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

by Laura Van Wormer

As Rosanne goes off to get me a glass of water, I look around. There are lots of pictures in here. On the secretary is a large one of Rosanne, an old woman and a teenage boy. A cat comes sauntering in, matter-of-factly rubbing against my leg.

  "That's Missy," Rosanne says when she comes back in.

  "The cat or the lady in the photograph?"

  "Ha! A smart-alecky one. You're a reporter, all right." She hands me the glass. "The cat is Missy, and belongs to Mrs. G.­ Mrs. Emma Goldblum. This is her apartment. I sublet from her. And that," she says, pointing to the boy in the picture, "is my son, Jason. I'm a widow," she adds, "and so is Mrs. G. We de­cided to live together. It's been great."

  I should say so, I think, looking out at the view. On the other hand, the woman in the picture looks like she's in her eighties and I should imagine having some young people in the house in New York City is a comfort. I know Rosanne works exclu­sively for Cassy and Jackson now; I wonder if Mrs. Goldblum was ever a client?

  We sit down to talk and within an hour it is clear that Ro­sanne worships the ground Cassy walks on. For the sake of her son, Rosanne says, she doesn't wish to go into the circum­stances of her own husband's death, except to say it was quite sud­den and horrible, and that had it not been for Cassy, Rosanne might have lost custody of Jason.

  I turn my head slightly at this, because it does not make much sense. I turn off the tape recorder, put the pad and pen on the table and say, "Just for my information, completely off the record, could you explain?"

  "My husband was shooting drugs," Rosanne says. "He was a Vietnam vet," she adds, as if this forgives him of everything. "I put my son into foster care for a while because I didn't want him exposed to the way his father was, and then his father died of an overdose and the foster parents tried to get custody of Ja­son permanently. Mrs. C. and Mrs. Goldblum helped me straighten everything out."

  I nod. "I see." I turn the recorder back on. "If it's all right with you, Rosanne," I say, "I would like to say something like Cassy was there to help put your family back on firm footing after your husband's fatal illness."

  Rosanne smiles, although I see a spark of pain in her eyes. "That would be great. So what else do you want to know?"

  "I'm interested in what Cassy said to you about this inter­view."

  "She said for me to say whatever I want."

  "Anything?"

  "She did say that if anything slipped and it was awful she wouldn't fire me," she admits.

  "What kind of slip?" I tease.

  "Oh, I don't know. Probably stuff about Mr. C—Jackson doesn't do anything that's very interesting. He does dramatic stuff, but it's not as interesting as the things Mr. C. used to do."

  "What kind of dramatic stuff does Jackson do?"

  "Once he brought home a baby ocelot," she says. "See, Mrs. C. said she wanted a cat, but wasn't sure what kind. And then another time he flew her to the wrong country. She said she wanted to go the Vineyard and he thought she said Finland, so he took her to Finland for their anniversary. That was pretty funny."

  She tells me more about Jackson and his children, and Cassy's son, about how all the children come home for the hol­idays, who's doing what, how much they like their respective stepparents. When I steer our conversation back to Michael Cochran, Rosanne's face takes on that vaguely pained look again.

  "Oh, Mr. C.'s all right. You know, he just had that drinking thing."

  It occurs to me that Rosanne and Cassy at one time had rather a lot in common in regard to their marriages.

  "But then he stopped, so that was good," she adds.

  "But then he left," I point out.

  Rosanne nods. "And then he left," she agrees. And then, as if she feels she owes me something, she relates a story about how Michael, when he was drunk one night, threw a TV set out the apartment window. "Nobody got hit or nothing," Rosanne says, "so it's a funny story now."

  I wonder how funny she would find it if she knew Michael Cochran was drinking again. And that, from Michael, I already knew that Rosanne's husband had been a drug addict, that they had lived in an SRO—single-room-occupancy hotel—where they had shared a bathroom and kitchen with a great many people. None of this is going into the article, though. Still, it's helpful that I know it.

  "Michael Cochran says one of the main reasons he went into rehab..." I begin, pretending to read from some old notes.

  "Hey, you write shorthand like Mrs. C. She's always leaving me notes I can't read."

  I smile. "Anyway, Michael Cochran says one of the main rea­sons he went into rehab was because Cassy finally threw him out."

  Rosanne nods. "That's right."

  "And for the first time, she wouldn't let him come home."

  Rosanne nods again. "It wasn't easy for her."

  "And he had been fired, so he didn't have his job to go to."

  She shook her head. "No, he didn't. I think he went out west somewhere, bounced around. Mrs. C. was worried sick about him, but she had some good advice and decided to stick to her· guns, that he couldn't come back unless he got help."

  "And so he went into Hazleton in Minnesota."

  "Mrs. C. flew him out there."

  "What enabled her to be able to do it that time?" I ask, my heart pounding because I am being such a sneak. "To not take him back in?"

  Rosanne shrugs, thinking. "Her friends, I think." She's begin­ning to look vaguely uncomfortable and I wonder if she had any idea what her employer had been up to at the time.

  "Like who?" I ask, pen poised over paper.

  "Um, Mr. W., Sam Wyatt. He lives down the street. He's been a friend of the Cs' for a long time. He and Mrs. W. knew what was going on with Mr. C. and they were very supportive. He and Mrs. C are good friends. She helped him on the stock scan­dal at Electronika International a while back, you might re­member that."

  "That was at about the same time," I say, jotting down a note.

  "Yeah, I guess it was," Rosanne says vaguely. "I don't know, I was so out of it around then, it was right after my husband died."

  "Was there anyone else who helped Cassy?" I ask. "In help­ing her stand firm about Michael's drinking?"

  "I don't know, maybe you should ask her."

  "Henry was away at camp," I continue. "And I think by then she had met Alexandra Waring."

  "Oh, yeah," Rosanne says, shifting slightly, "she was around. Mr. C was the one who hired her, you know, brought her to New York from Kansas City and made her a big star."

  "That's right," I confirm. "And she and Cassy have remained close friends ever since."

  "Mr. and Mrs. C went down to Washington that time she was shot."

  "That was later," I say.

  "Yeah, I guess that was a year or two later."

  "But when Alexandra was working here in New York, she and Cassy became friends."

  "Yeah."

  "So maybe she was helpful in supporting Cassy. After all, she knew about Michael's drinking firsthand, right? Because he was fired from their station?"

  Rosanne shrugs. "I don't know."

  "Was there anyone else around at that time?" I ask lightly. "Besides Sam Wyatt and Alexandra Waring?”

  Rosanne shrugs again. "I really don't remember, you'd have to ask Mrs. C."

  "Sam Wyatt and Alexandra Waring," I read back from my notes. "That's good, thank you. I'm seeing Alexandra this after­noon, as a matter of fact, so I'll ask her."

  Rosanne doesn't say anything; she's waiting for my next question.

  "I think that's about it," I say, turning off the tape recorder.

  "It is?" She's surprised. "Don't you want to know anything else?"

  "You mean besides... " I say, flipping back a page in my notes to quote to her, "that 'Mrs. C. is the kindest, smartest, most gen­erous person in the whole wide world'?"

  She smiles, coloring slightly. "Well, she is.”

  "I know," I say, standing up. "And I thank you for confirm­ing it."

  And so I leave Rosanne's apartment, knowing that in my nex
t interview I will be talking to Cassy's ex-lover.

  38

  Alexandra Waring is reading something at her desk when I walk into her office. She looks up, smiles and stands before coming around her desk to shake my hand. "How are you?" she says. "I hear they caught the shooter in the Meyers mur­der."

  "I'm afraid you probably know about as much as I do," I con­fess, having trouble looking at her. She is so friendly I feel al­most sick with guilt.

  "It's got to be a mob hit, don't you think?" she asks, gesturing for me to sit on the couch. She sits down in the chair across from me. "Why else would some imported Russian thug from Queens shoot a Long Island toxic-waste consultant over in Cas­tleford?"

  "God knows," I sigh, setting my stuff up. The image of the hunk of concrete left on my porch flashes through my mind. I glance over at her and Alexandra seems a little put off by my answer, and then I realize how flippant it must have sounded.

  "I'm sorry, what I mean is—" She is a mesmerizing kind of person. Those eyes, that smile, the energy. The power. I can see what attracted Cassy. "You're right, the murderer decided it would be better to do it somewhere other than Long Island, where people might immediately assume it was connected to his toxic-waste ­disposal business."

  "So you think it's a mob hit, too."

  "Or something like it."

  She watches me set up. "So how's the article coming?"

  "Very well," I say. "People have been very insightful."

  “That's good."

  This is starting off stilted and it's my fault. But I can't help it. There's too much going on in my head.

  Frankly, I'm rattled. I know too much.

  "I love your office," I say, once the recorder is on.

  There are so many plants in this office it smells like the outdoors.

  "Thank you. It drives the building people crazy, though. They say I'm giving off too much moisture in here and it's do­ing something to the ventilation system." She laughs. "I told them that was exactly the point, to do something about the ven­tilation system."

  "That's what's so different in here," I say. "There's fresh air."

  "I'm spoiled rotten," she says, crossing her legs.

  They are ter­rific. The blue silk blouse she is wearing only intensifies the color of her eyes and I am having a hard time concentrating.

  "So," I say, "why don't we just start off with how you first met Cassy." I hope my voice does not betray me; I am so ner­vous. This whole thing is too big for me. Verity, the journal, DBS, Expectations, the whole thing.

  "Cassy's former husband, Michael Cochran," Alexandra says easily, "hired me to work at WWKK here in New York. He had been looking for a new anchor, a woman, and he saw my tapes from Kansas City."

  "How old were you?"

  "Twenty-seven."

  "So Cassy was forty... " She does not take the cue, so I finish, "Forty-one."

  "Why is that important?" she asks, curious.

  "I'm just trying to keep my time line straight."

  She studies me for a moment and decides to let it pass. "Any­way, shortly after I arrived, the Cochrans had a party at their home. That's how we first met."

  "And you guys became friends?"

  "Well, she was at a competing station, so we became friend­ly," the anchorwoman says. "For example, I sat in a booth at Cassy's neighborhood block party." She laughs. "The things we do for publicity."

  "So the three of you were actually friends."

  "Well, yes. I guess so. I worked for Michael. And yes, we be­came friends after a time."

  I make a note. "I talked to Rosanne DiSantos this morning," I say, looking up. "And she says that during that difficult time for Cassy, when she finally told Michael he couldn't come home until he got help, that you were a good friend to her."

  Our eyes have locked and I know she suspects something.

  "It was exactly what you said," Alexandra says, "it was a dif­ficult time. Because I was working with Michael, I just hap­pened to be there."

  "He was fired from WWKK."

  She nods. "And I was concerned about him."

  "Did you talk to him while he was on his, well, drinking spree?"

  "He called me at work once." She frowns. "Is this really nec­essary? I should think Cassy would be the best source for this."

  "What I mean is, did you help Cassy to get him help?"

  She pauses and says, "I really think you should talk to Cassy about it."

  She has successfully stared me down and I look at my notes, trying to regroup. I don't know what I'm doing. I want to move to Mexico, anything to get out of here. I swallow. "If you had five words to describe Cassy, what would they be?"

  She relaxes a bit, then settles back in her chair, and so do I. She looks to the ceiling for a while and then back down to me. "Regenerative."

  I write this down and look up.

  "Resourceful. Loving, kind and gentle," she finishes.

  I write it all down, nodding. "Kind and gentle are two words almost everyone has used."

  "For good reason."

  "She commands a great deal of loyalty," I say, "even from those she has fired."

  Alexandra's eyebrows go up. "Oh?"

  "I talked to Glenn Mortimer last week," I say, referring to the former political analyst for DBS News.

  "Oh, him."

  "Do you care to make any comment about him?"

  "No," she says simply.

  "Well, he had quite a lot to say about you."

  "I'm sure he did."

  We're sitting here.

  "He was still very appreciative of Cassy," I say.

  No response whatsoever from Alexandra.

  "And I also talked to Bonnie Kirk."

  "Uh-huh," Alexandra says, nodding.

  "Actually, she talked more about you than she did about Cassy."

  "Since I'm the one who had her fired, I'm sure she did."

  "Well, um," I stammer, trying to figure out how to say this, "aren't you curious about what she said?"

  "No."

  Now what?

  "She was pretty angry," I offer.

  Alexandra nods once, as much as to say, yes, that sounds like the same Bonnie.

  "Um," I say.

  The anchorwoman leans forward in her chair. "What is it that you want to ask me, Sally?"

  "It was about a comment she made." My face is burning.

  "And you want to tell me what she said. Even though I'm not interested in hearing it."

  Oh, God, there must be another line of work I can get into. This is awful. "Well, it was kind of an interesting comment."

  "And what could this possibly have to do with an article about Cassy?"

  There, she said it, daring me to try and link the two. She does suspect me.

  "Well," I say, "if what Bonnie Kirk said about your life-style is true, then I wondered what role Cassy may have played—or plays—in enabling you to engage in it."

  It is impossible to read the anchorwoman's expression, but I know I have crossed the line with her.

  "So, in effect," Alexandra says carefully, "you're asking me if you can spice up your article about Cassy at my expense?"

  God, I just want to die.

  "That if Verity can't get any dirt on Cassy, she's told you to come after me?"

  "No," I say truthfully, shaking my head.

  Alexandra takes a deep breath, shaking her head. Then she curls forward, placing her elbow on her knee and resting her chin in the palm of her hand. "If there is a living example of goodness and integrity, it is Cassy Cochran. You may quote me on that. In regard to my personal life—and I'm glad you have that tape running—I must caution you, Sally, when it comes to that little square of ten minutes I call my private life, I am fiercely private and voraciously protective." Then she straight­ens back up.

  I'm not absolutely sure of it, but I think I've just been threat­ened.

  "But," Alexandra continues in her normal tone of voice, "you're entitled to know what everyone else do
es: I am not married. I will get married only if I decide to have children."

  "And Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres?"

  "Is my best friend in the world."

  I can't take those eyes on again. I simply nod and make a note. I've got to get out of here. At least, change the subject.

  I look up, smiling. "Tell me the worst thing Cassy has ever done to you."

  Instead of this taking her aback, Alexandra's face immedi­ately crinkles into self-deprecating laughter, and she launches into a story that goes back to when they were trying to assemble the pieces of the newscast. She wanted it one way, and Cassy wanted it another, and Cassy sat back and let Alexandra run with her ideas, even though she knew they wouldn't work.

  "But why?"

  "Because I wouldn't listen. And the network brass was too scared to say no to me. I was their big hope at the time. They wanted me to get on the air."

  "So what happened?"

  "We did a dry run of my format for the newscast and I think it was Jessica who suggested we change the name of it to, Snoo­ziola City and the Narcoleptic Sandbaggers.

  We laugh. The tension is clearing. "So that's the worst thing Cassy has ever done to me," Alexandra finishes. "Let me hang myself in front of the entire network."

  I chuckle, making a note. I no longer feel suicidal.

  "Actually, it was a very good thing," Alexandra continues. "I was thirty years old by the time I moved to DBS. I was scared to death and thinking I had to know how to do everything by my­self. And that little crisis proved that I didn't, that I had to learn to work as part of a team. And as a result of that teamwork, we have a very successful news division.”

  "What defines 'successful' to you?"

  "If something happened to me," she says, "would the news division survive, would it still attract viewers? The answer is a resounding yes, it would. We may have started out as a person­ality-driven network—" She laughs. "Never underestimate the power of being shot live on national TV. It was that whole TV episode, you know—my being shot, my being in the hospital, my recovery—that carried over to attracting so many initial viewers to DBS. They were curious to see how I was. Every­body knew me because the shooting had been rerun so many times on every newscast in the country."

  This is true. It was very dramatic footage. The whole country watched in horror as the young network reporter, conducting an interview in front of the Congressional Building, was sud­denly shot.