Let Me Whisper in Your Ear

by Mary Jane Clark

  I’m sure you have lots of good information for your story, but one thing that might not be in your research material is the fact that after they tore down the amusement park, Cliffside Park was infested with rats. They came swarming out of the old rides and buildings near the water and headed for new homes in the surrounding residential neighborhoods.

  Late at night, I would awaken to hear the rats scratching in the walls, though it sounded like they were actually in my bedroom. I’d bang the wall and would hear them scurry.

  The town Board of Health gave out poison, but at first, not wanting to have the rats die and rot in the house, we tried setting traps. Every morning, my father would wake me and tell me, “Clear the rats before your mother gets up,” and I’d dutifully dump two or three fat, slimy rodents into the garbage can. One day my mom was ironing in the living room when a hairless baby rat scrambled across the rug. That set my mother running out the front door screaming.

  Eventually, we resorted to the rat poison, putting the powder and pellets into the holes we had to cut in the walls and under the sinks, because, as you probably know, rats always head for water. My mom even had to put a telephone book on top of the closed toilet bowl seat, because the rats were getting in that way, too.

  The rat poison finally worked, but not before we had to cut away large portions of the ceilings to get out their rotting carcasses.

  Don’t know if this will be of any help to you, but I thought you might want to know.

  Russ

  73

  Tuesday, January 11

  COVERED WITH AN afghan his mother had crocheted, Ricky Potenza lay sprawled on the living room couch waiting for Hourglass to come on. He wanted to see who this “eyewitness” to Gwyneth Gilpatric’s death they were promising was. KEY had been promoting the show all week.

  He had turned off all the lights, wanting to concentrate solely on the television screen. He was relieved when his mother said she was tired and was going to bed early. Ricky did not want her to watch the program with him. He did not want her watching him. She was always watching him warily, staring at him, trying to figure him out. Didn’t she know by now that there was no use in that?

  The sand began sifting through the hourglass. Ricky felt the little hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  “Good Evening. I’m Eliza Blake, and welcome to Hourglass.”

  Eliza was much prettier and nicer than Gwyneth Gilpatric. He approved of the new host. “Last week, we told you that KEY News would be doing its own investigation into the death of correspondent Gwyneth Gilpatric and we promised you that tonight you would hear from an eyewitness to Gwyneth Gilpatric’s fatal fall from the rooftop of her New York City apartment building. This afternoon, I interviewed the eyewitness, and what she had to say indicates that Gwyneth Gilpatric did not commit suicide, did not jump to the Central Park West sidewalk. Gwyneth Gilpatric, according to our eyewitness, was pushed.” Eliza stared into the camera solemnly. “Tonight, on Hourglass, we’ll have an exclusive interview with an eyewitness to the murder of Gwyneth Gilpatric.”

  There is some justice in this world after all, thought Ricky as his lips formed a tight smile. The commercial for a new car that Ricky could never afford, much less get a license to drive, ran on the television screen. Ricky got up and went to the kitchen, poured some ginger ale and grabbed a bag of pretzels from the cabinet. This was going to be entertaining.

  74

  NOT ONLY HAD Joel forced Kitzi to talk, he had pressured her into allowing the Hourglass camera crew into their apartment. Viewers across the country were now peering into the place where she conducted the most private part of her life, her home.

  Kitzi cringed when she first saw herself appear on the television screen. Did she really look that old? The day-spa trips to Elizabeth Arden could only do so much. Sitting across from the luminous Eliza Blake certainly didn’t help any. In Kitzi’s eyes, the contrast between the two of them was sharp and depressing.

  Eliza introduced Kitzi, clarifying for viewers that she was the wife of the executive producer of Hourglass.

  “Now, Mrs. Malcolm, as I understand it, you were supposed to attend Gwyneth Gilpatric’s New Year’s Eve party?”

  “I had planned to, yes,” answered Kitzi. “But at the last minute, I didn’t feel well. I urged my husband to go on to the party without me.”

  “So you were here alone all evening?”

  Kitzi stroked the miniature gray poodle that sat curled in her lap. “Yes, except of course for Missy here. She kept me company.”

  Eliza looked down at the little dog and smiled.

  “Tell me, then, what happened.”

  “After Joel left, I went to bed and slept for a while. Until Missy here woke me and wanted to go out for her walk. I take her out every night after the local news is over at eleven-thirty. The cold air must have helped my headache, because after we got back, I felt a little better.”

  Eliza nodded for Kitzi to continue with her story. “What happened then?”

  “At just before midnight, I decided I would go out to the terrace and watch the fireworks over the park.”

  “Can we go out to the terrace now? Would you show us, Mrs. Malcolm?” Eliza urged.

  The two women rose from their seats and the camera followed them through the double doors, out to the terrace. Kitzi walked to the large telescope that stood planted on the terracotta tiles.

  “I was waiting for the fireworks to begin and decided to see if I could take a look across the park to Gwyneth’s apartment. I was curious to see if I’d be able to make out the faces of any of the people at the party.”

  “Could you?”

  “Not really. I could see figures making their way onto Gwyneth’s balcony. But her terrace wasn’t well lit.”

  “Please go on, Mrs. Malcolm.”

  Kitzi gazed across Central Park, gathering her thoughts.

  “The fireworks began. They were really quite spectacular, but then they always are as far as I’m concerned. Each burst lit up the sky in the most beautiful way. I looked into the telescope again, wanting to see if I could catch sight of Joel as one of the explosions lit up the terrace.”

  “Did you? Did you see your husband?”

  Kitzi shivered and she wrapped her arms around herself as they stood in the cold January wind that whipped them as they stood on the exposed Fifth Avenue balcony.

  “Do you want to go back inside, Mrs. Malcolm?” Eliza asked. “We can finish our interview inside.”

  Kitzi pushed back the hair that blew across her face. “No. It’s all right.”

  Kitzi pressed her right eye against the telescope’s viewing lens and pointed it in the direction of Gwyneth’s apartment. Then she stood back from the telescope and gestured for Eliza to take a look.

  “I’m looking at the roof,” Eliza said puzzledly.

  “I know,” Kitzi nodded. “The telescope skips a bit upward when you step away from it. That’s what must have happened that night. Because when I went back to look after training it on Gwyneth’s terrace just minutes before, I saw what you are seeing now, Eliza … the roof of Gwyneth Gilpatric’s building.”

  * * *

  Nancy and Mike Schultz sat together in their family room, engrossed in what they were watching.

  “Joel has got to be wetting his pants,” muttered Mike. “The ratings on this are going to be stupendous.”

  “Sshhh!” commanded Nancy, leaning forward to better hear the television.

  On the screen, Eliza Blake and Kitzi Malcolm were going back inside the apartment. They reseated themselves in the luxurious living room. Kitzi continued with her story.

  “I saw two people on the roof. Two figures, really. One I could tell was a woman. She was wearing a long, full skirt that was blowing in the breeze.”

  “That would have been Gwyneth?” Eliza offered.

  “Yes,” Kitzi affirmed. “I found out later that she had been wearing a full evening skirt.”

  “And the other person? Coul
d you tell if it was a man or a woman?”

  “Not really,” answered Kitzi. “It was just a form.”

  “What else did you see?” urged Eliza.

  “I saw a faint light pass between the two of them.”

  “What kind of light?”

  “I’m assuming it must have been a cigarette lighter. Gwyneth smoked, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” declared Eliza. “Could you make out the faces in the light of the flame?”

  Kitzi shook her head.

  “And then? What did you see next, Mrs. Malcolm?”

  Kitzi called to her dog and the poodle sprang to her lap. She gently stroked its soft gray fur.

  “They stood there for a minute or two.” Kitzi’s voice began to quiver. “And then one figure merged with the other. For a moment, it looked like there was just one person on the roof.”

  “Did it look like they were struggling?”

  “I couldn’t tell.” Kitzi’s hand trembled as she petted Missy.

  “Go on, please, go on,” Eliza prodded.

  “There was a huge burst of light as the fireworks finale began,” Kitzi recalled slowly. “And the next thing I saw was the figure with the sweeping, full skirt tumble over the side of the building.”

  * * *

  At the commercial break, Laura’s home telephone rang.

  “Are you watching this?” Francheska asked in amazement.

  “Of course I am.”

  “My God! Did you know this was going to be so good?”

  “There was gossip about it around the office, but Joel Malcolm wasn’t letting anyone but the people actually working on the piece late today look at it.”

  “Jesus, Laura. Murder! This whole thing gives me the chills. How the hell are you going to move into that apartment? It would creep me out to live there all alone after what happened.”

  Laura was thinking the same thing.

  75

  Wednesday, January 12

  THE MORNING AFTER the Hourglass broadcast, Alberto Ortiz wasted no time in talking to Kitzi Malcolm. But when he left her apartment, he knew no more than he had after watching Hourglass the night before. Kitzi recounted the same story that she had on the show.

  He had upbraided her for not coming forward earlier with what she had seen, but he knew that the fact of the matter was Kitzi would not be punished for holding out. If Ortiz pursued it, Kitzi’s son-of-a-bitch husband would get his attorneys in on the act and the most Kitzi would get was a slap on the wrist. Why bother expending the energy?

  Ortiz stopped at a sidewalk vendor’s kiosk and bought a hot pretzel. Looking at his watch, he realized he would have to hurry if he was going to finally interview Dr. Leonard Costello. The doctor had not been at all cooperative in meeting with him, giving one excuse after another. At last, grudgingly, Costello had set a definite time, between the doctor’s morning rounds at Mt. Olympia and the start of his afternoon office hours.

  As he steered the dark police sedan through Central Park toward Manhattan’s East Side, Ortiz wished he was further along in wrapping up the case.

  When he arrived at Dr. Costello’s office, several patients were already in the sitting room. Nurse Camille Bruno introduced herself.

  “Dr. Costello just called. He’s on his way. Would you like to have a seat in his office, Detective?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” the nurse offered cheerfully as she escorted him down the hallway.

  “Actually, that would be great,” said Ortiz appreciatively. “It’s cold out there.”

  While he waited, Ortiz scanned the framed diplomas and certificates that lined the office walls. Arranged to reassure potential patients, they were impressive. He admired the massive mahogany desk and the top-of-the-line computer that sat upon it.

  The office door opened and Camille Bruno entered with coffee mug in hand. An unsmiling Dr. Costello followed.

  Costello took a seat behind his desk and, once the nurse left the room, asked brusquely, “How can I help you, Detective?”

  He’s used to calling all the shots, the arrogant s.o.b., thought Ortiz, immediately disliking his interview subject.

  “As I told you a number of times on the phone, I’m working on the Gilpatric murder case.”

  Costello smirked. “You must have loved last night’s Hourglass, Detective Ortiz. It must be great to have KEY News finding your eyewitnesses for you.”

  Refusing to rise to the bait, Ortiz deliberately kept his expression from changing. Ignoring Costello’s dig, the detective proceeded.

  “I understand that Miss Gilpatric was your patient.”

  “‘Was’ is the operative word there, Detective.”

  “Can you explain that, please, sir?”

  “What’s there to explain? Once she was my patient, but at the time of her death, she wasn’t.”

  “And why was that?”

  “You’d have to ask her that, Detective.” Costello gripped a silver pen in his right hand to steady the tremor he felt beginning. “But, forgive me,” he said mockingly, “you can’t do that, can you?”

  76

  WHEN ROSE POTENZA asked Laura if her son could be interviewed at the KEY News studios, Laura was only too happy to comply. Though it could be better visually to have Ricky in his home environment, thereby giving the viewer a look into the way he lived, having Ricky come to the studio saved Laura and Matthew and the crew a schlepp out to Rockland County.

  The Potenzas arrived early and the camera crew was not quite set up. Laura offered to give them a short tour around KEY News. Ricky enthusiastically accepted.

  Maybe this will loosen him up a little, make him feel relaxed, thought Laura as she guided mother and son around the labyrinth of hallways that made up the Broadcast Center. As they entered the studio of the Evening Headlines, they bumped into Eliza Blake. Laura made the introductions, explaining to Eliza why the Potenzas were there.

  “I’ve been watching you on Hourglass,” said Ricky, his face blushing. “I like you much better than Gwyneth Gilpatric. I’m glad she’s gone.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ricky,” said Eliza smoothly, ignoring the cut to Gwyneth. “Good luck with your interview.”

  Ricky looked puzzled. “Won’t you be interviewing me?”

  “No. Actually, Laura will be interviewing you. Many times the producers do the actual interviewing. I’ll be getting involved later, after a lot of our elements and interviews are already recorded.”

  Disappointment clouded Ricky’s face.

  “Don’t worry, Ricky.” Eliza smiled reassuringly. “You are in very good hands with Laura. At this point, she knows much more about the Palisades Park story than I do. She’s really the one that you want interviewing you.”

  Ricky looked unconvinced, but Laura tried to ignore it as they continued on their tour. She took them through the control room with its myriad television monitors and intricate electronic keyboards that controlled audio, video and special effects. She pointed out the headquarters news desk, the command post for KEY news-gathering around the world, describing the various jobs of the dozen or so people who sat around it. She demonstrated the KEY News computer system, explaining how it was used to facilitate the delivery of news at an ever-increasing pace. “I know how to use a computer,” Ricky volunteered.

  When they reached the anchor platform from which Eliza Blake broadcast the news each evening, Laura suggested that Ricky try out the anchor chair.

  “You mean it?” Ricky asked, his face brightening.

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Ricky cast his eyes around the studio.

  “Don’t worry. No one will be watching. They are all busy doing their own things.”

  As Ricky mounted the anchor platform, Laura reflected at how childlike this middle-aged man was. What Ricky Potenza might tell her could make her piece. She didn’t want to talk down to him and insult him as she did the interview, but she was well aware of his vulnerability and fr
agility. She planned to be very careful.

  Matthew was waiting for them when they arrived in the Bill Kendall Room, the interview room named in memory of the legendary news figure who had once anchored the KEY Evening Headlines and led KEY News. The space was small, a dark curtain draping the wall serving as a background for the shot. Two chairs were arranged facing one another. The one for Ricky sat facing the camera. Laura’s sat across from his, but out of camera range.

  Rose Potenza looked more nervous than her son did as she watched the microphone being clipped to his shirt. Makeup artist Christina Weisberg delicately dabbed Ricky’s forehead with powder, assuring that his skin would not shine in the bright camera lights.

  “All ready, Ricky?” Laura asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “You know we’re doing a story on Palisades Amusement Park and the death of Tommy Cruz,” Laura began.

  Ricky nodded.

  “Tommy Cruz was your friend, Ricky?”

  Ricky nodded again, silently. Please, God, let him open up. We need some good sound bites, prayed Laura.

  “Can you tell me about Tommy, Ricky?” she urged gently, trying to draw him out.

  Ricky cast a look in the direction of his mother. Rose Potenza nodded and smiled encouragement to her son.

  “I’m really going to be on television?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Yes. If you have something important to tell us.”

  The foot on the end of Ricky’s crossed leg jiggled up and down and a determined expression came to his face.