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

by Laura Van Wormer

  "About me? Absolutely," he says eagerly. He reaches his hand across the table in a gesture asking for mine.

  I am a push­over for this man. I give him my hand.

  "My love," he says quietly, "I promised someone I'd talk to you about your article."

  "What article?" I say, stiffening slightly.

  "Your piece on Cassy Cochran."

  I withdraw my hand. "You still haven't explained what Ver­ity was doing at your apartment last night at midnight."

  "It wasn't Verity," he says. "It was Jessica Wright."

  "Jessica Wright? The talk-show lady? What the hell was she doing there?"

  "Asking about you," he says, signaling the waiter for a check.

  42

  While we stand outside the Park Avenue Cafe, Spencer says, "I told you before, we published Jessica's autobiography last year. That's how I know her."

  "I don't buy it," I say sharply. "Kate Weston edited her bi­ography, and that's hardly grounds for Jessica showing up at your apartment at midnight to talk to you."

  "Okay, fine," he says, bowing slightly as he takes a few steps back. Then he comes back to me. "We slept together, years ago, when she first came to New York. The very first month she was here, as a matter of fact."

  "You slept with her?" I say, amazed. I throw my hands up. "What is this, happy hands at home? There're fifty people in this city and you're all sleeping with each other!"

  "There might be something to that," he says philosophically.

  Now I take a step back to screech, "I can't believe you! Who haven’t you slept with?"

  A man, passing by on the sidewalk, laughs out loud.

  "There is only one person I've slept with since I met you," Spencer says, following me as I keep backing away. "There is only one person I ever want to sleep with again."

  "Ha!" I cry. Just then my back meets the wall of the building. I'm trapped. I'm also furious because it reminds me of that first night I met Spencer.

  "Okay," I say, holding my hands up, "just back off a little." He complies. I'm losing steam rapidly because my curiosity is now getting the better of me. "So what did Jessica want?"

  "She wanted to know if there was anything she could do to buy you off the Cochran piece."

  I am floored. "Bought off? You mean like a bribe?"

  He doesn't answer and I interpret this as a yes.

  "Why?"

  Spencer looks around to make sure no one's listening. "In one of your interviews, and she wouldn't say with whom, you evidently said something that makes Jessica suspect you're about to sandbag Cassy."

  " And?"

  "And Jessica thinks you'd be hurting a lot of people."

  "Did she say what it is that's she's so afraid I'm going to write about?"

  "No." He draws closer again and I let him. "I told her you weren't like that, that you wouldn't do a hatchet job."

  "And what did she say to that?"

  "She said I should consider the person who assigned the piece, and then tell you that Verity would like to see Cassy get it."

  I'm puzzled. "Verity?"

  "Well, Verity's husband."

  "Corbett. Why would Corbett want to see Cassy 'get it,' as you say?"

  "Because he hates Jackson Darenbrook with every bone in his body."

  I rest the back of my head against the building, looking up at the sky.

  Suddenly this whole assignment is making more sense. Why it was given to me. Because Verity wanted to offer the "oppor­tunity of a lifetime" to an out-of-town novice who had no ties in the city, someone with no connection to the vast network of people in the communications industry who practically revere Cassy Cochran. Someone who might do anything to make a name for herself.

  Of course Jackson Darenbrook wouldn't care what anybody wrote about him—they've written everything under the sun about him already, anyway—but he would care if Cassy was publicly exposed in some way. Perhaps he'd even be devastated if Cassy had not told him about her affair.

  The nameless interviewee who is suspicious has to be Alex­andra Waring, of course. Jessica Wright's best friend. She must have sent Jessica on this mission to find out if there was anything they could offer me to stop the exposé.

  "Sally?" I lower my head. Then I lean forward and kiss Spencer lightly, once, on the lips. "Thank you," I murmur. I kiss his cheek and then move away, pulling my bag open to find my cell phone and address book.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Hang on," I tell him, looking for Cassy's home number. I dial her number, hoping against hope. When I hear her voice I feel a surge of relief. "Cassy, it's Sally Harrington. I'm sorry to bother you again, but it's extremely important I see you. Right now."

  "Sally, I just can't," she says.

  "You have to," I say. "Honest to God, Cassy, it's so very im­portant. It has to do with your personal life."

  Silence.

  "It's regarding a relationship you had in the past."

  "All right," she says then. "I'll fix it somehow. Come here. Now. Riverside and Eighty-Eighth Street, number 162. I'll tell the doorman to send you up."

  I fold up the phone and stuff it back into my bag. "Get me a cab, will you?"

  "Yeah, sure," he says, backing up to the corner and holding up his hand. "Do you want me to come with you?"

  "No." I'm trying to think. I've got to go back to the hotel be­fore going uptown to Cassy's. "I'll call you as soon as I'm through."

  "Promise?"

  "Yes." A cab pulls over and Spencer holds the door for me. I tell him not to worry.

  This is not going to work out well for me, I know that al­ready. As I ride up in a second cab, from my hotel to Riverside Drive, I realize the hardest part will be to keep my anger in check. There is a vindictive streak in me that is simmering dan­gerously close to the surface.

  I could throttle Verity.

  She chose me out of hundreds of writers for two simple rea­sons: my writing passed and my backwater career, she as­sumed, would make me an ethical retard and hungry for rec­ognition.

  The doorman at 162 Riverside Drive greets me by name and escorts me to the elevator. I go up to the top floor and although there are four different doors, only one is clearly marked as the one to approach. The whole floor, I remember from Henry's de­scription, is now the Cochran-Darenbrook penthouse. When I ring the doorbell, however, Cassy opens the door behind me and quietly says hello.

  She backs up to let me in. We are standing in a foyer that is lined from floor to ceiling with books.

  Cassy is dressed in a black silk dress, heels and pearls. Clearly she had been prepar­ing to go out.

  "We can go in here," she says in that same quiet voice, showing me into a casual living room. She directs me to the love seat in front of the massive window that overlooks Riv­erside Park and the Hudson River. I sit down, sinking into the pillows. She sits on the edge of the chair next to me, crosses her legs and neatly folds her hands on her knee. When a single gold bangle slides down to her wrist, I realize that she is nervous and is desperately trying to control it.

  "Well?" she says simply.

  "Verity gave me this," I say, pulling the manila envelope out of my bag. "I have no idea how she got it." I hold the envelope out to her, but she doesn't take it. She only looks at it.

  "It appears to be a personal journal you kept," I explain.

  Cassy's eyebrows go up slightly in surprise. "I've had sev­eral."

  I'm still holding the package. "I believe this is the first. The one you kept between the time Michael left home and when he went into rehab."

  "Oh," she says softly, her head falling forward slightly.

  I place the envelope on the coffee table and leave it there. "Verity gave it to me."

  Cassy looks up.

  "She wants me to reveal both the affair and the identity of your lover."

  Cassy looks as though she might be trying not to throw up.

  "I will not do either one," I tell her.

  She nods slightly,
eyes moving past me to the window. "Thank you." A moment later she says, "But what would stop Verity from—“

  "I will." I say it so forcefully Cassy appears startled. "She won't do squat when I'm through with her," I say through clenched teeth.

  "Sally," she begins.

  "Don't worry about it," I say, standing up. "I know what I'm doing. That's why I'm here. To give you back your property and tell you what's up. And also to tell you not to worry. I just apologize for not coming to you the minute I knew she wasn’t on the up-and-up."

  Cassy follows me as I make my way back to the door in the foyer. "I'm not clear on how you will deal with Verity."

  I turn around. "Let's just call it a little exposé of her own."

  She shakes her head. "Be careful, Sally. Please."

  "I'm out of this industry, anyway," I say. "It's not any nicer than I remember it being in L.A. Alexandra's right. You can re­port the news, or you can try and make news. And there is a vast difference between the two."

  "That's very true," Cassy says quietly. "You'll do well, Sally. At whatever you choose."

  I open the door to go and then close it again. "One thing." I turn to look at her. "What is it between your husband and Cor­bett Schroeder?"

  She crosses her arms over her chest. "About twenty years ago—"

  "Twenty years ago!" I cry.

  She nods. "No joke. About twenty years ago, Corbett said something to Jackson's first wife, Barbara, that Jack didn't like. They were at a black-tie event in the grand ballroom of the Ho­tel Royale in Dallas. And so Jack got mad... " She's starting to smile. "And he picked Corbett up and he threw him over a pas­try table into the reflecting pool. One of the photographers at the party got the shot and all the wire services picked it up."

  I wait a beat. "And that's it? That's the source of the big feud?"

  "That's it," she nods, smiling.

  I'm smiling and shaking my head, no doubt thinking the same thing, Men are weird.

  When I get back to my hotel I call Spencer. "The deal is," I say, "we do not talk about anything—no Verity, no article, no boyfriends, no girlfriends, nothing! No booze, no weirdness. Just come over and we'll order some cheeseburgers and ice cream and watch a movie. That's the deal and no negotiation, it's my last hurrah of hotel life and I'm inviting you to share it."

  "I'm there," he says. And he was.

  43

  Doris Black comes out into the reception area shortly after nine in the morning. "We weren't expecting you, Sally," she says, half scolding me, "and I'm afraid Verity is tied up in a meet­ing."

  "I'll wait until she's through, then," I say, sitting back down on the couch and picking up my book.

  "I'm afraid that's not possible. In fact, it's impossible this morning."

  "I'll tell you what," I say, ripping off a piece of my bookmark and scribbling a word on it. "Why don't you pass this to Verity and see if she'll see me after all?"

  Doris frowns at me and doesn't dare open the note I've folded in my presence. I know she will as soon as she is around the comer.

  In less than two minutes, Doris is back, motioning me to fol­low her. She is ticked but politely silent. She opens a door for me and tells me to go in, Verity will be there in a moment.

  I am standing in a small conference room. Moments later, the door swings open and Verity comes in, closing it firmly behind her. She shifts her weight to one foot and crosses her arms. "What is this?" she says, holding my note in her fingertips.

  I had simply written Spencer.

  "I'm here about you setting me up to hurt Jackson Darenbrook— by sandbagging Cassy."

  "What are you talking about?" she says irritably. "You're writing about her life. The truth about her life. What's the problem?" She nar­rows her eyes. "Scared of the big, bad anchorwoman, perhaps? The scorned lover?"

  I narrow my eyes, too. "Aren't you the least bit worried about being prosecuted for theft? How else could you get your hands on her journal?”

  "I want to know what this note is about," she coldly de­mands, thrusting it toward me.

  "It's about telling Corbett that you've been screwing Spencer Hawes for over two years," I say. "Unless, that is, you drop this whole exposé on Cassy Cochran."

  Verity swallows. "I cannot publish some cream-puff piece in Expectations," she says, braving it out in a slightly nasal tone of voice. "I know you think you're the greatest thing since Nellie Bly, Sally, but frankly, we don't."

  Oh, shove it, Verity! I want to say. But I'm the new and im­proved adult version of Sally Harrington, so for Mother's sake I won't. "I was going to suggest you just run a photo essay," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "I'll send you material you can pull captions from."

  "I know you speak from unparalleled experience in world­-class journalism," she says sarcastically, ''but—''

  "And you're going to get the Pulitzer Prize." I walk over to the table. "Here's a check made out to Expectations for five thou­sand dollars," I say, tossing my personal check on the table. "Here is your credit card." I drop the six pieces I had cut the card into. "And here is another check for the two thousand-four hundred and eleven dollars of expenses I've charged on it to date."

  I toss this second check on the table, too. (She doesn't have to know that I've borrowed over four thou­sand dollars on my credit cards this morning to make these checks possible.)

  "How terribly virtuous of you," Verity says. "But when you cool off, I don't want you coming back to blackmail me. Take the kill fee at least, the five thousand."

  "No, thank you," I say. "There is only one thing I want and it's not money." She glares at me, curious, though. "I want Spencer. And I want you to leave him alone."

  If there were a breeze, I do believe it would blow Verity over.

  "You little country tramp," she whispers, her lip starting to curl. "So you have been fucking him." With that, Verity throws her head back and laughs. "Oh, my dear, really," she says, sud­denly fleeing to the door, "you can have him."

  I stop myself from following her so I can make some final nasty remark. But then I remember that I am now out of it, out of the slag track, as glamorously enticing as it may be.

  44

  While waiting for the hotel car valet to bring the Jeep around, I call Mother to tell her I'm coming home.

  "So you'll be wanting Scotty," she says.

  "Yes."

  "That's all right, then. Mack and I were just leaving to go up­state. For a hike and a picnic. So we'll just drop Scotty off on our way."

  "That would be great, thank you."

  "All right, sweetheart," she laughs. “And how are things? Is the piece finished?"

  "Oh, yeah, the piece is finished," I say, thinking there's no reason to worry Mother about it now. "I'm going back to the paper on Monday."

  On my way out of Manhattan, I start reviewing the complete and total disaster that currently reflects my finances.

  My cell phone's ringing and I pick it up. "Hello?"

  "Sally!" Spencer says. "Are you all right? What the hell hap­pened between you and Verity?"

  "Oh, she's called you, has she? What did she say?"

  "That I'm lousy in bed, a juvenile delinquent, and to stay the hell away from her."

  I burst out laughing.

  "What the hell's going on?"

  "I'm going home, Spencer, and you can't talk me out of it. I'm not coming back in for a while. This city makes me sick."

  "Then I'm coming out there," he says.

  "Do what you like," I say. "But you should bring Seela. You leave her alone too much."

  He pauses. "I love you, Sally Harrington."

  I wish he wouldn't say that.

  By the time I am nearing Castleford, I have decided that if I think about my finances anymore I will shoot myself. Now that I don't have the article to write, I decide I might as well bail out. I stop at the grocery store to load up on supplies and then hit Blockbuster for movies.

  When I swing outside the cottage, I notic
e that Mr. Quimby hasn't mowed the grass. I also notice I haven't weeded or wa­tered anything for a month and the gardens look like hell.

  Well, these are things I can do between videos. I lug my bags and the groceries and videos up to the front door and unlock the door. No Scotty. I guess Mother's gotten hung up. I drag my bags in­side and freeze. The living room and office have been ran­sacked. I slowly put the groceries down and walk over to the telephone to call the police.

  "Don't move," a deep male voice says from behind me. There is something sharp pressing on my spine and I assume it is a knife.

  "I'm not moving," I say.

  "I want the book," he says. "The brown leather book. Where is it?"

  "Oh, a friend of Verity's," I sigh, turning around. He grabs my neck and yanks me back into position, facing away from him. The guy must be huge; his hand is almost all the way around my neck.

  "Where is it?"

  "I don't have it anymore," I say. "It's back with the owner in New York City."

  "I will kill your dog."

  "My dog?" I say, twisting around. He is huge and has a stocking pulled over his head.

  He yanks me back around again. "Where is it? I'll kill that dog, I swear I will."

  "I don't have it anymore, I told you. Where is my dog?"

  "Get the book," he growls.

  "I don't have it," I cry, losing it. "Goddamn it, where is my dog?" I jerk away from him and get enough leverage to shove him back. Then I pick up my dictionary and hurl it at his face and dart around him to get to the kitchen, where I close and lock the swinging door. He easily smashes the door open, but I've grabbed a meat cleaver in one hand and a carving knife in the other, and this gives him pause for thought. But then I see Scotty lying motionless outside in the backyard and I run out.

  "Scotty!" I yell, running to him. He doesn't move. I drop down and put the side of my face against his ribs. He is breathing but something is very wrong with him. A hand grabs my hair and violently yanks my head back, making me cry out in pain.

  "Get the book and I'm out of here," he growls.