowena.

“Turn on the radio or CNN. Constance Young is no longer with us, and you will have to find someone else to host your reception Wednesday night.”