“It’s true. Jack is dead because I insisted on taking a honeymoon. If we had stayed at home, none of this would have happened and my baby would still have its father,” Gabrielle wept as she folded into Beatrice’s arms.
“Oh, honey, don’t do this to yourself,” Beatrice said, rocking Gabrielle gently and wanting desperately to help her, but having no clue as to how. As much as her heart went out to Gabrielle and her baby, Beatrice could not deny the satisfaction she felt once again having Gabrielle all to herself. Widowed, pregnant, and illiterate, Gabrielle needed Bea now more than ever.
“What’s the latest from the police?” Ruthanna asked Felicia in a hushed voice. They were out in the kitchen with Gabrielle’s other friends, away from the rest of the folks who had come to pay their respects to Jack’s widow. Each was full of questions about the tragedy, and, as Gabrielle’s official spokesperson, Felicia found herself on the receiving end of their inquiries.
“According to Gabrielle, they’re still pursuing their main theory that some local kids broke into the chalet and had a party. Apparently they break into unoccupied vacation homes all the time.”
“But her house was obviously occupied,” Jaci remarked.
“The police think that they were fans. I guess the fact that it was a so-called celebrity’s house made it too enticing to pass up,” Felicia responded.
“And what about the fire?” Greg von Ulrich asked.
“The fire department has determined from the heavy burn marks on the rug that the fire started near the couch. Apparently, from the soot scrapings, there was some kind of accelerant used, more than likely the oil lamps.”
“But who or what lit it?” Lois queried.
“They don’t know. At face value it looks like a party that got out of hand, but because of Jack they’re not ruling out arson and murder.”
“They think someone actually tried to kill him?” Stephanie asked, pushing her way into the huddle.
“Even though he died of smoke inhalation, they found a large contusion on his head. They think it’s possible that Jack surprised the vandals and they panicked, knocked him out, and then set the fire to cover their tracks,” Felicia informed the others.
“Do they have any suspects?” Stephanie asked casually, willing herself to stay cool.
“So far only the guy who called in the fire, but apparently he’s disappeared.”
“Couldn’t the police trace the phone call?” Ruthanna asked.
“They did. It was traced to a pay phone about two miles from the chalet. The detective said that they dusted it for fingerprints, but nothing usable came up,” Felicia revealed.
“So that’s it? Jack might have been murdered, and they have no leads,” Greg remarked as Gabrielle and Beatrice reentered the room.
“None. They found a partially melted camera bag in the living room, but any identification was totally burned away.”
“I just hope, for Gabrielle’s sake, they catch the monsters who did this,” Jaci said, voicing everyone’s thought.
“Howie, how the fuck did all this happen? The plan was so simple. Jack wasn’t supposed to die,” Stephanie remarked following the memorial service.
“It was an accident. We left the house a mess, but Jack was the one who torched the place.”
“He’d still be alive if he hadn’t come home so early.”
“How do you know that? Who’s to say that he wouldn’t have gotten hit by a car later that evening? Jack Hollis died because it was his turn. End of story.”
“Maybe.”
“Did you find out anything about the investigation?” Howie asked anxiously.
“Some good, some bad. The good news is that the police have no way of identifying the camera bag. The bad news is that the person who called in the fire is the prime suspect right now.”
“That would be me.”
“Don’t worry. They’ve got nothing. No prints. No leads. Nothing.”
“But what about Beatrice? What if she knows it was us who drove by her?”
“Believe me, she hasn’t got a clue. Besides, even if she did figure it out, I know something that’s sure to keep her big mouth shut.” Stephanie briefly filled Howie in on Beatrice’s ill-advised attempt to keep Doug and Gabrielle apart. “Do you think Gabrielle would ever trust Beatrice again? I think not. So, you see, nothing and no one is going to get in the way of us writing Gabrielle’s biography.”
“You still want to go ahead with this?” Howie asked.
“Hell yes. We’ve come too far to turn back now. This entire Killington fiasco has actually turned out to be a blessing. Gabrielle has been front-page news ever since the fire. Felicia’s going crazy trying to keep up with all press requests. The public can’t get enough of the poor, grieving widow and pitiful mother-to-be.”
Howie had to respect Stephanie’s ability to bounce back with such total resilience. Having accepted the fire and Jack’s death as an unfortunate turn of events, she was ready to press forward. Stephanie Bancroft refused to let anything block her chosen path to success.
“Just promise me, no more setups.”
“We don’t need any more. It’s time to strike a deal while the iron is hot.”
“That’s exactly why I sent our proposal to a friend of mine. He’s the assistant to Russell Shockley, the editor of Target Press. He promised to make sure it got seen.”
“Target Press is just another tabloid publishing house. They specialize in those fast and dirty tell-all books. I want this to go through a legitimate publisher. That’s why it has to be an authorized biography,” Stephanie argued.
“Do you really think that’s going to happen? Gabrielle doesn’t seem to be at all interested in this project.”
“I just have to give Gabzilla a little time to get over her grief. I don’t want to appear unsympathetic to her situation, now do I?”
“As long as we destroy the pictures,” Howie reminded her. “It’s too dangerous to keep them.”
“We need them for the book,” Stephanie insisted.
“Are you crazy? We can’t use these photos in the book for the same reason we couldn’t use them in the newspaper: Nobody else has pictures of the house before and during the fire. If we use them, we might as well pave a yellow brick road right to our front door for the police to find us.”
“Okay. Get rid of all the prints and negatives in the file. Burn them,” Stephanie suggested, collapsing into laughter. She was laughing not only because of her joke, but because she had a set of the Killington photos hidden away. Despite Howie’s reservations, she was definitely holding on to those photos. When all this hubbub blew over, who knew where they might end up taking her?
48
With Howie away to photograph Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver’s appearance at Planet Hollywood, Stephanie opted to stay at home and have a good cry. Three months had passed since the tragic incident, and, contrary to her outward show of bravado and indifference, she was still deeply disturbed by Jack’s death. Despite what Stephanie had told Howie, or even herself, she’d never hated Jack. She couldn’t. He was the only man she ever genuinely loved, and the idea of having played a part in his death was devastating.
Still, a small part of Stephanie was almost relieved that Jack was dead. Her relief was rooted in the knowledge that with Jack’s death she would finally be released from this dungeon of unrequited love. Losing Jack through death seemed much more tolerable than losing hirn to Gabrielle through marriage. The pain of constantly being reminded that Jack had never loved her in any way that even remotely resembled his feelings for Gabrielle was much erueler than knowing that she’d never see or speak to him again.
Stephanie cracked open a bottle of tequila and put the tape of “The Craig Arthur Show” in the VCR. She wanted to see Jack alive again and for one last time relish the memories of when the two of them were together. Stephanie fast-forwarded the tape to the part where Craig signaled Jack to join him and Gabrielle on stage. As Jack walked out onto the set, Stephanie’s tears
began to flow. He looked so handsome, so vibrant, so alive. It was hard to believe that he was gone.
She let the tape run, blocking out Gabrielle and focusing on Jack. In her tequila-induced fog, Stephanie allowed herself to fantasize that she was on the show plugging her book and announcing her marriage to Jack. Stephanie replayed Jack’s entrance several times before acknowledging Gabrielle’s presence. She decided to watch Craig Arthur’s entire interview with the model. Eight minutes later, she turned off the television in disgust.
“What a crock she’s feeding these people. ‘I wasn’t looking for just any man. I was looking for the right man.’ Like Jack, you bitch. Being with me made him the right man, didn’t it? ‘I can’t read those cards … I don’t have my contact lenses in.’ Blind bat—Wait a minute,” Stephanie interrupted herself. “Gabrielle doesn’t wear contacts. That witch has twenty-twenty vision. Why would she lie about wearing contact lenses and then say she couldn’t read the cue cards? This just doesn’t make sense,” Stephanie told herself.
Stephanie jumped up and turned the VCR and television back on. In the search mode she quickly rewound the tape to the bantering right before the break. She paused the machine again right after the host had requested that Gabrielle take them into the break.
She could see the fear in Gabrielle’s eyes. It was clear, if you were looking for it. Gabrielle was petrified. But why? Stephanie turned her attention from Gabrielle to Jack. He looked strange as well. Almost as if he were frightened for his wife. I smell a rat.
All the man had asked was for Gabrielle to read the cue cards. What about such a simple request would scare her into lying on national television? Was it stage fright? Was she worried about screwing up her lines on live TV? It’s not as if Gabrielle hadn’t done a million of these stupid shows before. Stephanie had booked most of them herself.
“So what are you hiding, Gabzilla? What has you looking like you’ve seen a ghost?” Stephanie rewound the tape again and watched the interlude for a third time. This just didn’t make sense. Nothing was requested or said that even an idiot like Gabrielle couldn’t handle. So what’s the deal? Unless … Could it be she really can’t read?
“Nah,” Stephanie said, answering her own question. She got up and paced the room. I’ve seen her reading books and commercial scripts. How could she not be able to read?
Barclay hopped off his perch on the windowsill and sauntered over to the couch. He stretched and began rubbing himself up against Stephanie’s legs. “Barclay, cut it out. I’ll feed you in a minute,” she told him.
“But Bea is always helping her learn her lines,” she thought aloud as Barclay continued to distract her. “Barclay, I said I’ll feed you in a minute—Feed the cat! That’s it!” Stephanie shouted as she picked up the cat and made her way into the kitchen and began going through the cabinet.
She pulled out a tin of Barclay’s food and examined the label. The brand name, Amoré, dominated the sticker, but there was no picture or drawing of a feline to distinguish it as cat food. Still, anybody who could read the words “tuna and ocean whitefish entrée for cats” would know that the contents of this can were not meant for human consumption.
“She was making lunch out of cat food!” Stephanie informed Barclay. Stephanie recalled the very first time she and Gabrielle had met in the kitchen of Beatrice’s brownstone. In her mind she could see the condiments lined up on the kitchen counter and Gabrielle’s shocked expression as Stephanie had thanked her for feeding the cat.
“Remember how weird she got? She just ran out of the room in the middle of our conversation.” The more she thought about it, the more occasions Stephanie could point to in which Gabrielle had very slickly avoided reading—like how she drew pictures on her shopping lists. She never wrote down phone messages, or read the newspaper, or did any of her own paperwork. “Barclay, I don’t think that stupid, man-stealing bitch can read!”
Stephanie finished feeding the cat and flew into the bedroom to change her clothes. She searched through a pile of back issues of Star Diary and grabbed the last edition that featured Gabrielle prominently on its front cover. She stuffed the newspaper into her bag and, with one final shot of tequila, ran downstairs to hail a cab. Stephanie was 97 percent sure that her hunch was right. Gabrielle was hiding something big, and she was going to get to the bottom of this mystery.
“Send her up, John,” Gabrielle instructed the doorman. It was after 10 P.M., and she assumed that Stephanie was here on an errand for Felicia. She certainly couldn’t be making a social call. Following Gabrielle’s marriage to Jack, their relationship had become visibly strained. Though she took great pains to camouflage it, Stephanie’s resentment was apparent. And now, after Jack’s death, Gabrielle found it particularly difficult to be around her.
“So, Gaby, how the hell are you?” Stephanie asked when the door opened, purposely using the one nickname that Gabrielle absolutely despised. Uninvited, she swept past Gabrielle into the apartment, nearly knocking her over with her large leather tote bag. Usually, on the rare occasions that she did see Gabrielle, Stephanie showed much more deference, but tonight, thanks to her discovery and half a bottle of tequila, she just didn’t give a damn.
“Do come in, Stephanie,” Gabrielle said, after the fact. “Can I take your bag?” she asked, disregarding the woman’s obvious attempt to annoy her.
“No thanks.” Stephanie wanted her ammunition close by in case their impending conversation didn’t yield the desired results. “You’re huge,” Stephanie observed rudely. “Are you sure you haven’t got twins in there?”
“I’m sure. What exactly can I do for—”
“Where’s Mother Superior?” Stephanie interrupted, ignoring Gabrielle as she sat down and made herself comfortable.
“I guess downstairs in her own apartment. Look, Stephanie, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have lines to learn.”
“And you’re going over them by yourself?” she asked, her voice full of manufactured surprise.
“Excuse me?” Gabrielle asked, her bewilderment obvious.
“It’s just, well, I know Henny Penny always helps you learn your lines.”
“Well, tonight I’m on my own. So, if you’ll tell me what you’re here for, I can get back to work.”
“I see,” Stephanie said, continuing to ignore Gabrielle’s obvious attempts to get her to move on. “Say, I saw a story on you in both Vanity Fair and Vogue this month. You’re all over the place.” Stephanie said, not expecting or receiving a reply. “Felicia certainly is earning that big fat retainer you pay her.”
“Felicia does a great job, and she works hard for me. You do, too,” Gabrielle added in an obvious afterthought.
“I’m glad you realize that I’ve helped you, too,” Stephanie responded, jumping at the opportunity to use Gabrielle’s words to her own advantage. “You have to admit that because of me you not only met Felicia but Miguel Reid and Jack,” she said with a sweet-and-sour smile.
“I’m grateful for any help you’ve given me.”
“It’s good to hear that, because I have, in the infamous words of the Godfather, an offer you can’t refuse.”
“And that would be?”
“You and I have been friends for a long time now. We practically grew up together with Beatrice in the brownstone. There’s nobody better—”
“Stephanie, where is this all going?”
Irritated that Gabrielle had interrupted her carefully prepared recitation, Stephanie blurted out, “I want you to authorize me to write your biography.”
“Haven’t we been through this already? For God’s sake, Stephanie, I’m only twenty-two years old. My life is a short story. I haven’t lived long enough to fill an entire book.”
“Are you kidding me? Madonna, Michael Jackson—they both had several biographies on the bookshelves before they were thirty. All the big celebrities do.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Gabrielle, don’t you get it? The whole world has an unquenchab
le thirst when it comes to you. This book could make you even bigger than you are now. And to be honest, it would really help me, too.”
“Look, I’d like to help you, but the answer is no.”
“Just like that? You won’t even take time to consider it?”
“I’m sorry.” There was nothing for her to consider. Gabrielle knew that there was no way she could allow anyone, let alone Stephanie Bancroft, to write her life story. She couldn’t afford to have some writer flinging open the closets of her past and finding the skeletal remains of a life she was desperately trying to put behind her.
Outwardly Stephanie was fighting hard to keep her cool, but inwardly she was seething. She was holding a first-class ticket on the bullet train to success, and she wasn’t going to let Gabrielle derail her now. If Felicia Wilcot could ride Gabrielle’s coattails to the top, so could she. “Time to pull out the big gun,” Stephanie said under her breath as she bent down and pulled the paper out of her tote bag.
“Pardon me?”
“I said time for me to run, but before I go, have you seen this? It’s the early edition of tomorrow’s paper,” Stephanie lied, holding up the newspaper. Gabrielle recognized it as one of the more popular supermarket tabloids. Her face was on the cover, as it had been countless times these last few years.
“I really don’t have time for this.”
“Maybe you should make time. You won’t believe what they’re saying about you.”
“I don’t pay attention to those rags.”
“Go ahead. Read it,” Stephanie insisted, pushing the paper into Gabrielle’s hands. She watched the model closely, looking hard for any sign that might confirm her suspicions.
“You of all people know I don’t read this crap,” she said, throwing the paper to the floor to emphasize her point. Gabrielle felt a sick, tingling feeling spread through her body. Stephanie was on some sort of fishing expedition, and that stupid newspaper was her bait.
“According to this, you don’t read much of anything.”
Gabrielle froze. Her stomach felt like a cement mixer, churning its contents into a concrete mass that weighed heavily in her belly. How did she find out? What else does she know?
Read Between the Lies Page 37
