Laura thought of the dark basement with the steep, chipped wooden stairs that led down to it. She pictured Matthew and the camera crew carrying their gear over the worn carpeting in the living room, through the tight kitchen and down the old stairs to the musty-smelling cellar. What would they think, knowing that this was where she came from? It shouldn’t matter what they thought. Though she was disappointed in herself for feeling this way, she did care.
Even more worrisome was what her father might do and say. If he drinks that day, I’ll die, she thought. If Emmett drank, he would slur his words and rant on and on. Even worse was the possibility of his getting angry and mean.
Please, God, let him have one of his good days.
This story idea of hers, her ticket to Hourglass, had seemed like such a good one.
She knew the town, knew the history of the amusement park, and had always been intrigued by the stories she had heard about the little boy who had disappeared that last summer. Why hadn’t she foreseen how complicated it could become for her personally? Nothing that involved Emmett was ever easy. Why don’t I ever learn?
Laura said good night to Matthew, freshened her makeup and left the Broadcast Center, hailing a cab on the cold dark street outside. She got into the yellow car, told the driver her destination and, settling back onto the black plastic seat, heaved a deep sigh.
Definitely not a good first day.
52
THE RAVEN-HAIRED BEAUTY sat at the bar at Picholine on West 64th Street, waiting for her friend and savoring her vodka martini. She was well aware that she was getting the long onceover from almost every man who walked into the restaurant. She didn’t bother trying to pull down the hem of her dress, which had risen just a bit too high on her crossed, shear-black-stocking-clad thigh.
You never knew when you were going to meet someone interesting and it paid to go to good places. That was how she had met Leonard. She knew the guy was a sleazeball when he tried to pick her up at the bar at the Carlyle, while his wife sat unsuspectingly at the hotel restaurant nearby. But she had given him her phone number anyway, swayed by his rugged good looks, his beautiful suit, an intoxicating aftershave and the Rolex watch gleaming from beneath his starched white cuff. What a stupid fool she had been!
She had spent two years of her life on Leonard. Two years too much.
Francheska drained the last of her drink from its stemmed glass and ordered another. She rolled the olive around in her mouth a few times before she bit down, chewed and swallowed it. Where was Laura?
Her momentary exasperation changed to admiration tinged with envy when she thought of her best friend. Laura had spent the last years paying her dues and now she was reaping the rewards of her labors. KEY News Hourglass producer!
Francheska had watched her friend work long hours, in the beginning, for little money. After she got involved with Leonard, Francheska had all the time in the world to do as she pleased, but Laura had been devoting herself to her broadcast journalism career. Francheska had partied and shopped and vacationed. Laura had spent her hours at KEY News.
Not that Laura didn’t like to go out and have a good time. On the contrary, Laura could party with the best of them. Yet Laura never let a good time interfere with her first priority, her career. Francheska wished now that she had been more like her former roommate. But it had been easier to let Leonard pay the freight and sit back and enjoy the good life.
Unfortunately, she had fallen in love with Leonard Costello. Fatal mistake.
Francheska took another sip of martini and wished that she had brought along a pack of cigarettes. She was trying, once again, to quit. But she knew that her abstinence wouldn’t last. Giving up smoking was biting off too much right now, if she was going to go through with her plan to finally break it off with Leonard.
The New Year’s Eve encounter had been the last straw. She never wanted to feel that humiliation and hurt again. Besides, weren’t there plenty of other fish in Manhattan’s very wealthy sea?
“Oh, Francheska, I’m so, so sorry I’m late.” Laura stood beside her, cheeks flushed either from hurrying or from the cold outside.
“No problema, honey.” Francheska kissed her friend on the cheek. “I’m used to it. Check your coat and let’s get to our table. I haven’t eaten all day and I’m starving.”
The maître d’ escorted them beneath the glistening chandeliers to their linen-covered table in the main dining room. The waiter took their wine order and the women perused the menu.
Laura chose the tournedos of salmon, Francheska the roasted rack of lamb.
“Well, how was the first day?” asked Francheska, as she appraised the wonderful breads in the basket the waiter had placed on the table.
Laura groaned.
“That good, huh?”
“Oh, Francie. I hope I haven’t made a big mistake,” and Laura proceeded to explain Joel Malcolm’s plans for Hourglass.
“He sounds like one cold fish to me,” said Francheska, finishing the martini she had started at the bar. “I know they say it’s a cutthroat business, but didn’t I hear somewhere that Malcolm and Gwyneth Gilpatric were having an affair? You’d think the guy would be a little more delicate and a lot more upset about her death than what you’ve just described to me.”
The waiter arrived with their appetizers. Laura cut into the silver-dollar-sized truffles drizzled with wild mushroom puree. Ecstasy.
“I’m probably the one who told you they’d had an affair. It was common knowledge at KEY. I don’t know if it was still going on or not. But Joel certainly didn’t look heartbroken this afternoon. I had heard stories about Joel’s fanaticism about the show, but I swear, Francie, he was almost salivating as he described how he wanted to capitalize on Gwyneth’s death.
“Speaking of salivating…” Laura’s voice trailed off as the entrées were set before them.
Laura’s salmon was prepared with a horseradish crust and garnished with cucumbers and salmon caviar. Francheska’s succulent lamb was served with potato goat cheese gratin and artichokes Barigoule.
As the women savored their fabulously delicious meals, Laura also told Francheska about Matthew Voigt and her uneasiness with the planned interview of Emmett. After the waiter presented the famed Picholine cheese tray for their selections, Laura apologized to her friend for monopolizing the conversation.
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” said Francheska. “But I do have one piece of news that I know you’ll be thrilled about. I’m breaking it off with the ‘Facemaker.’”
“That’s great, Francie. I’m absolutely thrilled. I won’t add that it’s about time.”
“Good, don’t.”
“Why now, though?”
Francheska shrugged. “Well, I figure that now that you aren’t doing obits anymore, you don’t need Leonard’s inside skinny about who’s in the hospital ready to kick, which I’d so generously whisper in your ear every now and again.”
Laura laughed. “Yeah, I have to admit, Dr. Costello was a terrific, if unwitting, source. I got quite a few obituaries done well ahead of time because of him. He was a big help to my career. Hey, Francie, speaking of careers, what are you going to do without your funding?”
Francheska finished the last of her expresso and sat back in her chair.
“Come on, Laura. Don’t nag me tonight about getting a job.”
53
Tuesday, January 4
IT WAS ALMOST ten o’clock before the supper was finished, the kitchen cleaned up, the homework completed, the fight to turn off the television won, the baths done, the teeth brushed and the kids safely tucked in bed for the night. Nancy Schultz knew she should get on the treadmill and walk two miles, but she couldn’t make herself. Her thighs had gone to hell, but she was too tired to care.
Her life had become a treadmill of its own. When Mike lost his job, she had to let the cleaning woman go and the house had not looked the same since. If the home was a reflection of the self, Nancy had only to look around to know she
was in bad shape.
Not that Mike, sweet guy that he was, ever complained. He hadn’t married her for her housekeeping abilities, he told her. Nancy asked herself sometimes if Mike wondered now why he had married her. She knew that she was less fun than she used to be and she hated herself for it. Every time she vowed to herself to be more upbeat and positive, her resolution was short-lived. She found herself worrying constantly and always feeling stressed. Mike had suggested she get some therapy, but she could not bring herself to pick up the phone and make an appointment.
She consoled herself that she was just like many women in America today. Oprah wouldn’t be doing so many shows on overwhelmed females if there weren’t a big audience for the subject.
Mike was in the dining room, piles of bills and paperwork spread out on the table before him.
“How are we doing?” she asked her husband, taking a seat on a chair beside him.
Mike leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “Holding our own, honey. But the Christmas bills haven’t come in yet.”
“Mike, what are we going to do? You make a good salary, but we’re always living from paycheck to paycheck. We never seem to get ahead. I wish I contributed more. The sub jobs are so infrequent and the piddling amount I make at Macy’s is nothing.”
Mike leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Listen, it’s enough that you work part-time. You can’t be worrying about this all the time. We are going to be fine. We decided when we had the kids that it would be best for you to be home to raise them.”
“That was before everything happened.”
Mike went back to his checkbook, signaling that he didn’t want to talk about that subject. They had gone over it again and again until Mike finally declared that he wasn’t going to talk about his Hourglass job loss anymore. They had to move on, he said. Bitterness over how he had been treated at KEY News was poisoning their lives.
“You’re right,” said Nancy, putting her arm around her husband. Besides, she thought, Gwyneth Gilpatric is dead now. There is no one left to hate.
54
THE THEME MUSIC played and the hot-pink sand began to pour from the waist of the large hourglass that dominated the television screen as the first broadcast since Gwyneth Gilpatric’s death started to air on the KEY Television Network. The hourglass faded from view and Eliza Blake appeared on the screen.
“Good evening, I’m Eliza Blake, and this is Hourglass.”
Joel Malcolm watched from the executive producer’s seat on the platform behind director J. P. Crawford in the control room. Crawford and his crew of assistant directors and technicians sat at their multi-instrumented control panels, dozens of television screens positioned on the wall in front of them.
This is going to work out just fine, thought Joel. Eliza looks wonderful. She has beauty, brains and presence. And something, at least for now, that Gwyneth hadn’t. Youth.
“Tonight’s broadcast will be a tribute to Gwyneth Gilpatric, the host of Hourglass since its inception ten years ago. Gwyneth, a legend in this business, fell to her death from the top of her New York City apartment building on New Year’s Eve. Police are investigating. And we here at KEY News have resolved that we will use all the resources at our disposal to try to find out what happened to Gwyneth Gilpatric. Each week we will keep you informed on the progress of the investigation, beginning next week with an eyewitness to what happened.”
Joel couldn’t wait to see the ratings.
55
ANGRILY, ALBERTO ORTIZ snapped off his television.
KEY News was promising an eyewitness to Gwyneth Gilpatric’s death. Damn them!
Did those pompous bastards think they were above the law? They were withholding information regarding a crime!
56
Wednesday, January 5
THE HOURGLASS OFFICE was abuzz about the overnight ratings, the highest ever gotten. Joel was strutting around the halls, shaking hands and backslapping like a proud papa.
Uncomfortable, Laura stayed in her office, making calls on her story. Her first was to Maxine Bronner. She explained that she was trying to find Ricky Potenza.
“I remember you saying that you still exchanged Christmas cards with his mother. Would you mind giving me her address?”
Laura could hear Maxine’s hesitation in the momentary silence on the telephone line.
“Maxine?”
“I don’t know, Laura. That poor woman has been through so much.”
“How about this?” Laura suggested. “Would you like to call her yourself and explain what I’m working on? See if she would be amenable to my contacting her?”
“I guess that would be all right,” Maxine answered uncertainly. “I’ll call information and see if her number is listed.”
57
SHE WAS PAID until the end of the month and Delia was faithfully coming to work each morning at Gwyneth’s apartment, though why she did not know. The copy of Gwyneth’s will that the big-shot lawyer had sent her made it very clear how little Gwyneth valued her.
The Christopher Radko ornament collection. Big deal. Delia hated those damn things. They were so delicate and so easily breakable. Just something else to dust and take care of. How stupid she had been to ooh and aah over them in front of Madam. Now they were her big inheritance.
The ornaments and nothing more. Delia seethed as she thought about it. In the domestic community, you were always hearing about wealthy people who provided generously in their wills for their faithful servants. But not Gwyneth Gilpatric. Seven years of dependable service meant little to her.
But, by God, Laura Walsh had meant something to her. The apartment and everything in it was now Laura’s, along with more money than Delia could get her mind around.
Had Laura put up with Gwyneth’s demands and bossiness? Delia doubted it. Not from what she had observed the few times she had seen them together. No, Gwyneth was all sweetness and light as far as Laura Walsh was concerned.
But, as Delia reflected on it, had she really expected Gwyneth to come through for her? There had never been a warm relationship between them. Gwyneth had always made it very clear that she was the mistress of the house and was not looking for a friendship with her maid. Delia had never been comfortable around her boss.
And Gwyneth was sharp. Had she sensed that Delia was envious?
Well, who wouldn’t be jealous? Delia asked herself as she walked across the expansive living room and looked out the huge windows down at Central Park. Gwyneth lived like royalty. Who wouldn’t want to live like Gwyneth did? It had been fun to pretend, when she was alone in the apartment, that it was her own. Fun to be around all the luxurious things. Fun to try on Gwyneth’s clothes. Fun to dream.
Now reality had come crashing in. She had to go looking for another job, unless Laura Walsh wanted her to stay on.
It wasn’t fair.
Delia made up her mind. She had been holding back what she knew, not telling that Detective Ortiz all she had seen.
She went to the telephone and dialed information, praying for and yet dreading to get the telephone number.
58
ROSE POTENZA PULLED her gray sweater closer around herself as she watched her son concentrating on the jumbo jigsaw puzzle spread over the living room coffee table. Ricky seemed to be doing better lately. Rose didn’t want to rock the boat.
Her first reaction to Maxine Bronner’s telephone call was fear. Bringing up the old nightmare could not be good for Rose. But Maxine had encouraged her to at least speak with producer Laura Walsh, assuring Rose that Laura could be trusted and would respect her wishes and right to privacy if she should decide that it was best that Ricky not be contacted.
Over the telephone, Rose liked Laura. She had expected the newswoman to be pushy, aggressive and intrusive. Instead, she found her to be sensitive and concerned about Ricky’s well-being.
“Mrs. Potenza, I must tell you that Hourglass is going to do this story, whether or not we interview Ricky. So
I don’t want you to feel any pressure on this. On the other hand, couldn’t this possibly be a positive thing for Ricky? A chance to speak out about his friend, about what he remembers of him and that time? A catharsis of sorts?”
“Ricky has never opened up about Tommy’s disappearance. Not even now, now that they found … what was left of Tommy.”
“So Ricky knows Tommy’s remains were found?” Laura asked.
“Yes, he saw it on the news. He watches television all the time. I couldn’t keep it from him. Actually, it’s ironic that you are working on this story and calling us. Ricky is a big Hourglass fan. He’s watched almost every episode for years. He won’t miss it.”
“Maybe he would like to be part of one of our stories?” Laura asked hopefully. “Would it hurt to ask Ricky? You have my word, Mrs. Potenza. I won’t push him.”
Rose had hung up, promising to think about it. She called Ricky’s doctor at Rockland Psychiatric Center. He had no clear-cut answer for her, but suggested that possibly Ricky, so fascinated by television, might open up for the camera. It could be beneficial for him. But then again, it might be traumatic. As usual, the decision on what to do with her forty-two-year-old son was up to her.
“Ricky?”
“Yeah, Mom?” her son answered, not looking up from his puzzle.
“I want to talk to you about something, honey.”
Maybe it would help. She prayed it wouldn’t hurt.
59
DETECTIVE ORTIZ WAS ushered into the executive producer’s office and offered coffee by Claire Dowd. He politely refused.
The light that streamed in from the large plate-glass window forced Ortiz to squint to see the three KEY News lawyers lined up on the leather sofa. Joel Malcolm was sitting behind his desk, but rose to shake the detective’s hand. He gestured to Ortiz to take the seat across from his desk.
Let Me Whisper in Your Ear Page 12
