Range broke in. “There’s more, but let’s save it for the special report tonight. When you close, Eliza, tease to the special following local news. Good luck.”
Eliza heard the correspondent of the Republican report closing as Range and Mary Cate stepped back, just out of the camera’s view. The stage manager signaled for her to begin. She opened her mouth. No sound came out.
Eliza cleared her throat and swallowed, trying to start. Usually so erect, she looked almost shrunken in the chair. She could feel the eyes in the studio, along with those of millions of Americans, watching her. She pushed back her shoulders, straightening her spine.
When her voice finally came, it quivered. “It is with shock and great sadness that we report that Bill Kendall, anchorman and managing editor of the KEY Evening Headlines was found dead in his New York City apartment early this evening. The cause of death is unknown.”
Eliza looked at the monitor and concentrated on what she and the audience were seeing, and pulling from her memory bank the montage of clips from Bill Kendall’s life. Eliza watched and identified, where appropriate, what the viewers at home were watching. She recounted the biography information. Just as important, she paused instinctively and let the video carry itself at the correct times.
Eliza was back on camera. She felt her eyes fill and her usually direct gaze into the camera was diverted as she stared off toward the back of the studio and tried to collect her thoughts. She stumbled again as she began to ad-lib.
“We here at KEY News are stunned. Bill Kendall was a valued colleague, a beloved friend and a fine and generous human being. It’s impossible at this point even to begin to imagine life around here without him.” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard. Eliza took a deep breath attempting frantically to compose herself. The image of Bill smiling suddenly filled her head. She tried to sit up taller in her chair, but her body felt leaden.
“Police have been called to the scene. KEY News will air a special report on Bill Kendall tonight at eleven-thirty eastern, ten-thirty central, following your local news. I’m Eliza Blake. For all of us at KEY News, good night.”
There were tears in Eliza’s eyes and on her face as the director faded to black.
Chapter 9
In Washington, Pete Carlson watched excitedly as Eliza Blake signed off.
“Get a driver to take me to National. Now,” he barked to the desk assistant stationed outside his office door.
He marveled at how quickly things could change in his life. A half hour ago, he was smoldering with anger, jealous that Eliza Blake was filling in for Bill Kendall when it should have been him substituting in the anchor chair.
Now he, Pete Carlson, was the next anchorman of the KEY Evening Headlines.
He pulled his cellular phone from his briefcase, not wanting to use an office line, yet knowing that the portable phone could be easily tapped. He’d be careful with his wording.
“It’s finally happened. I’m getting the big job. But remember, I don’t want to be in New York forever, Washington is my home.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be taken care of,” came the grunted response.
When the earnest young desk assistant went in to tell Pete Carlson that the driver was ready to take the anchorman to the airport, he swore he heard Carlson humming.
Chapter 10
The ailing space shuttle and the Prince of Wales did not make the West Coast update of the Evening Headlines. Instead, Larry “Mack” McBride reported live from outside Bill Kendall’s East Eighty-eighth Street townhouse on the death of the anchorman. Details were sketchy.
After taping the update, Eliza, her head pounding, walked into the Fishbowl. Jean White, the treasured assistant whom Kendall had affectionately called “Coach,” was crying. Jean had taken the call from Kendall’s housekeeper.
“I just can’t believe it,” she sobbed, red-eyed. “And you know what really bothers me? When I took the call, my ridiculous KEY loyalty kicked in. I didn’t want any of the other nets to have the story before we did. I told Millie not to call the police until she talked to Louise.” Jean rubbed a balled-up tissue across her eyes. “Can you believe that I’d be thinking of being competitive at a time like this? I must be really sick.”
The others in the room looked at her sadly with weak smiles of recognition. They each knew that the same thoughts most likely would have gone through their own minds. It was second nature to them. How embarrassing it would be if another network scooped KEY News on reporting the death of their own anchorman! How it would have defiled Bill’s dignity and memory to have another network report his death before his beloved KEY!
Eliza took a small plastic bottle from her shoulder bag and emptied a green Fiorinal capsule into her palm. Pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on Range’s desk, she reflected for a moment on the nature and competitiveness of television news. She doubted that people watching at home noted which station broke a story minutes before the competition. But within the profession it was viewed as significant.
As Eliza swallowed the prescription headache medication and sighed deeply, a feeling of sadness swept over her. What did it really matter that KEY News had reported it first? Bill Kendall was dead. Who told the world first wouldn’t change this miserable fact one damn bit.
An ashen-faced Yelena Gregory was on the phone barking instructions to the KEY press information office, about how to respond to the calls already coming in from the wire services, newspapers and other networks. Yelena’s large frame somehow looked fragile as she sat in the gray barrel chair and concentrated on the latest crisis before her. Eliza thought that she saw Yelena’s hand, the one not steadied by the telephone, tremble.
Range Bullock was on another phone listening and staring up at the ceiling.
“Hold on a minute, Mack. I’m going to put you on speaker.”
Eliza heard McBride’s voice. The voice sounded calm, authoritative, in control.
“Bill was found by his son,” the voice from the speaker explained.
“William?” asked Bullock incredulously. “What a horrible thing for that kid to see and go through.”
It was fairly common knowledge among KEY News staffers that Bill Kendall’s son was mentally retarded. Eighteen-year-old William had begun a mailroom job at a corporate headquarters in northern New Jersey and had just started living five days a week in a sheltered group home. He spent every other weekend with Kendall.
Bill adored William.
“He’s very shaken up. The housekeeper has him up in his room to keep him away from looking at his father. She let me in before the police had a chance to close things off. Poor kid. He was biting his hands like crazy and jumping up and down. Really out of control. I told William that I worked with his dad and he seemed to relax a little.” McBride hesitated. “If I had pushed maybe I could have gotten him to talk for the camera, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“Thank God for that!” Jean exclaimed. “That would have been reprehensible.”
“Bill was always so gentle with that child,” murmured Yelena.
Either McBride didn’t hear or he pretended he didn’t. He went on.
“The housekeeper is with him now and his mother, Louise, is on her way. She’s now left word that no one is to speak to William, not even the police, until she gets here.”
“When will that be?” asked Bullock.
“Should be any time now. We’ll get the pictures of her arrival and I’ll continue to schmooze around here.”
“What are the police saying?”
“Not so much so far. They are up there now going over the townhouse. The body hasn’t been taken out yet. One of the police told me that Kendall was found sitting, slumped over in a chair, the current issue of Newsweek on the floor beside him. Eerie. They’re talking heart attack. Obviously, the autopsy will tell more. All I can get from the police is ‘Depends’ when I ask when the autopsy will be finished. What are you looking for tonight?”
Range sig
hed heavily. “Oh Christ, I don’t know.” He rested his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes, tears burning behind the lids. The others in the room watched him and thought for an instant that they were about to see something with which they would be very uncomfortable. But he straightened himself in his seat and swiveled around to his computer screen.
“Figure on a two-minute piece, Mack. You’ll lead. Just let us know what you need, Mary Cate will be your producer on this end. In fact she’s right here and you can talk to her.”
Mary Cate picked up a phone at the other side of the room and McBride was switched off the speaker phone.
Range continued to type into the computer terminal as he talked aloud, assigning the other producers in the room the pieces he envisioned in the special. Each producer would be responsible for his or her own piece of the half-hour pie. Each would coordinate and mix all the ingredients: the correspondent, the editorial information and the all-important video elements to make up the individual package explaining a bit of the story.
When he had finished giving out assignments, Bullock asked that the room be cleared, except for Yelena and Eliza.
“You did a good job tonight,” he started.
Yelena nodded in agreement. “Very professional.”
Eliza thanked them. She was waiting for it and it came.
“Peter Carlson is on his way up from Washington to anchor the special report.”
“Would it make any difference if I told you that I wanted to do it?” Eliza asked, looking from Range to Yelena, knowing the answer to come.
“Unfortunately, no,” Yelena replied. “You know the pecking order, Eliza. Carlson’s got it in his contract to do the special reports when Bill isn’t able.”
Uneasily, Eliza considered Yelena’s response. Instantly, she decided it was best to just get it out on the table. If Yelena and Range hadn’t seen it already, they would shortly. “Does this have anything to do with the story about me in The Mole?”
There was no look of surprise on either face. So they both knew. Good news traveled fast.
Yelena answered firmly. “Eliza, please. Give us more credit than that. Give yourself more credit than that. We know you, we know your work. Don’t feel threatened by some sleazy article in a trashy tabloid. It’s beneath you. And, to answer your question specifically, no. The decision to have Carlson do the special has nothing to do with the Mole story. Pete Carlson really does have it in his contract to be Bill’s first-choice replacement.”
Range was staring at a spot on the textured carpet. “God, he is the next anchorman, if you can believe that. Is this all really happening?” the producer asked plaintively, putting his head in his hands.
“I’m so sorry, Range,” offered Eliza. “This is so tough for you. I know how close you two were.”
Range looked up gratefully. “Thanks, Eliza. I know you cared about him, too.”
Eliza nodded and averted her eyes downward. On the chrome and glass table in front of her, the faces of Haines and Joy Wingard smiled up at her from a Newsweek cover. She shivered, remembering a recent conversation with Bill about this election year. He had confided that he was having a hard time getting the drive and enthusiasm up for the primary season. He admitted that he wondered if he could be impartial in reporting on the election this time. He didn’t like Haines Wingard, he’d said, calling him a “cold fish.” And he had hinted that he had been wondering lately if perhaps it might be time to reassess his role at KEY, perhaps retire, maybe write a book. Then he had laughed a little, assuring her that the thought of Pete Carlson as his successor was enough to keep him from moving on.
She had never seen Bill so down, but Eliza had been flattered that Bill trusted her enough to confide his vulnerability and she admired his truthfulness. Not many around KEY News wanted to admit to anything that could be perceived as weakness.
Chapter 11
Somehow Joy got through dinner.
Win and Nate heartily consumed Trudy’s veal roast, mashed potatoes, asparagus and a mountain of her special herbed biscuits. They speculated on Eliza Blake’s announcement. Both men had seen Bill Kendall the week before, when the anchorman interviewed the senator on the upcoming primary and Wingard’s position in the pack of presidential hopefuls.
“God, that guy was on top of the world,” Nate said. “I know his ratings have been terrific. He’s first in most of the major markets and extremely strong in the medium and small ones. Those are the ones I always think reflect more accurately the way America thinks. That’s why I always care so much how we look on KEY. There was something very trustworthy about that guy as far as the viewing public was concerned. I guess it didn’t hurt that he was a good-looking s.o.b.”
Win speared another mouthful of salad. “Disarming. That’s how I’d describe the man. Even though I knew he was going to try to stick me with some tough questions, I always felt he did it in a charming, almost seductive sort of way. Unfailingly well mannered. As a matter of fact, Joy, he asked me how you were surviving the campaign.”
Joy looked up from her untouched plate and nodded but did not comment. Neither man seemed to expect a response.
Instead, Nate Heller wondered out loud, “What do you suppose happened? Awfully young and in damn good shape from what I could see. Remember that member-guest we played at Congressional last fall, Win? Kendall was in excellent form. He shot a seventy-six, for God’s sake. A heart attack?” Nate shook his head in disbelief. “That’s what it usually is when it’s quick like that. If ever there was a stressful job, his was it. It’s right up there with mine in the tension department. You know, boss, I deserve a raise, don’t you think?” Nate grinned, the uncomfortableness with the death of a contemporary quickly replaced with his particular brand of protective, self-centered humor.
Win mumbled something about the campaign manager’s reward coming after November. That led into the latest campaign strategy session, which was interrupted by the ringing of Nate’s pocket phone.
Joy half listened as he barked “Nate Heller” into his phone. Why couldn’t he say hello like everybody else, she wondered. He said, “Don’t worry. It’ll be taken care of.” She wanted to be anywhere but at this table, feigning interest in yet another campaign talk, listening to business-as-usual. Nate was so rude, taking a phone call at the dinner table. When Trudy had cleared the table and brought in fresh-brewed decaf in the silver coffee service, Joy excused herself, saying that she had some papers to go over.
“Great, hon,” said Win. “I’m really glad that we’ll be doing that campaign trip together next week. You’re a real asset to me, isn’t she, Nate?”
“You bet. America still loves a healthy, good-looking, charismatic couple. And you two certainly fit that bill. Photogenically, we definitely have the advantage. But being easy on the eyes is not enough for a potential first lady. Now the candidate’s wife has to be well informed, a mover and a shaker in her own right. That’s why the preparation you do for our road shows can only help. Unless, of course, you were to say something stupid. But that would never happen, would it, Joy?”
“Never,” answered Joy with a tight smile. “And that’s why I’ve got to get in there and hit the position papers. Good night, gentlemen.”
Exiting the dining room, she paused on the blood-red Persian rug in the hallway as she listened to Nate continue his speculating. “Man, I wouldn’t want to be running KEY News tonight. Not only was Bill Kendall the network’s big draw, but there’s a real smear job running on Eliza Blake in The Mole. KEY has some big-time damage control to do.”
She hurried up the staircase, wanting to escape Win, the campaign and gossipy Nate Heller. Though Joy didn’t think that most people would want to admit it, Nate bragged that he read The Mole faithfully, along with The Star, The Enquirer and Spy. Nate said that a lot of the dirt had an element of truth somewhere.
Joy closed the bedroom door and locked it. Surrounded by the calming sea of textured off-white silk which padded the walls of the be
droom, she walked over to her dressing table, sat down on the tufted chair in front of it and looked into the mirror. The keen blue eyes assessed the face. A straight nose, a shapely mouth, a long, graceful neck. The kind of physical package which had learned early on its power to get what its owner wanted. As a child, a face adults had difficulty saying no to. As an adolescent, a face that teenage boys were attracted to. An animated face which the high school and college cheerleading squads had recruited. A face that had been selected as college homecoming queen. That face had worked in attracting the promising Haines Malcolm Wingard Jr. And, according to Nate Heller, that face was still working for her, this time in attracting the American voting public.
Tonight, the eyes were very sad.
The brass clock on the fireplace mantel read 9:15. The special would be on at 11:30. Joy undressed and went into the bathroom, turning on the shower full blast. She stood there and let the hot water rush over her. It always made her feel better.
How am I going to get through this?
She dried herself, carefully patting a spot on her upper thigh where she had recently had a mole removed. She wrapped herself in a silk robe and twisted a monogrammed towel around her hair. Another look in the mirror and she applied a creamy moisturizer to her face. Only 9:40.
Joy pulled back the heavy coverlet on the king-size bed and climbed in. Two thick folders were on the bedside table. The first was labeled CRIME. Ugh, she thought. Although an extremely important subject, influencing in one way or another almost every man, woman and child in the United States, crime and violence in America was debated ad nauseam and Joy was not in the mood to grapple with it tonight.
The other folder was marked AIDS. Nate Heller had come up with a plan which Win was going to announce in New York during the primary campaign there. Something called the AIDS Parade for Dollars. Joy scanned the papers.
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 4
