We go on to discuss the history of DBS and Alexandra happily recounts every step of the way—how Jackson approached her, how she knew Cassy was the one to oversee the development of the news division and then The Jessica Wright Show, and then the entire network. She talks straight for almost forty minutes.
She balks, however, at talking about Jessica's drinking days. She won't even react to the statements Jessica has made. "No," she says quietly, shaking her head, "it's not appropriate. You'll have to go with whatever she's told you."
As things are winding down, her secretary, Trevor, comes in to tell Alexandra it's time for a meeting downstairs in the newsroom. I say that was about it, anyway, and start packing up my gear. I am acutely conscious that Alexandra has not moved but is sitting there, watching me.
"I imagine this article is going to pay very well," she says.
"For me, certainly," I concede, putting the cassettes away.
"And it will probably lead to other assignments from Verity.”
"I don't know." I finish putting my stuff away and stand up. "I really appreciate you spending so much time with me."
She does not get up. Instead, she says, "Sit down for a second, Sally, will you?"
I sit down, nervous.
She looks at me for a long moment and then crosses her arms over her chest. "You've changed." A moment passes. "In less than two weeks you've changed."
What am I supposed to say to this? I say nothing and simply sit there, feeling my face grow warm again.
"Don't let this assignment change you," she nearly whispers. "It's not worth it. I know the money and the excitement is alluring, but understand that with Expectations you are no longer covering the news, you are trying to make it. It's a distinction you need to think about." She stands up and claps her hands once, like a teammate might after a huddle. "But who am I to tell you what to do with your life?" She extends her hand. "Good luck."
Driving home to Castleford, I have an awful lot to think about. One thing I do know. I can't deal with Spencer or anybody until I sort this article out. I call Spencer's answering machine at his apartment because I know he will not be there.
"Hi," I say. "Listen, I know I said we could keep on talking, but the truth is, I need a few days to clear my head and focus on this piece. I think you, of all people, can understand that. So I wanted to tell you that I'm shutting off my phones, that you are not to take it personally, that I have not given up on us and that you are not to worry. And if there is some kind of emergency, you can reach me through my mother." And I leave him Mother's number.
That's the best I can do.
I pick up Scotty at Mother's and learn it's going to be a day or two more before Mack's friend can look at that hunk of cement for me.
"Fine with me," I say, "because I'm shutting off the phones and working straight through."
Mother's reaction is almost instantaneous. Her eyes light up and her smile explodes. "You're really going to do it, aren't you? Write a brilliant article!"
I don't know how brilliant it's going to be, but at least I will do some serious work on it.
And so I go home and write. And write and rewrite and scrap it and start it again. For two days I work fifteen hours straight and by Thursday morning I know I'm going to have a major piece for Expectations. I also know that Cassy is awfully lucky to have me as the writer on it. With any luck, I can talk Verity into believing I can't verify the identity of the woman in the journal. And the best I can do is to tell Cassy, face-to-face, that I know she had a brief affair with another woman and give her a chance to comment.
That's the best I can do.
I'm sitting here, tinkering with this draft, dressed in gym shorts and an athletic bra (it is hot), drinking well water. I read a paragraph out loud and then I hear a tapping sound at the window.
It is Mother and she is crying.
39
“What's happened?" I cry, rushing outside to her.
She pushes my hand away, refusing to let me help her inside. I'm alarmed at her appearance. She looks older, pale, extremely upset.
"Sit down, Sally," she says in my living room in a horrible voice. She herself sits in one of the armchairs.
Astonished, I sit in the chair across from her.
Her eyes are red.
"Why did you really bring that thing to my house and ask Mack to look at it?"
"What thing? The cement thing?"
"I've been thinking and thinking about it since he called me this afternoon," she says, ignoring my question, "and for the life of me, I can't believe you would do it to hurt me."
I am frantic. "Do what, Mother? What are you talking about?"
"You know how many years it's been since I've been able to have—" She sniffs. "A friendship, a relationship. With a man other than your father."
"Mother!"
"And now you bring all of this up, and you pull Mack into it—I just can't believe you would do it, Sally. It's a mean and dirty trick and it hurts me terribly."
I rush to my mother's side, sliding down on my knees next to her chair. "Mother, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
"That piece of debris. You knew it was from the high school, you knew it was from where your father died. And you knew how much it would upset me." She covers her mouth with her hand as tears fill her eyes again. "If you wanted to cause trouble—"
"Oh, Mother, no!" I wail, throwing my arms around her. "No, no, no! Dear God in heaven, I swear to God, Mother, I had no idea." I pull back to look at her. "I would never do anything to compromise your happiness, Mother. I only gave it to Mack because I trusted him—I see him as a member of the family."
She wants to believe me so badly.
"That cement is from the high school?" I ask her. "Castleford High? Are you sure?"
She nods.
"How does Mack know that?"
"He doesn't know it. But I do,” my mother says, starting to lose it again.
I take her in my arms and rock her. "Mother, whatever it is, you must tell me."
"It was too strange to be a coincidence,” she explains tearfully. "You arriving Friday night—I was so embarrassed, I didn't know what to say—"
"You didn't have to say anything,” I tell her. "Mack is a wonderful person, and he cares for you and you for him, and I only care that you two can be together.”
"Oh, Sally,” she sobs, "I miss your father so!"
At this, I start crying, too.
Gradually the storm passes and I get up to retrieve some tissues. We blow our noses, wipe our eyes and feel better. Mother now knows that I did not intend to cause a rift between her and Mack. I also realize how vulnerable Mother is and how difficult she might be finding it to "be" with Mack in the intimate way she had been with my father.
Poor Mother. I love her so much.
"What exactly did Mack say?"
"He took that thing to his colleague, and his colleague recognized immediately that the brick was from New Britain. It was probably made in the end of the 1970s or early 1980s. He needs to do some checking on the cement and cables, but he said the piece was from part of a buttress that is primarily used for some kind of performance center or large warehouse-type of building."
"So how do you make the connection with the high school?"
"What other brick building was built in 1977—one that was some sort of large performance center that has already been demolished? And who else do you know, Sally, that was so proud of the cement buttresses in his designs in the late seventies? That debris is from the gymnasium, Sally, I'd bet my life on it."
I call the police station and ask that Detective D'Amico call me back. Within two minutes, I have him on the line. In less than twenty minutes, I am meeting him in a parking lot in Middletown on the Wesleyan campus. We go into the building to find Mack, and I can see from down the hall that the expression on Mack's face is grave.
"I've upset your mother terribly, Sally," he murmurs when he reaches
me. “And frankly I'm at a loss as to why."
“It’s not your fault," I say, taking his arm. "Mother seems to think that that cement thing is from the building where my father was killed. I had no idea, Mack. I've brought Detective D'Amico with me. I thought it was debris from an arson case. I never would have brought it over otherwise."
"She was so upset," he murmurs.
Clearly he is, too.
"A lot of crazy thoughts ran through her head," I explain. "One of them was that I brought it over to deliberately upset her and drive you off."
He looks horrified.
"It was just a wild thought, but she's got it all sorted now. She knows how much I want the two of you to be together. I know how much she loves you, Mack."
He lunges to hug me. He is not a very big man, but his hug is strong. Just as abruptly, he lets me go. "Thank you," he whispers. "I love her very much."
Buddy clears his throat, pretending he's not listening to any of this.
Mack leads us to an office on the second floor and introduces his colleague. "If you don't need me, I'd like to go and see your mother now."
"Go," I urge.
Professor Marrietto takes us into the classroom that is connected to his office, where the hunk of cement is sitting on one of the lab tables. He reiterates what Mack has already relayed to us, that the brick is from a factory in New Britain, made in the late 1970s, and the cement is from one of two local cement facilities. He explains how he knows this from the components of the formula used to make these building materials and that, just as Mother had repeated to me, this hunk of debris was from a cement buttress in a brick building, probably near the corner of some kind of auditorium or warehouse—
"Like the corner of a brick gymnasium built in 1977?" I ask, interrupting him.
He looks at me like I am a genius. "Yes! That would be consistent. Was this gymnasium recently torn down?"
"No," Buddy says, speaking for the first time. "We're talking about the gym at Castleford High. One wall crumbled in the big flood in 1978. Then they took a wrecking ball to the rest of it. We think this piece is from that debris."
The professor looks slightly puzzled. "A wrecking ball? Are you sure?"
"Actually, I'm positive," Buddy says, "because I've just recently been reading the reports on it."
I look at Buddy.
"Why do you ask?" Buddy wants to know. "About the wrecking ball?"
"Because there are traces of a demolition charge," he says, pointing. "These smudge-like marks. There."
"Professor, thank you," Buddy says abruptly. "If you don't mind, I'll take this with me."
"Certainly," the professor says, turning to reach for a folder. "Here, I've made some notes you may find helpful."
Buddy opens the folder to scan the contents and the color, I swear, drains from his face. "Thank you, sir," he says then, tucking the folder under his arm before I can get my hands on it. "And I'd appreciate it if you kept this confidential. I may need to call you later with some more questions."
"Yes, that would be fine," the professor says. He looks at me. "I hope I've been of help. Mack's been a great friend for years and years."
"Yes, Professor, you have," I say, feeling a terrible sadness starting to come over me.
I don't know what is going on, exactly, but I suspect there is some dreadful new wave of grief coming my family's way about Daddy.
Professor Marrietto helps carry the building debris to the trunk of Buddy's unmarked police car. We thank him again and he goes back inside. In the meantime, I have swiped the folder from Buddy and am reading the contents.
The composition of the brick...
The composition of the concrete…
The composition of the mortar…
The composition of the co-axial cable...
The chemical composition of the flashing from a demolition charge...
The professor's even made a sketch of a corner of a large building, with an arrow pointing to where this sample most likely came from. Another arrow points a little ways away, where, he has written, he thinks the demolition charge was set in order for this piece to break off in the proportions it had.
Buddy puts his hand out for the folder. I give it to him. He hits his other hand with the folder, eyes on mine. "Do you get it?"
I shake my head. And then, in the next instant, I do.
Part V
Exposé
40
“Pete?" I call into the Sabatino's house.
The front door is open, not a good sign for the home of a conspiracist.
I walk inside. He is not here. Someone else has been, though, because the house has been turned inside out. The living room, den, kitchen and bedroom on the ground floor have been ransacked. So have the bedrooms and Pete's "library" on the second floor. Everything has been pulled out, turned over or ripped apart, all the way up into the crawl space in the attic, and all the way down into the basement, where I feel obligated to look behind a pile of snow tires for a frightened Crazy Pete.
No sign of him.
I leave through the front door and drive down the street to use the phone at a convenience store. I tell Buddy that I stopped by Pete's house, but he's not there. Someone else has been, though. The whole house is torn apart. I'm worried about him.
"I'll find him, Sally. Go home, let me handle it. You agreed you'd lie low."
"But I've got to do something, Buddy. I can't sit around. If I can find Pete, I can at least ask him if he knows anything about—"
"Do nothing!" Buddy roars. "Do as I say, Sally, I'm begging you. Go home, better yet, pack your bag and get the hell out of Castleford until I tell you. Your presence is only a liability."
Every instinct I have as a reporter says to stay. But every instinct I have as the daughter who must know the truth about what happened to her father says don't interfere. One hint of what Buddy and I suspect, and any evidence—or people—may vanish. If they have not already.
Obviously someone's already looking for something at Crazy Pete's. I can't help but wonder, at this point, if it might be the debris Buddy has sent on to the state lab.
"Sally," Buddy says quietly, "listen to me. If we have any chance—any at all—of finding out what happened, and who is responsible, our ability to construct a case will largely depend on you staying out of it. If anyone in Castleford sees that you're interested in anything but your Expectations piece—“
"Okay, okay," I agree. "I'll go to New York."
When I arrive home, I half expect to find my house ransacked or at least that Crazy Pete is hiding behind the woodpile. No on both counts. There is only Scotty dancing around. I let him out the kitchen door, where I see that Mr. Quimby has been here; he's left his racing form on the table.
I pick up the phone to call him, but there is no dial tone. "Hello?"
"It's Spencer," a solemn voice says.
"It didn't even ring," I explain. "I picked up to call somebody—“
"Sally, I've been out of my mind!"
"Well, you've reached me, even though I asked you not to. What do you want?"
"Don't be like this, Sally, please. We need to see each other."
"No. Not now, I've got too much on my plate."
"I don't blame you," he says. Someone in the background says something to him and he raises his voice. "Just close the damn door, will you? And tell them to leave me the hell alone!" That voice says something else. And Spencer mutters, "Damn it, it's my boss, I've got to go. Sally, I've got to see you."
"Why?"
"Why?" he nearly yells. "Why do you think? Because I love you and we have to talk this out!"
I only sigh, packing Scotty's bowl and food and favorite pull toy in a bag to take to Mother's.
"I—I've got to go. I'll call you," he says hastily, hanging up.
I'm having a hard time remembering what I found so attractive about Spencer that I was willing to abandon my life for him.
I dial my mother's house. "Hi.
Everything okay?"
"Yes, dear, quite." She sounds enormously better and I dread the day we may have to dredge up everything all over again about how Daddy died. "I feel very badly about how I acted. If I hadn't been so tired I wouldn't have... " She sighs. "I hope you can forgive me."
"Oh, Mother, there's nothing to forgive. But if you want to baby-sit Scotty again for a few days, so I can go back into New York, we would both certainly appreciate it."
"Wait until I tell Abigail," she says, sounding like herself again. "She'll want me to give her a bath and set her hair."
I put a call into mom's cheapo-hotel line and I am in luck. If I check in tonight, I can get two nights at a cheapo hotel with all the rest of the hookers in town. Unfortunately I have lost my taste for less-than-great hotels and decide to try to use my status as a writer for Expectations. I get the manager of the Claremont on the phone. I explain my situation to him and promise a plug for the hotel in my piece, how would that be? He's says they don't need any plugs, but he'll let me have a room for $150 a night instead of $260.
I pack up my recorder and tapes and computer disks and the draft of my article. After much hesitation, I wrap Cassy's journal in a bag and stick that in my suitcase, too.
I drive into New York with talk-radio blasting at me. My head is filled with so many unhappy thoughts it is a luxury not to think, but simply to drive and listen to people ranting and raving about politics.
When I hit the elevated roadway on the Bruckner and the skyline of New York swings into view, I remember how terribly excited I had been driving in to Verity's office that first time. The memory makes me sad. I feel sad about the turn the article has taken, but in the scheme of things, Cassy's problems pale next to the possibility that someone might have killed my father.
My throat tightens as I think of the funeral, and I think of Mother and of Rob.
Rob. At some point, I should call him. He should be here if and when things break.
Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5) Page 31
