When Day Breaks

by Mary Jane Clark

  Willing to kill Constance, the killer would certainly be willing to murder her, too. But if the killer did figure out that Ursula had seen everything that night at the pool and decided to kill her, Ursula was determined that she leave behind some indication of her killer’s identity.

  She turned her attention to the needlepoint canvas that lay on her lap. Ursula picked up the canvas, but her hands trembled. Forcing herself to concentrate, she selected a strand of black wool and began weaving it through the holes, finally finishing the second verse of her tribute to Constance:

  Men wooed her as a queen,

  Sought after for her charms,

  Known only on the screen,

  If rarely in her arms.

  A tribute to Constance and the key to the identity of a killer.

  CHAPTER 57

  A microchip in the Great Dane. Who could have anticipated that?

  It had gotten to the point that technology had its invasive tentacles everywhere. There was no real privacy anymore. There were cameras trained to catch you running red lights and tapping devices that could record your most confidential conversations. And every single address you visited on the Internet could be tracked. You couldn’t possibly anticipate each potential for detection.

  There had been no thought at all to the chance that a tiny microchip transmitter had been implanted in the dog. And yet that unanticipated element could have ruined everything.

  Thank God for good old-fashioned lying and deception! A fictitious name, a fake address, and a subtle disguise had, in the end, saved the day. Those, plus trusting one’s instincts and taking the initiative to do what needed to be done with Vinny. It turned out that the poor do-gooder hadn’t had a clue—but who knew what he might have recalled when the police came around and plumbed his memory of the morning the Great Dane was adopted by his new owner?

  The idea that KEY News was all over this was somehow more worrisome than knowing that the police were investigating. Were there any other loose ends that had been left hanging?

  The carved unicorn lay nestled in the pocket of a coat in the hall closet. It seemed as good a place as any to hide it. Maybe the unicorn’s power lay not in possessing it but in making sure it got to where it could do the most good. Maybe it was time to transfer it from one pocket to another.

  CHAPTER 58

  It was a balmy evening, and Eliza and Mack walked the blocks from the Broadcast Center toward Columbus Circle.

  “You said you wanted to go somewhere relaxed,” said Mack. “I thought maybe we could go for a burger.”

  Eliza smiled, somewhat disappointed that Mack didn’t exactly seem to be pulling out all the stops for this dinner date that he’d practically been begging her for. Passing by dozens of upscale shops as they cut through the curving arcade at the base of the Time Warner Center at the southwest corner of Central Park, Eliza considered that Mack might just want to surprise her. There were several wonderful, highly touted restaurants located in the newly constructed center. But when they walked straight through the arcade and exited onto West Sixtieth Street, Eliza had no idea where they were going.

  “I’m staying here,” said Mack as they entered through the glass doors of a skyscraper a few yards away.

  “KEY News is obviously improving its selection of expense-account-approved hotels,” Eliza commented as they got into an elevator.

  “KEY News isn’t paying for the night here,” said Mack. “I am. I moved over from the regular hotel they put me up in the last few nights.”

  “Does that mean you think you might get lucky?” Eliza asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

  Mack smiled, showing his even, white teeth. “A guy can hope, can’t he?”

  The elevator doors opened. Mack took Eliza’s arm and led the way to the Lobby Lounge of the Mandarin Oriental hotel.

  “So you’re trying to impress me after all,” said Eliza as the hostess escorted them to a sofa by the window. They were thirty-eight floors up and looking out at the most spectacular floor-to-ceiling views of Broadway and Central Park. The vistas changed almost by the minute as lights began to go on all over the majestic skyline.

  They ordered drinks, curried crab quesadillas, and a selection of miniburgers described as bacon-cheddar, caramelized onion–Gruyère, and wild mushroom–blue cheese.

  The ice-cold martinis arrived first.

  Mack leaned closer. “To us,” he said, touching his glass to hers. “I didn’t know if we’d ever be sitting together again like this.”

  She looked into his eyes, then averted her gaze and turned her attention to her drink, taking a sip.

  “Mmm. That’s just right.” Eliza leaned back into the sofa. “It feels good to relax. The last few days have been so intense. And I’m not looking forward to that funeral tomorrow morning.”

  “You know what, Eliza?” Mack put his martini glass down on the low table in front of the sofa. “This whole thing with Constance has really made me think. It’s been a wake-up call. Life is short and very unpredictable.”

  “Don’t I know it!” said Eliza. She took another sip of vodka as an image of John crossed her mind. How unpredictable all that had been. Her young, smart, virile husband cut down so unfairly and with such suffering. They’d been married for only a few years and thought they would have a whole lifetime together. The great cosmic joke had been on them. All that promise, all their dreams, gone.

  As Eliza felt for the scar on her chin, she caught a whiff of her perfume on her wrist. A memory came rushing back. It was one of the last nights in the hospital with John. He was dozing as she entered the room. All the painful treatments had not worked. He was very thin, flushed with fever, and Eliza could see his chest laboring, slowly up and down, beneath the cotton hospital blanket.

  When John opened his eyes, his gaunt face cracked into a weak smile as he saw her. She smiled back and leaned down to kiss him. She felt the heat coming from his emaciated body as he held on to her.

  Then, in a wheezing voice, he’d whispered, “Oh, you smell so good.”

  Eliza had never forgotten it, could never forget it. John had known he was going to die. Yet, as sick as he was, he’d taken pleasure in something as simple as her perfume.

  God, she’d loved him so. But more and more, Eliza found herself having to look at a photograph to reestablish his handsome face in her mind. It had been over six years now, and she thought she might be ready to love someone again.

  Mack reached out, pulled her hand from her chin, and held it. “You deserve happiness, Eliza,” he said, as if reading her mind.

  “So do you, Mack,” she said, looking intently into his eyes.

  “Yeah, but I want us to have that happiness together,” Mack said. He raised her hand to his lips. “I’m so sorry for what I did, Eliza. I truly am. I’m sorry that I hurt you, and I’m sorry that I ruined what we had together.”

  “Let’s not go over it again, Mack. You’ve apologized and apologized. I believe you when you say you’re sorry. Now it’s just a question of whether I can let go of what happened.”

  “Do you think you can?” he asked earnestly.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she answered, “but I do know I want to. I’m going to be honest, Mack. No coyness or playing hard to get. I’ve missed you.”

  The server brought the food, and the conversation shifted. Mack asked about Janie and how she was doing in school.

  “I miss that little character,” he said.

  Eliza told him about Janie’s upset over the stories about Constance Young on television.

  “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to understand that,” said Mack. “The kid must be scared to death something could happen to you.”

  Eliza nodded. “I really should be home tonight, shouldn’t I?”

  Mack’s face fell.

  Eliza couldn’t help but laugh a little at the expression on his face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Janie is fine and very excited. She’s staying over at the Hvizdaks’ house tonight. That’s
a big deal, with it being a school night and all.”

  “And where are you staying tonight?” Mack asked.

  “New Jersey. I told my driver to pick me up at ten o’clock,” she said.

  Mack looked at his watch. “That doesn’t leave us much time,” he said.

  “Time for what?”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe see what one of the rooms in this fancy hotel looks like?”

  As Eliza regarded Mack, she knew she really loved him. She knew by the sleepless nights she’d spent after she broke it off with him, by the way her heart beat faster each time she viewed one of his reports from London, by the fact that there hadn’t been a single day she failed to think of him or wonder how he was or what he was doing over these last months, by the agony she had put herself through, holding herself back from calling him and resisting his repeated attempts to make things right between them.

  Mack had made a mistake. He had apologized again and again and pleaded for another chance. Though she was scared, something was telling her to go ahead and give it another try. Maybe she would end up regretting it, but she was willing to risk it now.

  “I guess I could call the driver and ask him to come a little later,” Eliza said quietly.

  The check came. Mack signed the bill and stood up from the sofa. He held his hand out to Eliza and she took it.

  TUESDAY MAY 22

  CHAPTER 59

  The heavy rain fell steadily as the taxicabs and limousines let out their passengers in front of the Cameron Finlay Funeral Home on Manhattan’s East Side. The invited mourners scurried past a dozen drenched camera crews set up on the wet pavement. Boyd joined the others, shaking their umbrellas and hanging up their raincoats on the racks provided in the vestibule off the main foyer. One by one the guests found their way to the chapel, took their seats, and filled up the rows until there was standing room only.

  Boyd walked halfway up the side aisle and rested against the wall. He surveyed the room, thinking it could have been lunchtime at the KEY News cafeteria. He recognized almost every somber face. Eliza Blake was already there, flanked by Dr. Margo Gonzalez and Range Bullock. Annabelle Murphy sat behind them. Linus Nazareth sat on the opposite side of the aisle, surrounded by most of the KTA staff. Boyd watched as Lauren Adams strode down the center aisle and took the seat that Linus had saved for her.

  In the front row, Boyd spotted Constance’s sister and deduced that the doltish-looking character sitting next to her must be her husband. There were two young boys seated on the other side of Faith. Those were probably the kids Constance commanded he go out and buy Christmas presents for last year. She hadn’t offered the slightest hint of what might interest them, because she had no idea. Boyd wondered how wise it was for them to have been brought here today, considering that the brass box on the table contained the remains of their aunt.

  He felt for the envelope containing the copy of Constance’s will in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. In a little while, Boyd thought, Faith is going to be absolutely miserable.

  There was a middle-aged woman he couldn’t place, sitting near the back of the room. Boyd studied her lined, makeup-free face. Though he had never met her, Boyd guessed she might be Ursula Bales, Constance’s housekeeper. She had said that she was going to come when he’d called her yesterday to let her know about the funeral.

  There was Stuart Whitaker, looking like he’d lost his only friend. Boyd watched as Stuart took off his glasses and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. Stuart must have felt he was being watched. He glanced up and nodded at Boyd. You poor bastard, thought Boyd, as he nodded back. You really loved that woman, didn’t you?

  Scattered around the room were several clean-shaven, somberly dressed men who Boyd speculated could be plainclothes police officers, there to study the crowd. Murderers had been known to come to the funerals of their victims—or at least that was what they always said on television crime dramas.

  Leaning against the wall waiting for the service to begin, Boyd supposed it stood to reason that he’d be stuck standing for Constance’s funeral. To the very end, he was being reminded of his place in her life. Expected to show up, but not considered important enough to have a seat.

  From the corner of his eye, Boyd caught someone new entering the room. As he turned and recognized the man with the dark, windblown hair just finding a seat, Boyd felt a burst of adrenaline. He hadn’t invited Jason Vaughan. What was he doing here?

  CHAPTER 60

  O God of grace and glory, we remember before you this day our sister Constance. We thank you for giving her to us, her family and friends, to know and to love as a companion on our earthly pilgrimage. In your boundless compassion, console us who mourn. Give us faith to see in death the gate of eternal life, so that in quiet confidence we may continue our course on earth, until, by your call, we are reunited with those who have gone before.”

  As the service wore on, one of the mourners started coughing and eventually got up and walked out to get a drink. On the way back from the water fountain, there was time to stop at the coatracks.

  Boyd Irons had hung his trench coat on one of the front racks. A monogrammed handkerchief and crumpled credit-card receipt in the pocket confirmed ownership.

  The killer took the unicorn out and went to wipe it thoroughly, determined not to leave any fingerprints on it. But in the rush to complete the task, the unicorn slipped, its pronged crown and horn slicing across the killer’s palm.

  With no time to waste, the killer finished wiping the unicorn clean before dropping it into the pocket of Boyd’s trench coat.

  CHAPTER 61

  A candle burned in front of the brass box that held Constance’s ashes, and Ursula tried to keep her eyes fixed on it. She concentrated on her breathing, struggling to calm herself. She had seen the killer leave the room and then return, walking right by her on the trips up and down the aisle.

  Ursula didn’t think the killer had noticed her, though. For once she was grateful that she was a middle-aged, basically nondescript woman who wore no makeup and didn’t color her hair. She was a wren, not a swan, and people didn’t notice her much. Ursula wanted it to stay that way.

  At the conclusion of the service, Ursula stood and waited with respect as Constance’s sister and her family filed out first, followed by each of the other people in the aisles from front to back. As the killer approached, Ursula felt a cold sweat break out across her brow. She steadied herself using the back of the chair in front of her. The killer came closer, and Ursula’s heart beat faster until she felt her legs slide out from under her and everything went black.

  “Give her some air, will you? Stand back and give her some air.”

  The small group that had gathered around the unconscious woman shifted position.

  Ursula heard the voice calling.

  “Wake up. Wake up.”

  Ursula felt somebody rubbing her forehead. Slowly, she was able to will her eyelids open. She stared blankly, unable to focus.

  “Do you hear me?” asked the voice. “Can you hear me?”

  Ursula’s eyes widened as the image of the face above her became clearer. She pressed back against the floor, cringing beneath the figure kneeling over her.

  “So we meet again.”

  “I won’t tell,” Ursula whimpered. “I won’t tell. Please, don’t hurt me. I won’t tell.”

  “She’s coming to, but she’s making no sense,” said someone in the crowd. “She’s incoherent.”

  “What is she talking about?” asked another voice.

  The killer stared directly into Ursula’s eyes and, reading the abject fear there, knew with deadly certainty just what Ursula was talking about.

  CHAPTER 62

  Faith stood at the back of the funeral home, shaking hands and accepting condolences. The expression on her face was somber, but when Boyd Irons pressed the envelope containing a copy of her sister’s will into her hands, Faith had to work hard not to break out in
a smile.

  “Mrs. Hansen? I hate to bother you at a time like this, but my name is Stuart Whitaker. I was a great admirer of your sister.”

  Faith glanced over at the brass box holding Constance’s ashes, which had been placed on the table in the funeral home hall, and then extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Whitaker,” she said. “I know who you are.”

  “You do?” asked Stuart. “Did Constance talk about me?” The downcast expression on his face brightened a bit.

  “No,” said Faith. “I saw you on television the other night talking about the memorial garden you want to create for Constance at the Cloisters.”

  Stuart’s mouth turned down again. “Oh, yes. I am hoping that you and I will be able to talk about the garden at some time that might be convenient to you. I would like very much to have your input.”

  Faith thought the man looked and sounded sincere. Observing Stuart Whitaker’s bald head, paunch, and bitten fingernails, Faith was confident that her sister had never gone for this guy, though he had so clearly gone for Constance. Faith felt sorry for him and wished she hadn’t been so quick to let him know that Constance had never bothered to mention him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitaker. That’s very kind of you.”

  Stuart looked over at the brass box sitting on the table.

  “Do you mind telling me what you are going to do with them?” he asked.

  Faith followed his gaze. “Oh, the ashes?” she asked. “For now I’m taking them home with me until we decide what we’ll do with them. Though, honestly, my boys just told me they don’t want to ride in the car with them back to New Jersey.”