He saw the information finally lodge in Mrs. Winchester’s mind. Relief washed over him. Done, he thought.
Almost giddily, knowing he’d lost his audience, he added, “I’m replacing her at the paper by the way.” Hired by a wink, seconds ago. She might remember these words later. Or not.
Daphne had informed him with daunting certainty that when Alice caught sight of him at her predinner cocktail hour, his gray eyes, auburn hair, and quarterback stature would gain him a seat at her left, prior seating arrangements notwithstanding. He’d been skeptical, but here he was. “Beauty’s a power,” she’d said in her office, “but short-lived. Beauty, intelligence, and presence—that’s good for the long game. You’re the whole package.” He stared at her—a blonde with dreamy wide eyes and the controlled glamour of a mature Grace Kelly—and seeing nothing of himself in her description said thank you anyway.
When she explained why she’d sent for him, he’d been shocked. Her column was more than a job. He would be stepping into a life.
Tonight had been his final hurdle. He’d won. By God, he’d won. But what had he won?
He focused again on Alice, who was beginning to sound shrill. “I’m giving her birthday party! Does that mean nothing to her?”
He answered patiently, “Quite the opposite. She wants to spend her final night with her closest, most loved friends—”
Alice reared back, then jumped up, and rushed away to huddle in conversation with members of her inner circle.
Exactly as Daphne had told him to expect.
When Edie was brought out, bashfully wiping her hands on a vast snowy apron, he applauded with everyone else.
FOR THE NEXT few days, Cory suffered what seemed to him a blend of assault and drowning as Daphne drilled away his assumptions and fine-tuned his work habits. He reminded her he’d written for the Star News police desk in Hartford, but she’d scoffed. She kept asking him if he wanted her job. And he did. He thought so, anyway.
THE MONDAY BEFORE her retirement, he stepped into Daphne’s office. She glanced warningly at him from her phone conversation. The caller, Cory soon overheard, was Alice Winchester.
With the phone still at her ear, Daphne handed Cory her calendar and a pile of pink slips—phone calls to return. She whispered, “Yours now,” and smiled warmly at his surprise.
She said into the receiver, “I do understand, Alice; calm yourself, dear.” (She made a wry face at Cory.)
Cory heard Alice exclaim, “He’s glued to his daughter’s side, and one stumbles over them just everywhere! It would be over the top if they crashed the gate and made a scene. Policemen might crash in right behind. Better to invite them, we can only hope her father might calm himself. The man should count his blessings, escaping Jojo for a son-in-law. Monumental awkwardness for your birthday, darling—but—of course you understand. Of all people, you would. Has that wretched man been arrested yet?”
Daphne said, “What wretched man?”
“The jealous one. From your building, darling.”
“Jealous! Max just tends the door, Alice.”
“People are whispering—but I suppose it’s untrue, or you would’ve written about it—oh, what am I saying? You’d hardly treat Jojo’s murder as a social event. Sorry, darling, so frazzled. Tell me about your book—how is your memoir progressing?”
“It’s not. I won’t start until I’m moved into my new country house. Yes, in Maine.” She listened. “No, dear, I’m not acquainted with Stephen King, but wouldn’t that be thrilling?” She listened again. “My publisher? Pegasus. Fitzgerald’s my editor.”
Cory heard Alice exclaim, “Fitz? I’m so happy for you. Now listen, I hope you’re excited for your party!”
Daphne said, “You know I am, Alice.”
“We’ve expanded the guest list, taken the whole restaurant.”
“You did?” Daphne’s eyes softened.
“Oh, my goodness, it’s an occasion, you retiring from our midst. We must give you a good send-off!”
“But—the menu?”
“It’s all managed. Your favorites: tournedos of duck breast with cherries, the mushroom tart. Wayne will be bringing fresh morels, as always, from his Connecticut estate. Perfect weather this year, he says he’ll have plenty. Edie will run over and supervise; we couldn’t do it without Edie, she’d never forgive us. And Ted—you know Ted Tibedeaux, always does the rooms—he’s very excited to do the entire restaurant this year.”
“All of Dianna’s?”
“We love you; what else could we do?”
After Daphne hung up, Cory watched her but couldn’t decide if she looked sad or happy. Silence reigned over the room for a few moments. Then she waved him out.
THURSDAY MORNING, DAPHNE invited Cory to her apartment. After arriving, he followed her outside to the terrace, where coffee and pastries waited on an iron outdoor table.
Cory examined his surroundings, curious but intimidated, having learned how few were admitted to her private space.
Her apartment was a jewel with a terrace wide enough for benches, chairs, and a large round table. From the buds peeping out among tangles of brown stems, Cory saw that vines and flowers would soon frame her majestic views. Indoors, a sprinkling of antique chairs and tables, worn and comfortable, sat dappled with sunlight.
To his surprise, after pouring coffee for them both, she lit a cigarette. She smoked only rarely, he had noticed in their few days together, and only when disturbed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Nothing.” She stood up to look over the parapet, smoke drifting from the cigarette between her fingers. The Hudson River glittered in the distance.
The spring air was still crisp. Cory shivered. He drank half the coffee in his cup to warm himself. “You like Maine?” he asked.
She laughed. “Well—I probably will. I’ve never been there. It’ll work out.”
“You’re coming back?”
“Back?”
“To see your friends. They’ll miss you obviously.”
She smiled. He shivered inwardly at the despair in that smile. “You must know my story.”
He nodded. She’d married into the Social Register. Marry in, divorce out. Not “seen” anymore. Socially invisible. His mother had explained these details before he’d decided to take the job.
Not them, he suddenly remembered. Us. He felt a swift stab of anxiety. “I heard somewhere: ‘bastards occur like eclipses—once every few years, scaring hell out of the superstitious.’”
Daphne pointed at him with her coffee cup and laughed. “Witty. Write that; they’ll love it.”
They.
On his way out, Cory stopped at a small cabinet made of what appeared to be glass shards. He said, “Wow! Outstanding!” He glanced around at the chintz. “In several ways.”
Daphne grinned. “Know what it is?”
“A portable bar?”
“Made from a collage of broken mirrors from Studio 54.”
Cory’s mouth dropped open.
She giggled. “I couldn’t resist! Think of the stories it represents.”
Cory said, “Imagine how much coke you might find in all the little cracks!”
“The prior owner raised the price because of that.”
Cory laughed.
She opened a side door. “Scotch goes here; Alice told me you’re a scotch man. Ice bucket, tongs, glasses.” She pointed out where everything went, then considered him speculatively. “You take it.”
He gasped. “I couldn’t!”
“It deserves someone who appreciates it. Besides, the movers will just break it. A gift to launch your glittering future. Really.”
“I—I’ll keep it safe for you.”
“No. Then maybe you’ll forgive me for giving you these.” He trailed her across the foyer to a door in her kitchen. Stacked inside an otherwise empty room were file boxes. “All yours,” she said, waving her arm grandly.
He looked at her blankl
y. “What is it?”
“Your… it might be appropriate to call it your birthright, but your mother wouldn’t approve. Your job. Well. Strictly speaking, my job until tomorrow. But these will help you do your job.”
Suddenly he knew. “It’s all here, isn’t it? I’d heard that about you, that your research was golden. You never wrote what you couldn’t prove! It’s true?”
“Twice confirmed, preferably.” She lit another cigarette.
“So—you want me to dispose of this for you?”
“Don’t be silly. You’ll need it. This information will give you a head start on anything that comes your way.”
He gaped. “Like what?”
“If I answered that question, it would spoil your fun. Take it away before the movers arrive. Money can buy a lot of satisfied curiosity, better to avoid tempting them.”
He started counting, “Five, ten—”
“Thirty-seven file boxes, for God’s sake. I did this job twenty-two years. It accumulates. Don’t store it at the newspaper, if you don’t mind some advice.”
He watched her exhale a long column of smoke. “Couldn’t you have scanned this into a computer?”
“I did.” She thrust a box of DVDs into his hand. “Backup and backup.”
He hastened after her as she strode toward her foyer. “Aren’t you keeping a set for yourself? For your memoirs?”
“Sorry to abandon you, I have a lunch with the bishop.”
She pulled her coat out of a hall closet. “Oh, my gloves. Cory, would you mind? They’re in the bedroom on the bed.” She pointed. “Through there.”
When he obediently went where she pointed, she took the manila envelope from the table and, darting to the portable bar, pushed the envelope into a section and latched its door securely.
When Cory returned with her gloves, she was buttoning her coat. She tossed him a set of keys. “Call Max. He’ll help you.”
“The infamous doorman?”
Her smile was wry. “He didn’t murder Joseph. You should talk to him. No, I mean it. Talk to him.” She pulled on her gloves. “Leave the keys with Max, won’t you? The movers come at two. Oh, and I wouldn’t let anyone touch the portable bar if I were you.”
“Carry it myself.”
“Good.” Daphne gazed around at the apartment. “It will be nice to be relieved of everyone’s skeletons.” She glanced up at him, smile brilliant beneath her glistening eyes. “I’m going to love being free.”
“You mean being retired?”
“… Yes.”
Cory didn’t watch her leave. He went back to the room and hefted one of the boxes. He couldn’t help wondering what it contained.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER a wearying day, Cory sat in his own Murray Hill apartment, which before the influx of boxes had been sparsely furnished. He admired the bar, which had settled well into his retro-hip decor, then turned on his computer.
The thought of doing this had tantalized him all afternoon. He slipped in a DVD and waited. When folders appeared on the screen, he selected a file at random and opened it.
He read, eager, his attention sparking whenever he ran across a familiar name. Sometimes a frown flickered across his face. He opened other files. Suddenly he drew back, repulsed. Then involuntarily he exclaimed, “No!” Shaken, he scrolled, read more. No longer amused, he put in another DVD. Again at random, he opened a file. He read, then clicked onto other files. Sickened, he shut the lid of the computer.
Cory went to a window and gazed out, leaning on a stack of boxes, no longer drawn to open them. The street below was quiet. Murray Hill had nothing compared to the glamour of a neighborhood like Daphne’s.
Distracted, he went to his new bar and unlatched the doors. In with the scotch, he saw a manila envelope. Drawing it out, he hesitated, then opened it. When he saw the name on the first page, he froze. Then he read.
His hands shook as he poured himself the drink he’d wanted. Then he called his mother. She was in Milan this week.
“Cory!” Her voice sounded pleased. “I’ve been wondering—”
One hand holding his glass, he dropped into his desk chair and shifted the papers to his lap. “How’s the show going?”
“Ho, don’t kid me, kid. I hear the cubes knocking around in that cut glass tub. You didn’t call about my show. What’s wrong?”
He set the glass on the desk. “Right. Life-changing question: Did I make a wrong turn, replacing Daphne March? Is this a job I want?” He explained about her memoirs and files and Alice’s comments. While he talked, he flipped open his computer lid, clicked onto the DVD again. He glanced at the papers in his lap for reference, hunted and found the scanned material on the DVD. He clicked the file open.
“And Mom, listen to this.” He began reading to her from the print on his screen.
“Stop,” she cut him off. “Believe me, sweetie, I know what it says.”
Cory clicked on “select all” and hit Delete. “Mom. I’m sorry, but you should know I read it. And Mom, nobody who knew the facts could blame you.”
“Thank you, sweetie. Many find it convenient to blame me, but only your opinion matters.”
He put in the backup DVD, repeated the search, select, and delete. “Mom, whether I keep the job or not, I can’t leave her now.”
“So don’t. Cory, you’ve dreamed all your life of becoming an investigative reporter.”
“Yes.” He took another drink, ice cubes clinking as he tilted the glass, then sat thinking. “Yes, but society gossip. I’d imagined political intrigue. Murder.”
His mother gave a wry laugh. “Oh, you’ll find that in your present company, and more.”
“Is Daphne’s—material—true? Could these people have been so ruthless?” he asked plaintively.
“To protect such privileged lives? Cory, there’s a price tag on that high plane of advantage. Only a special few survive intact. Look at me. I escaped, but barely. Cory, Daphne needs a friend. You have advantages she never did. Use them. Be as courageous an investigative reporter as she was. Gossip, I would say, is not how I would describe the job ahead of you. If you’re up for it.”
CORY DIDN’T FIND Daphne all the next day. He finally dressed and went to Dianna’s.
Although the evening had just started, the party had spilled out onto the sidewalk, gate-crashers swelling attendance beyond comfort.
Cory pushed through smokers gathered under the green awning. Their conviviality had attracted nonsmokers and the party had spread down the sidewalk both ways. Waiters were pouring drinks, lingering to chat. Guests and restaurant staff had known each other for years, Dianna’s being treated by the patrons almost as a private club.
Inside, he heard Ted Tibedeaux shouting, “Two extra places at each table—that’s it, for God’s sake!”
Alice collided with him. “Oh, Cory! Have you seen these? I had the menu engraved on cards.” At Cory’s blank look, she insisted, “Keepsakes.”
“Where’s Daphne?” he demanded.
Alice ignored his question and hurried off. Only when people began seating themselves did Cory find Daphne. Wearing a shimmering pink dress, she stood leaning against the velvet curtain framing the doorway, watching the guests.
He stepped close behind her. “Mother sends her most emphatic love.”
Daphne glanced up over her shoulder at him. She was smiling, but her eyes glistened. “I always admired Astrid.”
The room was overheated from too many bodies. Daphne kept watching, kept smiling. Cory dabbed at his perspiring forehead with a napkin. He thought he’d choke from the perfumes and cooking odors.
He blurted, “Let’s get out of here!”
“Leave my party? Why?”
“Your memoirs! They’re terrified of what you could write. They’ll hate you. I think they already hate you. Your reputation for finding proof to back everything—you’re in danger!”
She said, her voice untroubled, still watching the guests, “In my entire career, I’ve never written anything to
hurt them. I’m their Darling Daphne. Why would they think I’d change now?”
“Because that’s what they’d do if they were you! They have no understanding of someone like you!”
She folded her arms.
Cory gripped her shoulders, pulled her around. “You’re daring them to do it, aren’t you? You know what’s going to happen!”
“What’s going to happen?” She wouldn’t look at him, but her body was rigid, arms stiff. “They made my special morel tart, you know. They do it every year. Edie makes it just for me.”
“You know the truth about them, how they really feel about you, but you still cling to your hope. You want more than anything in your life, more than your life—to be wrong. But in spite of all that wishing, you’re still Daphne March.”
“Wayne brings the morels fresh from his Connecticut estate. Picks them himself.” She twisted away.
“Others would just tell themselves happy lies, but that’s not good enough for Daphne March. Daphne March, who documents everything, who never prints a word without confirming it twice. You want proof that they accept you as one of them. You need it! Proof!”
As if he hadn’t spoken, she strolled into the room, waving and greeting guests as she wound her way through them to the head table. Alice waited for her there with her great friends, the Baughlanders, and others.
Cory stood in the doorway, too devastated to join the party. Waiters rushed in and out, some muttering at him for being in the way, but he couldn’t move.
At the end of the long evening, he saw Edie edge into the room through the kitchen door, flushed and sweating, ready for her accolades.
Daphne rose to her feet. Glasses rang gaily as spoons tapped for silence. Gradually the chatter quieted. With hands extended toward Edie, Daphne led the applause. She said loudly over the noise, “You surpassed yourself, dear Edie! Thank you, Alice!” Alice stood, beaming. The crowd burst into cheers, which went on for a few minutes.
When Daphne crumpled to the floor, at first no one but Cory seemed to notice. He pushed through the crush of guests to get to her. The crowd hushed; then voices and noise swelled to a deafening level.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead Page 34
