Room for Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  “He said he left a message on your cell. He’s all excited. His dad wants to buy him a car.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I checked my cell phone for messages. Tyler had called. One of the station’s weekend reporters was down with a bad case of laryngitis and Tyler needed me to fill in.

  “I’d do it myself, Carol, but I have a dinner scheduled. See you at four.”

  With an eye on the clock, I spent the morning working with Misty on her new herb garden. Doing my best to smooth over any ill feelings she had about my comments concerning her driving. Like a sous chef, I followed along, handing Misty the small herbs while she tucked them neatly into the ground.

  Finally, around one o’clock, relieved that Chase hadn’t shown up, I excused myself to get ready for work. I had some prep work I wanted to do for tomorrow’s show, and I had no intention of making myself available if he did show up. As far as Misty’s arbor went, I planned to discourage that idea. Maybe not right now, particularly after she had reacted so sensitively to my concern about her driving. But later I planned to tell her, I’d cooled to the idea. That I thought Chase might be using her to get to me so that he could pitch himself or any of his ideas for my show. I didn’t need his input, and I definitely didn’t want him seeding my audience with the likes of Mustang Sally or anyone else like her. Tomorrow night’s show was going to be on my terms.

  Trouble was, I needed something gritty. Something that hadn’t already been talked to death and that my listeners could get their teeth into. I had several ideas, but nothing that really grabbed me. I was still mentally sorting through them as I pulled out of the garage and nosed into the street. Just as I was about to put my foot on the accelerator, a late model candy red Corvette pulled up directly in front of me. I stomped on the brake. My notebook, bag, and phone flying onto the floor beneath my feet. Directly in front of my Jeep, just inches from my front bumper, was my ex’s car. And behind the wheel was my son. Putting the Jeep in park, I got out, slammed the door behind me, and screamed at my ex.

  “What are you doing here?” I glared at him, glanced back at Charlie behind the wheel, then with as much control as I could muster, asked, “And why is Charlie driving your car?”

  Robert put his hands up and grinned. Then shook his head like he had just been caught trying to sneak one by the goalie.

  “We just came by to pick up a few things Charlie forgot for school. You weren’t supposed to see.”

  “Not supposed to see? Did you see how close he was to the curb? Any closer and I would have broadsided you. Were you even watching?”

  Robert and I squared off in front of his car, my hands on my hips while Charlie sank down behind the wheel like a prairie dog diving for cover. When it came to the kids, I was like a mother lion, protecting her brood. If I didn’t like something, my reactions were more visceral than rational. Legally there was no reason Robert couldn’t let Charlie drive. He had his driver’s permit. The truth was, I just didn’t like it. I had reported on too many teenage accidents to be comfortable with the idea of my son behind the wheel of my ex’s high-performance sports car, particularly on California’s freeways. It frightened me, and Robert knew how I felt. And, as far as I was concerned, my ex only wanted Charlie to get his license so he could avoid the back and forth commute between my home in Sherman Oaks and his place twenty miles north of me in Santa Clarita.

  I was about to lash out with a second round of what I thought about the situation when a large black SUV pulled up in front of Misty’s van and parked. With a coffee cup in one hand and a sucker in his mouth, Chase got out and nodded to me, then reached back into the car to retrieve a tool box.

  “You expecting company?” Robert asked.

  I shook my head. Aside from the toolbox, Chase looked like he was here for a social visit. He was dressed in jeans and a freshly pressed, blue chambray shirt, and it looked like he had even trimmed his beard. How could I explain? “He’s a friend of Misty’s.”

  Robert’s eyes shifted from the SUV to Misty’s van. With its macramé curtains, peace symbols, and multi-colored flowers painted on its sides, it was like a neon sign. Hard to miss.

  “Charlie tells me she’s living here now. She’s in the guest bedroom.”

  Robert was never wild about Misty. He didn’t care for the whole Psychic to the Stars, clairvoyant thing, and I knew he was suspicious of her so-called magic potions. If he had any idea I had spent the afternoon helping her plant an herb garden, I would never hear the end of it.

  “She’s retired,” I said, “and she was in need of a roof over her head. I offered to let her stay here until she found something suitable.”

  “Always the rescuer, aren’t you, Carol?”

  I bit my lip and smiled disingenuously. It was best we ended our conversation on a respectful note before things got any more heated. I suggested Charlie run inside and get whatever it was he had forgotten.

  “I’m sure your dad wants to get home in time for dinner.” Then to Robert, I said, “I know how Stephie worries.”

  Robert’s much younger wife, Stephie, kept tabs on him. I suspected she never quite trusted him, which was foolish on her part. When Rob and I married, we were kids, barely out of high school. I couldn’t fault either of us for growing up or growing apart. It just happened.

  After Charlie and his dad had left, I went back inside the house. I wanted to make certain Charlie hadn’t forgotten anything he might need for school. Plus, I told myself I ought to at least see whatever plans Misty had Chase drawing up for my arbor. That was until I walked into the kitchen.

  The French doors were open. Chase was leaning with his back against the counter, looking out onto the patio, his long legs extended before him. In his lap was a pad of paper. He appeared to be sketching something and stopped when he saw me.

  “Carol, you have a minute?”

  “If this is about the show, I—”

  “Actually, it’s about the arbor Misty wants, but I may have something with regard to the show as well. That is if you’re interested.”

  I felt the muscles in my back stiffen. So this was about my show. Another excuse to pitch me an idea to secure time on the air. Worse yet, he was using Misty, exactly as I suspected. I wasn’t going to give him a chance to say anything.

  “Thing is, Chase, I really don’t think now’s the time. Misty’s busy with the garden, and an arbor really isn’t what I’m looking to do right now. Sorry,” I said dismissively. “I just came back in to make sure Charlie got everything he needed for school and to get my phone.”

  Chase glanced down at my hand. “You mean that thing in your hand?”

  I shook my head and pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear as though I had misspoken. “Did I say phone? I meant my notepad. I was taking notes and left it on the counter.” I reached for a blank notepad I kept by the phone and started to leave.

  “Well, just in case. You remember that runaway mom last week? During the big bowl game? Her husband didn’t report her missing until he was ready to go to bed and realized she was gone?”

  I stopped, my hand on the door handle. He had my attention.

  “She’s back. No harm, no foul. I spent the morning with a bunch of detectives who’d been working the case. The woman said she just needed a break. Got tired of hubby sitting around in front of the TV all weekend, drinking beer and eating chips, and walked out. Said she didn’t think he’d even notice.”

  I nearly laughed out loud. “Runaway Mom, huh? That’s perfect.”

  I thanked Chase for the tip and opened the door.

  “No problem. But just so you know, I’ll be listening, just in case our Mustang Sally calls. But don’t worry. I won’t call. I promise.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Chase’s lead concerning the runaway mom was a godsend. The press hadn’t given Heidi Graham’s disappearance a lot of coverage. The story had amounted t
o little more than two inches in the metro section of the LA Times. Not unusual for a city of eleven million people, particularly when there was no body, and the investigators didn’t believe the circumstances suggested foul play. Added to the fact was Ms. Graham’s vanishing act had coincided with an unusually busy news day, and her story was lost in the mix. Bad news for the Graham family, good news for me. Ms. Graham’s disappearance, and now her sudden reappearance, was exactly the type of story I needed for my show.

  Women, whether they could relate to the young mother’s frustration or not, were flooding the call lines. Some had a thing or two to say about Heidi. How could she leave her husband? Her home? Or her kids? Others wanted to vent their own frustrations with their own inattentive husbands.

  The show was going great. I could feel the listeners with me and started to relax. At the commercial break, I told my producer I was going to grab a coffee. As I headed for the employee’s lounge my cell phone buzzed. Caller ID flashed Chase’s name on the screen.

  “I thought you weren’t going to call—”

  “Marcus Reddings is dead.”

  “What?” I pressed the phone close to my ear and sprinted towards the newsroom. If Marcus Reddings was dead, this was big. Reddings was the former owner of the LA Stars, one of Los Angeles’ premier basketball franchises, and a successful real estate mogul. At nearly seventy-six years old, he was rumored to be one of LA’s wealthiest businessmen.

  I checked the newswire. My fingers were shaking so badly, I could barely strike the right keys. There was nothing. Across the room, the police scanner sat silent. “How do you know?”

  “His wife called. I’ve done surveillance work for her. Most of it on him.”

  I knew the Reddings were in the midst of a messy divorce. Pictures of Marcus Reddings with a scantily clad young woman were splashed on the covers of every tabloid in town, some with a smaller inset of his wife sitting alone in their Bel Air mansion. The photos had all been retouched to make her appear old and haggard.

  “She’s afraid, because of the divorce and all his public philanderings, the police will think she did it.”

  “What happened?”

  “He took a header off the top of the Wilshire Oceana. His girlfriend has an apartment in the building. Supposedly, she’s out of town, and the cops are saying it looks like a suicide. But I don’t think so.”

  “You think she did it?”

  “The girlfriend? Can’t say. However, that’s not the reason I called. Ms. Reddings wants to talk. She wants to tell the world what’s really been going on inside their marriage. She was about to pick up the phone and call one of your competitors when I suggested a better idea.”

  “You told her about my show?”

  “I did.”

  “And she’d be willing to talk about her husband? Tonight? After all that’s just happened?”

  “Andrea Reddings has got a lot to say. Particularly about her husband’s lover, Ava Yablonski. She thinks she killed him.”

  “I thought you said his girlfriend wasn’t in town.”

  “That’s the point, Carol. Andrea’s convinced Ava set it up. And if she’s right, wouldn’t hurt if you pursued that line of questioning with her. Could work in our favor.”

  “Our favor?”

  “Think about it. Contract killings? Bruno’s death. Mustang Sally. Not that it’s tied together, but if Sally’s listening, it might get her to call.”

  I felt like someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water on me. I should have known Chase had an ulterior motive.

  “I can’t even tell you on how many levels that would be wrong. Ava Yablonski’s not a public figure. I can’t allow Andrea Reddings to call her out on charges of murder without getting us all in trouble. We’d be sued, and—”

  “And if Sally’s listening, it’s exactly the type of story she’d call in about.”

  “That’s why you told her to talk to me, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But if you’re not interested—”

  “No. I am. Absolutely.” I answered without thinking twice about it. Regardless of Chase’s motive, the prospect of interviewing Andrea Reddings was worth any misgivings I had about Mustang Sally. The Reddings had been in the news for years: their contentious divorce, his philandering, the recent sale of the LA Stars, her charitable donations, all of them big stories on their own. But despite their fame and notoriety, nobody had been able to get them to do a sit-down interview about their personal lives. If I could get Andrea Reddings to talk, this could be a big win for the station and me as a reporter. The fact that I had Ms. Reddings on the air, that she was calling me and no other reporter in town, was pure gold and worth the risk.

  “I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  I couldn’t remember a time when felt so nervous about an interview. I could feel myself sweating. I was glad Tyler had decided to never go with cameras in the studio. A lot of radio stations had, but Tyler felt cameras were a distraction, making the studio look like nothing more than a poorly directed TV show with talking heads. I glanced up at the studio’s digital clock: 11:37:22. The second timer was flashing slower than the beating of my heart. What if Andrea Reddings didn’t call? What if Chase wasn’t right? What if this was just another of his crazy conspiracy theories? I must have entertained a dozen worrisome thoughts before I heard the phone ring. Matt picked up the line.

  “Carol, it’s Andrea Reddings. Want me to transfer it to you on the inside line?”

  I nodded and picked up the small black receiver beneath the console. A line reserved for private calls, not those intended to be broadcast. I had never met Andrea Reddings in person. Except for the recent tabloid photos, every other picture I’d seen of her was the same. Her perfectly coiffed silver-gray hair, her stately attire, and rigidly straight posture were like royalty. I felt as though I had an image of her sitting in the studio with me.

  “Ms. Reddings, thank you for calling. I’m sorry for your—”

  “Please, Ms. Childs, spare me. If you’re about to say you’re sorry for my loss, I think we both know I’m hardly prepared to play the role of the bereaved widow.”

  Her voice was flat and void of any feeling, as though she was already bored by her own commentary. I wondered if this was her way of masking emotion.

  “All the same,” I said. “I’m sure this has come as quite a shock.”

  “The shock, Ms. Childs, is not that my husband is dead, but that he was pushed to his death from the balcony of Ava Yablonski’s apartment less than two hours ago.”

  “Pushed? Ms. Reddings, I’m sure you’re aware LAPD hasn’t released any—”

  “Hold your tongue, child. I’m well aware of what LAPD is prepared to say or not say. And if you’re about to caution me on what I can and can’t speak about, let me tell you, this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  “It’s just I need to warn you about making any kind of statement in a moment of grief that might be libelous.”

  “Sweetheart, I’ve been around the block a time or two. I know exactly what I’m doing. Like I told Chase, I want to get out in front of this story before everyone in LA thinks it was me who killed my husband. There’re a lot of people in town who are going to assume such.”

  Matt signaled me. I had thirty seconds. I asked Ms. Reddings to hold while Matt transferred the call to a broadcast line.

  “Welcome back to The Soap Box. This is Carol Childs, but before we begin, I want to say we’ve just received some shocking news. A few moments ago, I received a call here in the studio that Marcus Reddings, the former owner of the LA Stars, has died. His body was found earlier this evening outside the Wilshire Oceana, an apartment building he owned on the Wilshire corridor. Police have yet to release any information regarding the cause of Mr. Reddings’ death, but his wife, Andrea, has asked to be with us tonight. I have her on the phone with me now. Andrea.”
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br />   In a slow, modulated voice, as though she was reading from a prepared script, Ms. Reddings began.

  “Thank you, Carol. I realize my call may sound unusual to those listening, particularly considering the circumstances, but then what about my life with Marcus hasn’t been?” Andrea paused, took a beat then continued. “Around nine o’clock this evening, I received a call from LAPD informing me that Marcus appeared to have fallen from the balcony apartment of the Oceana where he had gone to visit a friend. I’d like to go on record right now saying I don’t believe Marcus’ death was accidental or that this was a suicide. I believe my husband was pushed and that investigators will find he was murdered. And I want the person who killed him to know I intend to prove it.”

  “However, at this moment, Ms. Reddings, the police have said nothing to indicate there was any foul play or—”

  “The foul play, Ms. Childs, was my husband’s flagrant womanizing. It’s been going on throughout my marriage. I would have had to be blind not to notice. But the idea that he would take his own life is preposterous. He’d no more kill himself than empty our bank accounts. The man loved life. He was full of it. He wasn’t about to commit suicide. I’m not saying the young woman whose apartment he allegedly jumped from is personally involved. The police tell me she wasn’t there. But we all know Marcus had enemies, and contract killings don’t just happen in the movies.”

  “Are you saying you think someone was hired to—”

  “I’m saying, Carol, that Marcus didn’t kill himself.”

  I paused. On the computer screen in front of me, I had pulled up a string of stories about Marcus Reddings and the sale of the LA Stars. It had been a contentious sale that dragged out for months.

  “There have been several stories in the paper quoting that you were frustrated with the recent sale of the team, and the two of you were separated and had filed for divorce. Perhaps—”