Something to hide . . .
“I wanted to show you this before someone else did.” Harry slowly unrolled the newspaper. Eliza saw the blazing masthead of The Mole, the most popular of the nation’s supermarket tabloids. At the side of the front page sat an inky black rodent with oversize teeth; next to it was the slogan “We dig it all up.”
Beneath that was the gigantic headline. Eliza stared at it, feeling her chest tighten. She let her telephone buzz insistently as she scanned the story about the most painful period of her life. Harry rambled on in outrage.
“Everyone knows these tabloid stories aren’t worth the paper they’re written on! Nobody pays any attention to them!”
“You did,” she said . . . .
“Secrets . . . ambition . . . intrigue . . . Mary Jane Clark knowingly seduces you in this intensely suspenseful behind-the-media-scenes thriller.”
—Joan Rivers
“Clark . . . spins a tightly knit whodunit with engaging characters and a suspenseful plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Behind-the-scenes rivalries of national television news furnish an energetic and interesting background for a thriller that is well-structured and fast-paced.”
—Sullivan County Democrat
Do You
Want To
Know
A Secret?
MARY JANE
CLARK
Table of Contents
Also by the Author
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
May
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
June
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
July
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
For Elizabeth Higgins Clark and
David Frederick Clark
MY GREAT LITTLE MOTIVATORS
Acknowledgments
I tried to keep this book a secret, wanting to reserve the right to fail in private.
But I am weak, and the road from idea to publication is long and lonely. I needed moral support. So I told a few people . . . or now, as I list them, I realize, more than a few people . . . people who were there, pulling for me during a very rough period of my life.
It is my sincere pleasure to thank Louise and Joel Albert, Regina Blakely, Beth Boyle, Joy Blake, Eileen Winters Chiocchi, Bunny Colburn, Pat Cunningham, B. J. D’Elia, Elizabeth Demarest, Roberta Golubock, Amy Guttman, Cathy White Haffler, Randi Hagerman, Cathy and David Holmes, Caroline Leiber, Katharine and Joe Hayden, Elizabeth Kaledin and Jon Dohlin, Judy Keegan, Linda Karas, Hal Leibowitz, Walt Leiding, Susie Marshall, Tina McEvoy, Jim McGlinchy, Marcy McGinnis, Norma and Norman Nutman, Louise Ryan, Steve and Susie Simring, and Frances Twomey. I am truly blessed to have you as friends and confidantes. You guys are much better at keeping a secret than I am!
Dan Rather, you probably had no idea what an emotional boost you gave me each time you asked how the book was coming.
Joni Evans, you were the first to make me believe that my dream could come true. Thank you for your nurturing energy; you made me feel very special.
Liz Mullen, you rooted for me, hoped with me, and led me to Laura Dail, my wonderful agent. Laura, I’m convinced, wanted this to be successful as much as I did . . . and believe me, that’s saying something!
Thanks to my editor, Jennifer Weis, and her editorial assistant, Kristen Macnamara, for believing in this project and for skillfully shepherding it along the path to publication.
Thanks to George Condouris, M.D., of the University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey Department of Toxicology for his expert advice on what would and wouldn’t kill somebody.
Very special thanks to Father Paul Holmes, brainstormer extraordinaire, who asked all the right questions, had a great sense of fun, and knew that genius lay in the details. Thank God for Paul.
And finally, Doris and Fred Behrends, my parents, and my sister, Margaret Ann Behrends. Without your support I couldn’t have done it. Thank you for h
elping me and loving my children.
May
Prologue
He turned the key in the lock beneath the shiny brass doorknocker and let himself into the townhouse, a triumphant smile on his face. He had made it all by himself.
Daddy will be so happy, he thought.
He stood for a while in the hallway and tried to collect himself as he had been trained to do. He was excited from the trip. Calm down. Calm down.
The grandfather clock ticked loudly to his ears. The car horns blowing out on the street outside sounded angry. The phone was ringing over and over again, but he made no move to answer it.
He felt his arms begin to move up and down in a strange rhythmic pattern. He squeezed his hands into tight fists, trying to concentrate, trying to organize himself. Slowly, he could feel himself calming. Good.
A worried feeling came over him. Would Mom be happy that he had made the trip by himself? She always wanted to know where he was. She might not like what he had done.
He slowly made his way upstairs toward Dad’s library. He called out for Millie, Dad’s housekeeper. No one answered.
At first he did not see the man sitting in the corner of the library. He unzipped his jacket and took it off, dropping it on the couch. He walked over to the huge window and looked over at Central Park. When Dad came home, they would play one of their favorite games, identifying the special places in the park. Landmarks, Dad called them. He smiled in anticipation.
He slowly turned from the window. It was then that he saw his father in the chair.
“Dad?” His innocent face smiled openly.
His father didn’t answer.
“Daddy?” He walked over to the man he loved. Dad’s head was tilted to the side and his eyes were open, so he wasn’t sleeping. Why didn’t he answer? Something was wrong. He began to get that feeling. His hands began flapping, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
Hummingbird. Mom said it reminded her of a hummingbird when he flapped. Stop flapping, stop flapping.
He took his right hand and put the crook between the thumb and the index finger into his mouth. He bit down as hard as he could. He felt no pain. It helped him concentrate.
The grandfather clock began to chime, loudly. Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong. The phone was ringing again. Why didn’t his father get up to answer it?
“Daddy, Daddy! What’s wrong?” His gentle facial expression turned to one of puzzlement and then fear as he reached out and insistently shook his father’s arm. Dad’s face didn’t move.
None of Dad moved.
Chapter 1
The vague tingling sensation started at her polished toe and quickly crept up her shapely calf.
“Damn!” Eliza Blake exclaimed as she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, fingers shuffling through the jumble of Band-Aids, dental floss, hair spray, makeup and tampons until she found the clear nail polish to stop the run in the second pair of designer pantyhose she’d gone through in what had already been a fourteen-hour day.
Putting her long, well-defined leg up on her desk, she applied the sticky liquid as her mind replayed the day’s mishaps. The satellite difficulties on this morning’s show were then followed by the first lady’s office’s abrupt canceling of a long-sought interview scheduled to be taped that afternoon. Scrambling, the KEY to America bookers had called around for a replacement to fill the time allotted for Angela Grayson on the following morning’s broadcast. They performed admirably, coming up with the starlet du jour, the latest overnight sensation. The actress, however, didn’t want to be questioned on live television so early in the morning. And she didn’t want to come to the Broadcast Center either. Eliza would have to go to her hotel suite to tape the interview this afternoon.
On the ride to the Plaza with her camera crew, Eliza hurriedly scanned the research packet provided by an associate producer, framing the questions she would pose. She and her gear-laden videotape team were met in the hotel’s opulent lobby by the star’s apologetic publicist who claimed his boss had suddenly come down with some sort of bug. While the crew resignedly reloaded the camera and lighting paraphernalia back in the car, Eliza spotted the actress and her latest handsome co-star, holding hands, smiling and skipping out the side exit of the hotel toward Central Park.
“Should we take this personally?” Eliza asked her crew wryly, gesturing toward the oblivious lovebirds.
“Nah,” came the response from Gus, the senior man on the KEY News camera staff, who squinted at the pair and shook his head. “Raging hormones’ll win every time.”
Now, back in her KEY to America office, Eliza had just screened the piece on a popular author that would ultimately fill the minutes originally planned for Mrs. Grayson. The writer had been eager to come in for a last-minute interview. Nothing like a chance to market a few more books and stay on the New York Times bestseller list for another week or two, thought Eliza, smiling to herself.
She was tired and eager to get home to Janie but the orange-wrappered Butterfinger called to her from the desk drawer. Aching for the sweet pick-me-up, she debated for all of five seconds and gave in. Guiltily, she relished the candy bar. There had been a time when she never had to worry about what she ate. But no more. The last few years, since John had died and Janie had been born, weight came on more easily and was harder to take off. Stop it! She shook herself. If you’re going to sin, at least enjoy it.
As she crinkled up the candy wrapper, the tiny oval locket hanging from the delicate gold chain on her wrist caught Eliza’s eye. She took it between her fingers and began to play with it. The locket was her grandmother’s gift to her on her tenth birthday. Her grandmother, who had spent her working life scrubbing and cleaning one of the big “cottages” in Newport, had saved to buy the locket. As a kid, Eliza had thought it magical, and she rubbed it and made wishes on it. When things went the way she wanted, she gave the locket credit. When she didn’t get what she desired, she ignored the possibility that perhaps the locket didn’t have all the powers she wanted to believe it had.
Now, rationally, she knew that a tiny golden oval couldn’t really have any force. But that hadn’t stopped her from rubbing the yellow charm, dented and jammed unopenable, as she prayed through the long hours at Sloan-Kettering. She hadn’t gotten her wish.
Tossing her head to clear the painful memories from her mind, Eliza began to straighten the papers on her desk. She wanted to go home. She thought of how she planned to give Janie the locket on her tenth birthday, in six years. Meantime, Eliza would wear it, still savoring its specialness. Eliza knew it was ridiculous, but when she rubbed it something always happened. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but something. Silly. What would the KEY News viewing audience think if they knew her foolish little superstition?
She was stuffing the last of her homework in preparation for the next morning’s broadcast into her canvas tote when her co-anchor Harry Granger appeared at her office door. He was gripping a rolled-up newspaper and by the expression on his face, Eliza could tell he wasn’t happy.
“What’s up?” Eliza asked, fully prepared for some vintage Granger moaning about KEY News management.
But Harry, usually so straightforward and unreservedly opinionated, was hesitating.
“C’mon, Harry, what gives? What have they done now?” Eliza found herself smiling. They had played this scene many times before, using each other as sounding boards, venting frustrations about the workings of KEY to America and KEY News. But they knew they were just blowing off steam. They weren’t going anywhere. They loved their jobs.
“I wanted to show you this before someone else did.” Harry slowly unrolled the newspaper. Eliza saw the blazing masthead of The Mole, the most popular of the nation’s supermarket tabloids. At the side of the front page sat an inky black rodent with oversize teeth; next to it was the slogan “We dig it all up.”
Beneath that was the gigantic headline. Eliza stared at it, feeling her chest tighten. She let her telephone buzz insistently as she scanne
d the story about the most painful period of her life. Harry rambled on in outrage.
“Everyone knows these tabloid stories aren’t worth the paper they’re written on! Oprah just won a lawsuit against one last month. Nobody really pays any attention to them.”
“You did,” she said.
Chapter 2
“Eliza, thank Christ you’re still there! What the hell took you so long to answer?” Not waiting for her response, Range Bullock pushed on. “Bill isn’t in yet and I need you to stand by. I don’t know what’s with him lately. He hasn’t called, Jean doesn’t know any of his appointments, and we’re forty-five minutes from air. He’s making me nuts. Anyway, Eliza, can you get down here and start to go over the copy?”
Bullock, executive producer of the KEY Evening Headlines, hung up the phone, sighed heavily, and reached for the economy-size bottle of Tums which sat next to the large container of aspirins he kept on his desk at all times. As he popped the chalky tablets into his mouth he thought, This job is aging me. Quickly.
Where the hell was Bill? An unexplained absence just wasn’t like him. At least, not until recently.
Bill Kendall, who had been anchoring the KEY Evening Headlines for twelve years, was reliable, dependable and predictable. Range and the hard-news people knew his routine and admired his discipline. At precisely 6:30 every morning, Kendall called the network assignment desk for a briefing by the overnight assignment editor. After getting a rundown of the mostly foreign stories that happened while the nation slept, Kendall would say invariably, “Okay, I’m going for a run. I’ll be on my beeper.”
Like clockwork, an impeccably dressed Kendall would appear in the newsroom at 9:30, full of amiable small talk for the newsroom staff as he made his way to his office. Once there, he checked with Jean, his secretary, regarding the phone messages and his schedule for the day. Next he finished going through the New York Times and the Washington Post, which he had begun in the limousine on the way to work. At 10:30 he listened to, but never spoke on, the national conference call, a multiline conversation between the domestic news bureau managers and the Evening Headlines producers. Bill Kendall and Range Bullock always had a closed-door powwow after the conference call, Bill venting his views on the stories of the day and what he thought KEY coverage should be.
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 1
