When Day Breaks (9 page)

W
hat’s worse?
Faith wondered. Would it be worse to have Mother lucid and heartbroken when she heard the news of her daughter’s death? Or would it be worse to break the news to a childlike, uncomprehending shell of a woman and watch her show no reaction at all?

Faith sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap at the kitchen table. Her husband slid a mug of tea in front of her.

“I’m not sure how she’ll take it,” Faith said. “I could use some moral support, Todd, when I go in there to tell her.”

Todd glanced at his watch.

“Please don’t tell me that you’re still thinking you can get your golf game in, Todd. Not today.”

“Your mother is sleeping, Faith. What should we do? Wake her up to tell her the bad news?”

“No, but when she wakes up on her own, I think we have to tell her then.” Faith took a cautious sip of the scalding tea.

Todd leaned against the Formica counter and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t see where a couple of hours one way or the other makes any difference. When we tell her is not going to change anything.”

“My sister is dead, Todd, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you skip your Saturday golf game.”

“It relaxes me, Faith. And let’s be honest here, shall we? There was no love lost between you and Constance.”

Faith looked at her husband. “That was a cruel thing to say.”

Todd shrugged. “I’m only calling a spade a spade, Faith.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Todd. You’re only trying to justify leaving to play golf.” Picking up her mug, Faith rose and walked down the small corridor that led to her mother’s room. As she stood in the doorway, watching her mother sleep, Faith heard the door to the garage open and close. She fumed as she listened to the sound of the car engine turning over.

Faith walked back to the kitchen and opened a bag of cookies. With tears of frustration in her eyes, she found herself speculating about Constance’s will. Her sister’s estate had to be quite substantial. On so many levels, having all that money would be so freeing.

J
ason Vaughan sat on his couch staring at the television set, waiting for any scrap of new information about the death of Constance Young. The CNN anchor was recycling the same information over and over, just telling it in different ways. An employee had found Constance’s body in the swimming pool of her weekend home in Westchester County. There was no obvious sign of foul play, yet there was already speculation that the death might not have been an accident. An autopsy would be performed.

Footage of Constance in her farewell appearance on
KEY to America
was shown. Then, in what must have been a hastily assembled video package, an obituary included family pictures of Constance as a young girl and as a high school cheerleader. Later there were shots of her taken in college, followed by video of Constance after she won the Miss Virginia title. Next came shots from her early days as a reporter in small-market local television. As the footage continued, viewers watched the progression of hair and clothing styles that led up to the sassy blond hair and smart green suit Jason had seen Constance wearing just yesterday in front of the restaurant.

There were clips of Constance interviewing the president of the United States and the First Lady as well as Elmo, Miss Piggy, and Oscar the Grouch. Constance was shown stirring up cake batters in cooking segments and trying to keep her balance as a teenage champion attempted to teach her how to skateboard. She was shown laughing with lottery winners and crying with people who had lost their homes in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Whether she was kissing a monkey or wiping away an orphan’s tears, the scope of her job was as wide as human experience and a constant source of continuing education.

But nowhere in the television profile of Constance Young was there any mention of the havoc she had wrought in his life, Jason thought. In the list of professional accomplishments, wrecking him hadn’t even been worth listing. He had gone from man of the hour to persona non grata, and Constance had pounded the final nail into his coffin.

The phone rang. Jason leaned over the pile of unopened bills to reach the receiver.

“Hey, Jason. It’s Larry.”

Larry Sargent?
Jason was baffled. When was the last time his agent had called him on a Saturday? In fact, when was the last time Larry had called him at all?

“Hiya, Larry. What’s up?”

“I guess you’ve heard the news.”

“You mean about the witch?”

“It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead, Jason.”

“You’re right.”

“But now that she’s dead, the timing of this couldn’t be better, could it? The book comes out on Tuesday.”

Jason chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, what are the chances of that? Too bad we sold it for such a crappy advance. The publisher isn’t doing a thing to push it.”

“Wasn’t
doing a thing to push it,” the agent corrected. “Past tense. Young’s death changes everything. She’s given us a big fat gift. We’ll earn out that miserable advance in the first week.”

“I don’t know about that, Larry.” Jason was afraid to get his hopes up.

“Are you kidding me? Before today your book was just the ranting and grumbling of some bitter loser.”

“Thanks, Larry. I really appreciate that.”

“You know what I mean, buddy. We couldn’t get any of the big boys interested in the book, and we had to settle for this second-rate house. But if we play our cards right, we have the most mouthwatering public-relations and marketing opportunity. Constance Young is dead, and your book tells the world why.”

“Not exactly, Larry.”

“Not exactly
what
?”

“I don’t explain why Constance Young is dead. I only explain how she screwed me, how she ruined my life.”

“Yeah, and you give a couple of other nice examples of what a viper she could be. Believe me, the media—and the public—are going to eat this up. We just need to get you booked on the morning shows.”

Nobody should rejoice in the misfortune of another, but in this case, Jason thought as he hung up the phone, he was entitled to a bit of gloating. Constance Young had ruined his life, and now, not only had she gotten what she deserved, her death was going to reinstate him into respectability and fiscal security.

E
ngrossed in thoughts about what had happened to Constance, Eliza was walking toward her office when she spotted Mack McBride coming down the hall. She could feel her heart start to beat faster and only hoped the heat she was immediately beginning to feel in her cheeks wouldn’t show. For a moment Eliza wondered if she could slip into her office and just pretend she hadn’t seen him, when the deep voice called out.

“Eliza.”

Too late to escape,
she thought, arranging her face in a pleasant expression. As Mack drew closer, Eliza could tell that London was agreeing with him. He looked fit and as handsome as ever. Eliza braced herself as Mack reached her and kissed her on the cheek. Instantly she recognized the smell of his aftershave.

“Mack.” Eliza smiled. “How
are
you?”

“Can’t complain, I guess, except the KEY News anchor bigfooted me. I came all the way across the pond thinking I was going to get to sit in the big chair, and now I’m doing a story on water safety instead.” Laugh lines crinkled at the corner of Mack’s eyes. “I’m off to New Jersey now to shoot my stand-up at some suburban pool.”

“Sorry about that,” said Eliza.

“Not as sorry as I am,” he said. The smile on Mack’s face masked any real disappointment.

“Unbelievable about Constance, isn’t it?” Eliza shook her head and shivered involuntarily. “It’s so terrible, so sad.”

“Honestly?” Mack asked. “I was never really a fan, but it’s always tragic when someone so young dies. Constance was in her prime. But you want to hear something really sick that occurred to me?”

Eliza nodded.

“I bet Linus Nazareth isn’t sad she’s dead. I bet he’s glad.”

“That’s a little cold, isn’t it?” asked Eliza.

“Maybe,” said Mack. “But nobody leaves
KEY to America
unless Linus wants them to leave. And Linus didn’t want Constance to go over to the competition.”

Eliza looked at Mack with skepticism. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “Linus laid on a little guilt, but generally he was pretty supportive when I left
KTA
for the
Evening Headlines.
”

“That’s because you weren’t going to compete with him on another network,” said Mack. “He liked the idea that ‘his girl’ was talented enough to take over the
Evening Headlines
after Bill Kendall committed suicide. After that whole thing, this news division was rocked to the core. I heard that Linus took plenty of credit for grooming you for the evening anchor chair.”

“I heard the same thing.” Eliza smiled. “I don’t know what I would have done without him, do you?”

“Joke if you want to, Eliza,” said Mack. “But I’m telling you, Linus only wants what’s good for Linus. And even though he’s been able to install his girlfriend as the new
KTA
host, Constance Young was still his first pick. He was infuriated that not only did she have the audacity to leave, she was going to compete with him.”

“Well,” Eliza observed, “now at least he doesn’t have to deal with coming up against her every morning. Life was going to be jolly hell for the
KTA
staff.”

Mack shrugged. “It still will be,” he said.

Eliza looked up into Mack’s face and tried to read what was in his eyes. Discontent? Cynicism? Sadness?

“How’s everything else with you, Mack?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Are you enjoying living in London?”

“Yeah. It’s great. But I can tell I’ll be ready to come back home when my overseas stint is finished.”

“Have any idea when that will be?” she asked.

“I still have another six months on my contract,” he answered. “Then we’ll see where I go and what I do.”

Eliza looked at him quizzically. “You aren’t thinking of leaving KEY News, are you?” she asked.

Mack looked down at his shoes. “I’ve had a lot of time to think over there, Eliza. I’ve been thinking about life and what I want from it. Professionally I’m not totally certain about what I want.” He raised his head and looked directly into her eyes. “But personally there is one thing that I’m always sure of.”

Eliza felt her pulse quicken. She wasn’t ready for this conversation. Not now. Part of her wanted to put her arms around him and hold on to him. The other part of her wanted to run away from him. She chose the flight response.

Looking at her tank watch, she made an excuse about having to attend to something for the broadcast. She left Mack standing in the hallway watching after her as she fled into her office.

A
s the Saturday-afternoon visitors were milling through the halls of the Cloisters, Rowena sat in her office. She listened intently as the head of security questioned the man who had stood guard while Stuart Whitaker and Constance Young took their private tour.

“Were you with them every moment?” the security chief asked.

“Yes.”

“You never left their sides?”

“No, sir.”

“You know, Jerry, sooner or later the truth always comes out. There are pictures of a national news anchorwoman wearing what looks to be a piece that we’re depending on for our new exhibit. Now that woman is dead. Don’t you think that when the police are told that the unicorn amulet is missing from the Cloisters and they look at the images of Constance Young wearing just such a piece right before she died—don’t you think the police will be up here to investigate?”

“Probably.”

“Well?”

“There aren’t any video cameras in the area where the unicorn was kept,” said Jerry.

“And that means you think no one will be able to figure out who took it?” asked the security chief. “Don’t kid yourself, Jerry. Something will give it away, and if you know anything, it’ll be a helluva lot better if you share it now.”

Jerry squirmed in his chair.

“If I find out you know something, Jerry, not only will you be fired, I’ll see to it that you never get another security job.”

Jerry’s shoulders sagged. “Okay, okay. Mr. Whitaker pressed a hundred-dollar bill into my hand and told me to go outside for a smoke. I just thought he wanted to be alone with her in there for a little while. Who wouldn’t want to be alone with a babe like that, especially a nerdy guy like him? I thought, what the heck? Whitaker has given millions to this place. Why would he take something from it?”

Rowena interrupted. “We don’t know that Stuart Whitaker took the amulet, Chief. Maybe someone else did.”

“What? You think Constance Young took the amulet?” the head of security asked.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Rowena. “But even though I hate to have the museum exposed to negative publicity, I do know it’s time to call the police. There’s no other choice.”

A
string of vans, cars, and satellite trucks with New York press plates lined the road in front of Constance Young’s country house. With each addition of a rival news organization, Lauren Adams grew more tense.

“We don’t have enough,” she complained, snapping her gum. “We should have the very best access, but we’re stuck out here just like every other network or station. We don’t have anything that will separate our coverage at Constance Young’s house from our competition’s, and that’s just crap. What are we going to do about it, Annabelle?”

You mean, what am
I
going to do about it
? thought Annabelle, refusing to get flustered. “I’m not sure, Lauren,” she said aloud. “Our hands are pretty well tied. If the cops won’t let us in, they won’t let us in.”

“Exactly the kind of defeatist attitude I love to hear from my producer,” Lauren answered. “If that’s the best you can come up with, we’re in even more trouble than I thought.”

B.J. stood within earshot, listening to the exchange. He glanced at Annabelle, who subtly shook her head from side to side, warning him not to say anything. He knew that Annabelle could take care of herself. She had one of the best reputations at KEY News. Correspondents were constantly asking that Annabelle be assigned to produce their stories. Yet B.J. ached to put Lauren in her place. Experience, though, had taught him that there was a price to be paid for contradicting or even speaking up to the on-air talent. He had tried that when he’d worked as a producer-cameraman with Constance—and when his contract was up, he wasn’t renewed as a producer. Only his union membership had saved the cameraman portion of his job. B.J. was certain that Constance had been instrumental in cutting him down. He suspected that Lauren might also be capable of destroying anyone who got in her way.

He’d been debating whether to mention to Lauren what Boyd Irons had told him when they were in the men’s room. Just the day before, a dead dog had been found in the woods that surrounded the country house. B.J. didn’t know if that would turn out to be a coincidence, but screw Lauren and her bad attitude. He wasn’t going to share any editorial information with her at all. He was going to concentrate solely on the video he recorded. He would still do his utmost to get the best pictures he could, though—since that was what he was going to be judged on.

He approached Lauren and Annabelle. “I’m going to cut through these trees and see if I can get in there and get some pictures of the pool,” he said, softly so that none of the other newspeople could hear.

Lauren nodded approval. “Finally somebody’s doing something,” she said.

Making sure nobody was looking in his direction, B.J. made his way through the high grass at the side of the road and slipped between the trees. His shoes sank into the soft, muddy ground, and he cursed himself for not wearing his work boots. He’d thought he’d be shooting at Constance Young’s luxurious country house, not traipsing through the woods.

As he went deeper, B.J. began to hear voices, which he assumed to be the police searching the property. He followed the sound, coming to a high fence. Tall evergreens on the other side blocked the view to the pool, but the bushes also shielded B.J. from sight. If he wanted pictures of the pool, he was going to have to climb the fence. Getting the camera over would be no small feat.

Taking off his belt, B.J. threaded it through the handle of the camera and fastened it, creating a long leather circle, which he pulled over his head. Then he carefully slid the camera around to his back. With his hands free, B.J. reached upward and boosted himself off the ground, managing to grab onto the top of the fence. He tried to hoist himself up, but he couldn’t make it over, and the leather strap, weighed down by the camera, nearly strangled him.

Standing on the ground again, B.J. could hear the voices coming from the other side of the evergreens.

“Something new has been added.”

“What is it now?”

“We’re supposed to be looking for a unicorn.”

“A what?”

“A unicorn. You know. Those horses with the long horn coming out of the middle of their heads? Well, we’re supposed to look for a little ivory one.”

“What’s the deal?”

“It’s some sort of antique, and it’s missing from a museum, and Constance Young was seen wearing it around her neck. We’re supposed to see if we can find it out here.”

“How did she get it?”

“What do I look like? The
Jeopardy!
champ? How do I know? Maybe someone gave it to her, maybe she stole it, maybe she was killed for it.”

Lauren watched for B.J. while she paced up and down at the side of the KEY News satellite truck. Finally she spotted him coming out the woods and rushed toward him.

“Did you get the pictures?” she asked with an expectant look on her face.

“I couldn’t. The fence was too high,” B.J. explained, out of breath. “But—”

Lauren cut him off. “What do you mean, you didn’t get them?”

Her tone irked B.J. “Just what I said,” he answered. “I wasn’t able to climb over the fence with my camera. But—”

“No buts, B.J. You didn’t get the pictures, and that’s that. I don’t have time to listen to any excuses. I have a script to finish writing.” Lauren spun around and stalked back to the satellite truck.

B.J. watched her go and struggled to keep his face expressionless. If anyone asked him later, he could truthfully say that he had tried to tell her.

Stupid, stupid woman.