When Day Breaks

by Mary Jane Clark

  Eliza found herself defending him. “Mack and I had a good thing going. I enjoyed being with him. He’s smart and sensitive and fun to be with.”

  “And he couldn’t keep it in his pants,” Doris continued for Eliza.

  “I know,” said Eliza. “I know. But is a drunken one-night stand, when one of you is in a foreign country feeling alone and sad, enough to negate an entire relationship? Is one mistake enough to sink everything that we had together, everything we could have together?” asked Eliza.

  “I guess you have to answer that for yourself,” said Doris. “But be careful and quit frowning, will you? It’s not good for your face.”

  CHAPTER 16

  By two o’clock scores of visitors had gathered in the large hall at the Cloisters, listening to the explanation of the giant woven masterpieces on the walls.

  “These hangings are a mystery,” explained Rowena to the people who stared up at the seven enormous tapestries depicting the hunt of the fabled unicorn. “We aren’t certain who commissioned these weavings, nor do we know why this extraordinary set was produced. What we are fairly certain about is that these rich hangings, shining with brilliant silks, wools, gold, and silver, were woven in the Netherlands and the costumes of the men and women featured in the tapestries establish the time of the design to be around the year 1500.”

  Rowena paused and cleared her throat.

  “In no other work of art has the symbolic pursuit and killing of the unicorn been presented in such astonishing detail,” she continued. “The history of the unicorn is complex and varied. The idea of a creature with a single horn growing from the center of its head is an ancient one; sculpted figures of such beasts have survived from as early as the eighth century B.C. The unicorn continued its mythical evolution through the Holy Roman Empire, coming to be considered a representation of Christ and the implied twin virtues of strength and purity—might and right. But even as the unicorn came to symbolize earthly and heavenly love, it also came to signify death and violence.”

  Slowly Rowena traveled, in her thick-soled walking shoes, from tapestry to tapestry, pointing out the vulnerable unicorn in various stages of the hunt. Found, fleeing, fighting to stay free, and then killed and brought to the castle. She pointed out the individualized faces of the hunters and the naturally and accurately depicted flora and fauna that formed a dominant part of the setting of each piece.

  “What about the unicorn’s horn?” a man asked. “Wasn’t that supposed to have mystical powers?”

  “Yes,” said Rowena. “The unicorn was believed to have many practical applications for humanity, most of which revolved around its magical horn. Legends arose about the unicorn’s ability to purify poisoned water, to cure impotent men and barren women of their afflictions, and to prevent plague, epilepsy, and a host of other diseases.”

  Rowena gave the visitors an opportunity to study each of the tapestries before concluding her talk. Having taken the time to answer a few individuals who came up to her afterward to ask questions, Rowena left the hall and made her way through a labyrinth of corridors until she got to the large back storeroom where the most important items were housed for the special exhibition devoted entirely to the Camelot legend. It had been years in the planning and was set to open next week.

  All the items in the room sat in their respective cases or crates, awaiting their final placement in the exhibit hall. Every artifact would have its own distinctive placard describing what it was and giving a short explanatory history of its provenance.

  The ivory unicorn with the golden crown that King Arthur was thought to have given Lady Guinevere was to be the highlight of the exhibit. Its image was the focus of all the brochures and banners that heralded the show. Unicorn-inspired stationery, scarves, jewelry, books, and games were being stocked in the museum gift shop. But, more important, the love story—the legendary love triangle involving Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot—had intrigued and fascinated countless people over the centuries, and the Cloisters was counting on that magic to attract throngs through its doors.

  With just a few days to go until the debut of the exhibit, Rowena opened the box. She searched intently, then desperately, through the special batting. The unicorn wasn’t there.

  As she walked to her small office, Rowena tried to stay calm. She was uncertain about what she should do first. Should she call security or the police and alert them that the amulet was missing? If she did that, the story would be out of her hands. There could be a lot of negative publicity, and Rowena very much wanted to avoid that. Scandal wouldn’t be good for the museum.

  Stuart Whitaker was one of their largest donors. Rowena herself had arranged the private tour for him and Constance Young while the exhibit was being constructed. Maybe there was some misunderstanding that could be cleared up and rectified without bringing law enforcement into it. That would be better for everyone involved.

  Rowena made up her mind. She went to her small office, closed the door, and found Stuart’s number in her Rolodex. The phone rang half a dozen times, and Rowena was about to hang up when Stuart answered.

  “Hello?” his voice sounded raspy.

  “Yes. This is Rowena Quincy from the Cloisters. Is this Mr. Whitaker?”

  “Yes, it is.” There was no note of recognition in his voice.

  “I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Whitaker. You asked me to set up a private tour for you a few months ago.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence before Stuart replied. “Oh, yes, I remember you, Ms. Quincy. Thank you. We had a lovely tour.”

  “I’m so glad, Mr. Whitaker. I wish you had allowed me to escort you around myself.”

  “That is very kind of you, Ms. Quincy, but as you know, I did not need a docent, because I know a fair amount about the Cloisters myself.”

  “Of course you do,” said Rowena.

  “Providing a guard to take us to the areas closed to the public was more than enough. You were very gracious.”

  “Again, it was my pleasure, Mr. Whitaker.”

  Stuart waited for her to continue.

  “This is very awkward, Mr. Whitaker. I’m not quite sure how to bring this up.”

  “Why not just say whatever it is you have to say?” Stuart suggested quietly.

  “Well, I remember that Constance Young was with you then, Mr. Whitaker. In fact, after that, Miss Young agreed to be the mistress of ceremonies for our Camelot Exhibit preview and reception Wednesday night. But in the newspaper this morning, I saw a picture of her taken yesterday, and she was wearing what appeared to be a carved ivory unicorn that we had procured for our upcoming exhibition.”

  “Yes?”

  “I checked, and the ivory unicorn is no longer in its case here, Mr. Whitaker.”

  “And your point is…?”

  “My point is, I thought I would confer with you before I did anything else.”

  “What are you suggesting, Ms. Quincy?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Whitaker. I was just letting you know, in case…” Her voice trailed off.

  “In case what?”

  “In case you might know what happened to it.”

  “Why would I know that?” asked Stuart.

  “It’s just that I didn’t want to go to the authorities…in case there was a reasonable explanation,” said Rowena.

  “How can you be sure the unicorn you saw Constance wearing in the picture came from the Cloisters?”

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Whitaker. But I do know the unicorn that should be here is missing.”

  “Don’t tell me you think Constance Young obtained the unicorn illegally.”

  “I don’t want to think that, Mr. Whitaker. Believe me.”

  Stuart’s voice rose in anger. “To suggest that Constance Young would steal something is an outrage.”

  Rowena ran her free hand through her mousy brown hair. “No, no, no, Mr. Whitaker. I’m not suggesting that she stole it. Of course not.”

  “You had better not be,
Ms. Quincy.” Stuart warned. “It is wrong to speak ill of the dead.”

  Rowena recoiled. “What do you mean?”

  “You have not heard?”

  “Heard what?” asked Rowena.

  “Turn on the radio or CNN. Constance Young is no longer with us, and you will have to find someone else to host your reception Wednesday night.”

  CHAPTER 17

  What’s worse? Faith wondered. Would it be worse to have Mother lucid and heartbroken when she heard the news of her daughter’s death? Or would it be worse to break the news to a childlike, uncomprehending shell of a woman and watch her show no reaction at all?

  Faith sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap at the kitchen table. Her husband slid a mug of tea in front of her.

  “I’m not sure how she’ll take it,” Faith said. “I could use some moral support, Todd, when I go in there to tell her.”

  Todd glanced at his watch.

  “Please don’t tell me that you’re still thinking you can get your golf game in, Todd. Not today.”

  “Your mother is sleeping, Faith. What should we do? Wake her up to tell her the bad news?”

  “No, but when she wakes up on her own, I think we have to tell her then.” Faith took a cautious sip of the scalding tea.

  Todd leaned against the Formica counter and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t see where a couple of hours one way or the other makes any difference. When we tell her is not going to change anything.”

  “My sister is dead, Todd, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you skip your Saturday golf game.”

  “It relaxes me, Faith. And let’s be honest here, shall we? There was no love lost between you and Constance.”

  Faith looked at her husband. “That was a cruel thing to say.”

  Todd shrugged. “I’m only calling a spade a spade, Faith.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Todd. You’re only trying to justify leaving to play golf.” Picking up her mug, Faith rose and walked down the small corridor that led to her mother’s room. As she stood in the doorway, watching her mother sleep, Faith heard the door to the garage open and close. She fumed as she listened to the sound of the car engine turning over.

  Faith walked back to the kitchen and opened a bag of cookies. With tears of frustration in her eyes, she found herself speculating about Constance’s will. Her sister’s estate had to be quite substantial. On so many levels, having all that money would be so freeing.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jason Vaughan sat on his couch staring at the television set, waiting for any scrap of new information about the death of Constance Young. The CNN anchor was recycling the same information over and over, just telling it in different ways. An employee had found Constance’s body in the swimming pool of her weekend home in Westchester County. There was no obvious sign of foul play, yet there was already speculation that the death might not have been an accident. An autopsy would be performed.

  Footage of Constance in her farewell appearance on KEY to America was shown. Then, in what must have been a hastily assembled video package, an obituary included family pictures of Constance as a young girl and as a high school cheerleader. Later there were shots of her taken in college, followed by video of Constance after she won the Miss Virginia title. Next came shots from her early days as a reporter in small-market local television. As the footage continued, viewers watched the progression of hair and clothing styles that led up to the sassy blond hair and smart green suit Jason had seen Constance wearing just yesterday in front of the restaurant.

  There were clips of Constance interviewing the president of the United States and the First Lady as well as Elmo, Miss Piggy, and Oscar the Grouch. Constance was shown stirring up cake batters in cooking segments and trying to keep her balance as a teenage champion attempted to teach her how to skateboard. She was shown laughing with lottery winners and crying with people who had lost their homes in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Whether she was kissing a monkey or wiping away an orphan’s tears, the scope of her job was as wide as human experience and a constant source of continuing education.

  But nowhere in the television profile of Constance Young was there any mention of the havoc she had wrought in his life, Jason thought. In the list of professional accomplishments, wrecking him hadn’t even been worth listing. He had gone from man of the hour to persona non grata, and Constance had pounded the final nail into his coffin.

  The phone rang. Jason leaned over the pile of unopened bills to reach the receiver.

  “Hey, Jason. It’s Larry.”

  Larry Sargent? Jason was baffled. When was the last time his agent had called him on a Saturday? In fact, when was the last time Larry had called him at all?

  “Hiya, Larry. What’s up?”

  “I guess you’ve heard the news.”

  “You mean about the witch?”

  “It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead, Jason.”

  “You’re right.”

  “But now that she’s dead, the timing of this couldn’t be better, could it? The book comes out on Tuesday.”

  Jason chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, what are the chances of that? Too bad we sold it for such a crappy advance. The publisher isn’t doing a thing to push it.”

  “Wasn’t doing a thing to push it,” the agent corrected. “Past tense. Young’s death changes everything. She’s given us a big fat gift. We’ll earn out that miserable advance in the first week.”

  “I don’t know about that, Larry.” Jason was afraid to get his hopes up.

  “Are you kidding me? Before today your book was just the ranting and grumbling of some bitter loser.”

  “Thanks, Larry. I really appreciate that.”

  “You know what I mean, buddy. We couldn’t get any of the big boys interested in the book, and we had to settle for this second-rate house. But if we play our cards right, we have the most mouthwatering public-relations and marketing opportunity. Constance Young is dead, and your book tells the world why.”

  “Not exactly, Larry.”

  “Not exactly what?”

  “I don’t explain why Constance Young is dead. I only explain how she screwed me, how she ruined my life.”

  “Yeah, and you give a couple of other nice examples of what a viper she could be. Believe me, the media—and the public—are going to eat this up. We just need to get you booked on the morning shows.”

  Nobody should rejoice in the misfortune of another, but in this case, Jason thought as he hung up the phone, he was entitled to a bit of gloating. Constance Young had ruined his life, and now, not only had she gotten what she deserved, her death was going to reinstate him into respectability and fiscal security.

  CHAPTER 19

  Engrossed in thoughts about what had happened to Constance, Eliza was walking toward her office when she spotted Mack McBride coming down the hall. She could feel her heart start to beat faster and only hoped the heat she was immediately beginning to feel in her cheeks wouldn’t show. For a moment Eliza wondered if she could slip into her office and just pretend she hadn’t seen him, when the deep voice called out.

  “Eliza.”

  Too late to escape, she thought, arranging her face in a pleasant expression. As Mack drew closer, Eliza could tell that London was agreeing with him. He looked fit and as handsome as ever. Eliza braced herself as Mack reached her and kissed her on the cheek. Instantly she recognized the smell of his aftershave.

  “Mack.” Eliza smiled. “How are you?”

  “Can’t complain, I guess, except the KEY News anchor bigfooted me. I came all the way across the pond thinking I was going to get to sit in the big chair, and now I’m doing a story on water safety instead.” Laugh lines crinkled at the corner of Mack’s eyes. “I’m off to New Jersey now to shoot my stand-up at some suburban pool.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Eliza.

  “Not as sorry as I am,” he said. The smile on Mack’s face masked any real disappointment.

  “Unbel
ievable about Constance, isn’t it?” Eliza shook her head and shivered involuntarily. “It’s so terrible, so sad.”

  “Honestly?” Mack asked. “I was never really a fan, but it’s always tragic when someone so young dies. Constance was in her prime. But you want to hear something really sick that occurred to me?”

  Eliza nodded.

  “I bet Linus Nazareth isn’t sad she’s dead. I bet he’s glad.”

  “That’s a little cold, isn’t it?” asked Eliza.

  “Maybe,” said Mack. “But nobody leaves KEY to America unless Linus wants them to leave. And Linus didn’t want Constance to go over to the competition.”

  Eliza looked at Mack with skepticism. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “Linus laid on a little guilt, but generally he was pretty supportive when I left KTA for the Evening Headlines.”

  “That’s because you weren’t going to compete with him on another network,” said Mack. “He liked the idea that ‘his girl’ was talented enough to take over the Evening Headlines after Bill Kendall committed suicide. After that whole thing, this news division was rocked to the core. I heard that Linus took plenty of credit for grooming you for the evening anchor chair.”

  “I heard the same thing.” Eliza smiled. “I don’t know what I would have done without him, do you?”

  “Joke if you want to, Eliza,” said Mack. “But I’m telling you, Linus only wants what’s good for Linus. And even though he’s been able to install his girlfriend as the new KTA host, Constance Young was still his first pick. He was infuriated that not only did she have the audacity to leave, she was going to compete with him.”

  “Well,” Eliza observed, “now at least he doesn’t have to deal with coming up against her every morning. Life was going to be jolly hell for the KTA staff.”

  Mack shrugged. “It still will be,” he said.

  Eliza looked up into Mack’s face and tried to read what was in his eyes. Discontent? Cynicism? Sadness?