Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5)

by Laura Van Wormer

  Ah. Of course. He's in public affairs, which means he talks to the press all the time.

  It turns out to be one of the more enlightening interviews I've had. Sam originally met Cassy "a million years ago, when our children were little.” They had both been recruited to work on the Riverside Drive block party. Area residents did this in the darker financial days of New York City, when private dollars were desperately needed to supplement the upkeep of the park and when they also felt the need to employ private security guards at night to patrol the neighborhood.

  "I knew I liked Cassy at that first meeting," he says, "because when I said I wanted to set up a china-break booth—you know, where the kids and parents throw baseballs and smash stuff to smithereens—everybody freaked out. They said there was too much violence in New York and suggested I try a booth where people dropped clothespins into a milk bottle." He laughs. "What I wasn't getting was that all these white folks were ter­rified of some big Black man running around breaking things."

  I have to laugh.

  "So then Cassy stands up and says, 'Question. Do we want people to have fun and pour money into the coffers, or do we want to have the same old wimpy stuff nobody wants to do?' She looked at this one gal, who I knew was freaked the minute I showed up, anyway, and Cassy says, 'Come on, Rachel. Which do you think young Bernie really wants to do? Smash china with a baseball or drop clothespins in a milk bottle?'"

  He throws his head back and roars. "Oh, man, you had to have been there. It was the way she said it. Everybody laughed and by the end of the meeting, Cassy and I were co-chairs of all the activity booths." He looks out the window, smiling, think­ing back. "That was—well, my daughter Althea just finished her master's..." He looks at me with mock horror on his face. "It's got to be twenty years."

  We talk more and he says they really didn't become such close friends until about seven years ago, when Cassy used her crew at WST to expose a stock fraud scheme at his company, Electronika International.

  "The thing was," he explains gravely, "that I had been set up to touch off a firestorm of public controversy, which the bad guys hoped would drive our stock down—"

  "The violation of the boycott in South Africa," I say, excited. "I remember that! That was you?" I slap my head. "Of course that was you! Sam Wyatt! The Black marketing director. I re­member that!"

  "It was really touch-and-go," he says. "If I was a whistle­blower, I could be finished in corporate life, but if I didn't blow the whistle..."

  "And so Cassy moved in."

  "It was pretty neat," he says. "Although at the time I was pretty scared. She brought in the FBI and, well... " He shrugs.

  We talk about the fallout of that case and what happened to all the players. Then I switch topics. "Cassy mentioned, rather mysteriously may I add, that you were instrumental in helping two people she is very fond of."

  "You don't want to write about any of that," he tells me.

  Which of course only makes me want to. "Why not? What kind of help did you give? And to whom?"

  He reaches over to turn off the tape recorder. "I helped her get Michael into a rehab, that's all."

  I doubt this. "But you helped Cassy, too," I say. "By her own admission, she says she hadn't been able to deal with the situ­ation, not for years."

  He lowers his voice. "I'm a recovering alcoholic. In AA for years. That's all Cassy knew it and we talked and that's all."

  I have a thought. "Do you know Jessica Wright?"

  He smiles a little. "Yes."

  "You helped Cassy with her, too?"

  "I didn't do anything," he says quietly, "that hundreds of thousands of other AAs don't do every day. I took her to a meeting, that's all."

  "You're her AA sponsor, aren't you?" I say. "I talked to Jes­sica, you know, and she told me—off the record, too—about this mutual friend of Cassy's who's her sponsor or advisor or something—"

  He is drawing his finger across his throat to get me to stop.

  I do.

  "Sally, honestly, this is not something you can write about. It goes against every tradition that AA has about anonymity."

  I reach over to turn the tape recorder back on. "So as I under­stand, Mr. Wyatt—“

  "Sam, Sam!" he insists.

  "So as I understand it, Sam," I say, "you have been a great friend and confidant to Cassy for the past several years."

  "I don't know about that," he says, wondering what I'm driving at on tape.

  "In other words, she's been able to turn to you as a sounding board in her private life. Like when her husband's drinking got out of control."

  He gets it. "Yes. And vice versa. The thing is, in these days and times, between work and family, there's not much time to cultivate friendships. Cassy and I were very lucky—we were neighbors, we got thrown together in community service, and then we just found ourselves becoming close friends. It's cer­tainly convenient since she lives just two doors down and our spouses are wild about each other, too."

  "All right," I say, signaling success with a fist in the air. We're on the right track now.

  When I leave West End later in the Jeep, I am flying high. The interview with Sam was just wonderful, and it is almost enough to stop me from worrying about whatever it is Spencer wants to talk about.

  While I'm stuck in traffic on Fifty-Ninth Street, I put a call in to Joe Bix. "Hey there. It's me. What do we have on the murder suspect?"

  "Not an awful lot," he says. "He's a Russian guy, been in the States for over two years, lives in Queens and works part-time for that warehouse. There is no connection between him and ei­ther Tony or Johnny Meyers that anyone can find."

  "Except that Tony Meyers was in the toxic-waste disposal business in Long Island, and maybe this was a mob hit."

  "Give it up, Sally," he sighs. "You're worse than Crazy Pete. If it was a mob hit, then why do it in Castleford?"

  "That's exactly what makes me think it was a hit," I say. "How would some Russian guy even know where Castleford was unless someone sent him there to specifically knock off Meyers? It would be much better to kill him in Castleford than in Long Island, where all his competitors are."

  "Geez," Joe says. "I need a new job. I want to cover the gov­ernor's bill in Hartford and you want me to get killed by the mob."

  "How did Buddy get this guy?"

  "It was a nice piece of work. He got a description of him from some guy near the park who saw him and put it together with what a gas station attendant remembered about a guy in a car with New York plates the same morning. The guy bought a map and was sitting outside looking at it for a long time, evi­dently. That same car was found abandoned in Bridgeport; it had been reported stolen in Queens. Buddy got the prints and they matched the prints the Southampton police sent over from their burglary last year, the one where the gun was taken. Buddy turned all of this over to the FBI, who came back with a computer hit on this Stefan Bulgizt, arrested two years ago in a Kennedy airport luggage scam, and they picked him up in Queens."

  "Wow," I say.

  "Yeah," Joe says. "With computers, it's a whole new world. The police also think he may have been the one following you in the stolen car the next day."

  "Comforting thought," I sigh. "Okay, gotta go. I'll be back in town tonight."

  I find a parking spot right in front of Spencer's and load four quarters into the meter. The doorman nicely offers to take the rest of my quarters to feed the meter as needed, and also to keep an eye on the Jeep. "Oh, I don't think anything will happen to it out here," I say.

  He laughs, rolling his eyes at the awning. "Yeah, that's what we all say when we first move to New York."

  The concierge waves me right through the lobby, saying Spencer is expecting me. It is a nice building and a nice group. Spencer pays through the nose for all this niceness, though, far more than I could ever allow myself even if I made a lot of money.

  When I walk into Spencer's apartment, I am slightly reas­sured by the look in his eyes. He does not look like
a man about to break up with me. To the contrary. I drop my purse and kiss him hello and apologize again for being smashed the night be­fore.

  "It's okay," he murmurs, holding me around the waist, look­ing into my eyes. We kiss again.

  "So what's up?" I ask, picking Seela up on my way into the living room.

  "I've got some Amstel Light," he says, "and a bottle of char­donnay."

  "I'm driving, darling," I say, dropping down on the love seat, "so water will be fine." I look over at him, suspicious. "Unless you're trying to get me to stay."

  He glances through the open partition of the kitchen. "Nice idea," he says, "but you said you had to get back."

  "I really do now," I say. "I've got to get a jump on these tran­scripts. And I've got to meet Verity this weekend."

  "You do?" He comes around the partition to hand me a glass of water and sit down next to me. He has a bottle of Amstel for himself.

  "Yeah, she called me yesterday and asked me to come up to Litchfield. She wants to 'talk' about the piece, which means, I assume, she doesn't trust me enough to know how to write it." I expect Spencer to say something, but he doesn't.

  Something is wrong. And the queasy feeling in my stomach confirms it. I sip my water and ask in a low voice, "What's the matter?"

  "I don't really know how to explain this to you," he says, dropping his eyes to the coffee table.

  I put my glass down and lean forward to take his hand.

  His eyes come up for a moment. He looks so tired and dis­couraged. Miserable. Maybe even scared. He releases my hand to rub his eyes and then his whole face. He drops his hands to look at me. "I got a call from Verity yesterday, too."

  "And?"

  "She said she had talked to you."

  "And?"

  "And she also told me that you said you had seen me again, after the theater last week."

  "Yes," I confirm. "I didn't feel like embellishing on it, though, so I didn't. I didn't know what you might have told her, or were going to, so I just said yeah, I'd seen you. I certainly didn't make a big deal out of it."

  He nods, biting his lower lip slightly. "That's good. I won­dered. I didn't think you'd broadcast what's been going on." He looks at me. "It's probably a good idea to keep our relation­ship to ourselves. Until you've finished the piece and she's paid you and everything."

  A flag goes up. "Why? What would she care? She's the one who introduced us."

  "Yeah, she did," he says. "She wanted my take on you, Sally. She asked me if I would take you somewhere to get a better sense of you, to see if I thought you were cut out for the assign­ment."

  "She asked you to spy on me?" I say, getting angry.

  "No," he says quickly, looking at me. "No! Sally, no, she didn't, nothing like that. She just wanted to make sure you could handle it and wanted to make sure you'd have someone in the city who knew something about writing to call in case you couldn't."

  "Screw her!" I say, reaching for my water. "I don't need a baby-sitter."

  "No, no, I'm not explaining this right," he says, miserable. "Sally. Look. There's something I have to tell you. I don't want to, but I have to. I can't let this go another day, not for another hour."

  Now I am scared.

  "The thing is, Sally," he says, almost in a rush, "Verity and I have been having an affair. For a long a time." He grimaces. "For over two years."

  Part IV

  Reality

  33

  Verity and I have been having an affair. For a long a time. For over two years.

  I have to admit, I need a glass of wine after this announce­ment. I feel winded, stunned, utterly blindsided. I also wanted to slug Spencer.

  I get myself a glass of wine and drink it down in Spencer's kitchen, asking him, from the other side of the partition, "Why are you telling me?"

  "Because you have to know," he says, rising.

  "And why wasn't I to know before we did anything?"

  He comes around the partition to stand in the doorway, look­ing at me as though he couldn't understand what I was saying, or why. "I didn't know we'd—" He gestures. "I didn't know I'd feel—I was scared to tell you until I knew you felt something for me."

  I close my eyes and hear the voice of that bitchy Sally Har­rington people in my past used to complain about. "So you waited." I open my eyes. "Until you knew I was on the hook, right?"

  "Sally," he says softly. "Put yourself in my place."

  "I am," I say. "And I told you about Doug right away."

  "And I told you about my ex who moved out."

  "Don't even get me started on that!" I cry. "You were living with one woman and having an affair with another—"

  "The point is, Verity's giving you the professional opportu­nity of a lifetime!"

  I put the wineglass down in the metal sink. "So why the hell are you telling me now?"

  "Because," he says, moving closer but not touching me, "Verity wants to know what's going on, what's wrong with me."

  I look at him. "Oh? She thinks something's wrong with you? So do I, as a matter of fact."

  "Because I won't sleep with her," he explains. "And that's been pretty much our whole relationship."

  I nod, staring off past him, feeling like dying. I can't believe it. But I am also sure I deserved it. "And when were you supposed to sleep with her?"

  "Last weekend," he says quietly. "Verity usually comes over on Saturday afternoon if she can get away from Corbett. She came over last week and I pretended I had the stomach flu."

  I look at him.

  "And then I canceled on her Monday afternoon."

  "Afternoon?" I say, taking a step back. "Where do you meet her in the afternoon?"

  He sighs. "Here, sometimes. Sometimes at a friend's."

  "Two years?" I cry, slamming my hand on the counter. Then I lower my voice, glowering. "You've been sleeping with her for two years and waited to tell me until now? After pretending that you've been so tragically alone?"

  "I have been alone," he says flatly.

  "It sure as hell doesn't sound like it."

  He concedes that, nodding, dropping his forehead into his hand. "Yeah. It's a mess."

  "I don't know why you should think it's a mess," I say in my high-handed voice. "She's only married to someone else­—someone who could squash you like a bug, Spencer," I can't help but say.

  "I know."

  I pace the kitchen once and then whirl around. "Surely she knew someday you'd meet someone!"

  He looks at me, sick. "You don't know Verity."

  "Clearly," I say coldly, "I don't know you."

  "Look, we haven't known each other that long—I'm falling in love with you," Spencer says, sounding a little desperate. "And I think Verity suspects."

  "So what?" I demand.

  "So—" He can't seem to come up with an answer.

  So I get my purse and get the hell out of Dodge.

  I drive back to Castleford in some kind of shock.

  It’s a little after nine when I arrive at Mother's and start the dogs barking. Too late I put two and two together about what it means when the lights are off inside the house and Mack's car is parked in the driveway. If I could leave, I would. I don't have the strength for this. But Mother has already looked out the up­stairs window to see who it is and she is probably dying a thou­sand deaths because she realizes it's me.

  She meets me at the front door in her robe.

  God, I cannot believe it. Mother is having sex.

  "Sorry to disturb you," I whisper, avoiding her eyes—actu­ally, not looking at her at all—just reaching past her to signal to Scotty that he is to come out without Abigail. He does, nuzzling my hand. "Hi, babe," I say, dropping on one knee to kiss his snout. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," I whisper, turning away. "Thanks for looking after him. I'll pick up his stuff tomorrow." I am hoping I sound sort of normal, because I cannot deal with this right now.

  Neither can Mother, for all she does is softly call, "I love you," and close the door.


  I start to imagine her going back upstairs to face Mack, but I banish the scene from my mind. I don't want to think about anything anymore, all I want to do is to go home with my dog.

  We reach the cottage, I let Scotty out and drag my bags out of the car. Scotty takes kick-aim at a bush and then dashes up to the porch, barking, activating the motion light.

  "Scotty, quiet!" I say.

  "What the heck is that?" I say aloud, coming up the stairs. Sitting in front of the door is a large hunk of concrete and brick, with a metal cable coming out of one side. Now what? I wonder if in my absence part of the basement’s started to fall apart. Scotty and I pick our way around the thing and go inside.

  As Scarlett would say, I'll think about it tomorrow.

  Before I go to sleep, I actually get down on my knees next to my bed, like I did when I was little, and say my prayers. I ask God to help sort out all this stuff with Spencer and Verity and, well, Doug. Because I can't help but think of Doug right now and I'm not sure what that means, either.

  34

  I call Buddy first thing Saturday morning and catch him at home making pancakes. I flatter him profusely on the work he did to catch Tony Meyers's killer, which keeps him on the phone. "I was also just wondering," I say, "what the story was on the Preston Roadhouse."

  "Don't you read your own paper?"

  "Yes, that's why I'm calling you. It says squat. Just not the same paper without me, is it?"

  Buddy curses quietly, muttering something about not being able to flip properly while on the phone.

  "Just tell me if there is anything suspicious about the road­house explosion," I say, opening the front door to look at that hunk of building debris on my front porch.

  "There is something suspicious about it," Buddy says.

  Huh. So somebody's left me a clue, something to write about. Too bad I wasn't here to see who left it at the front door.

  "Okay," I say, "that's all I wanted to know. Thanks."

  "That's it?" he says suspiciously.