Almost True Confessions

by Jane O'Connor

  Chapter 10

  Done and done! Late that afternoon, Rannie finished copyediting the final pages of Portrait of a Lady: The Life of Charlotte Cummings. She put down her blue pencil and rolled her shoulders to uncrick them. Whoever Audio was, somehow he—or she—had gained entry to the Cummings château on Fifth Avenue. Rannie was sure of that. The description of the place read like an eyewitness account, not something pieced together from old articles in Vanity Fair or Architectural Digest. What ruse had permitted Audio to pass through those giant wrought-iron gates? The book also included an insert of photos, many taken inside the mansion. The copyright was in Ret’s name, but Rannie guessed the shots had been taken by Audio.

  As for revelatory stink bombs, none had been lobbed. Charlotte emerged a doting mother and grandmother, a caring wife, and a woman who was fiercely loyal to friends, loved a good party, and enjoyed doling out vast sums of money to worthy causes. Ret, again via Audio or perhaps Gery Antioch, had ferreted out a few bitchy tidbits from disgruntled former employees—the weekly supply of custom-made Egyptian cotton diapers Charlotte now wore, hand-delivered from an East Side lingerie shop; a beauty regimen that included facials made from oatmeal and feline uric acid. One maid had resented ironing Charlotte’s paper money so the bills were always crisp; another groused about polishing the soles of her shoes black to keep them looking out-of-the-box new.

  The cheap shots were saved for Silas. He was no looker. The photo confirmed the accuracy of Ret’s unkind description: “a major schlub—fleshy lips, drooping jowls, overhanging belly—an Alfred Hitchcock look-alike minus the mischievous twinkle.” Even worse, according to an old unnamed friend of Charlotte’s, “Silas was afflicted with farts that could wake the dead and so much body hair that, in a bathing suit, he looked like King Kong.” Yet Silas appeared to love Charlotte or at least treasured her in the same way he treasured owning the famous Master of the Agony altarpiece.

  Rannie tapped all the pages of the manuscript together into a neat stack. It seemed more and more far-fetched to attribute a link between the contents of this book and Ret Sullivan’s murder. Once again she glanced at the corrected acknowledgments page. She’d love to know who Gery Antioch was and learn the identity of Audio. Rannie’s guess—Audio was a woman. If frenemies and old retainers of Charlotte’s were going to spill secrets, it was harder to imagine them dishing with a man.

  Suddenly, it crossed Rannie’s mind that Ellen might have been Ret’s “ears.” After all, Ellen and Ret had been in constant touch while Ret was writing the book. More to the point, Ellen excelled at coaxing secrets from people. At S&S she was everyone’s confidante, the first to know who was getting divorced, giving notice, about to undergo chemo. It was to Ellen’s office that Rannie had fled upon first learning of the Nancy Drew recall. You trusted Ellen when she promised to keep “in the vault” whatever had just been divulged. Rannie could envision a system whereby Ret, in the confines of her apartment, researched names of Charlotte Cummings’s friends, employees, and such, then sent Ellen out to do the pumping. Yes, Ellen had a sympathetic ear; she’d make a talented “Audio.”

  Rannie tallied her hours of work and, since Ellen had probably already landed in Martinique or Mustique or whatever fantastique island she was headed to, Rannie put in a call to Ellen’s assistant.

  “I’m done. Want to send a messenger to pick up the manuscript? I’ll enclose a bill.” She was not at all eager to return to S&S; the wound of her firing, though no longer gaping, still felt much too fresh to visit corporate HQ.

  “Sorry, Rannie. This is Book X. No messenger. Ellen was very clear: you have to hand-deliver it.”

  Rannie didn’t bother asking if a limo would be coming this time. She said okay, then secured the manuscript in its aluminum case and headed out, MetroCard in hand. The nearest subway station was at Broadway and 110th Street; however, just as Rannie was about to descend into its bowels, she stopped and eyed the Kinko’s copying store on the corner. Instead of continuing down the subway stairs, her feet redirected her into the store.

  “I need a copy of something that’s long and I need it fast,” she found herself saying to the elderly clerk and after his “no problem” response, she went through the laborious process of unlocking the case.

  “Jesus, lady, what’s in there? State secrets? I don’t need Homeland Security busting in here.”

  Rannie smiled winningly. “No. A book manuscript. The author is very protective.”

  In five minutes, to the tune of $50.25 charged to Visa, she had her copy nestled in her tote. Why had she done this? As the number 1 train sent her hurtling downtown, Rannie was hard pressed to fathom her own reasoning. I am a mystery to myself, she blithely told herself, as if that settled the matter. Was part of her hoping that this soon-to-be bestseller did have a connection to Ret’s murder? That somewhere, buried in its pages, was a clue that she and only she might ferret out upon rereading? Yeah, that sounded a lot closer to the mark.

  It was otherworldly being back at Simon & Schuster, whose offices were housed in one of the art deco citadels in Rockefeller Center. It had always lifted her spirits to pass through the gilt and mosaic portal of this landmark building. Now she felt demeaned having to sign in at the lobby security desk and present ID to a guy who knew perfectly well who she was, who had seen her trudge in and out of the building for ten years.

  Upstairs, one former coworker ducked down a side hall on spotting her. “It’s not like cooties. I’m not contagious,” Rannie almost hollered. Others greeted her either way too heartily, exclaiming how great she looked, “so relaxed,” or else evinced a surplus of furrowed-brow concern.

  Rannie kept it light. “So far, I’m remaining solvent with freelance,” she said over and over again, although passing her old office, which now belonged to some marketing hotshot, was hard. Very hard. For a decade she had dutifully parked her butt in that same gray-upholstered swivel chair behind that same blond-wood desk that now sported several professionally taken photos of a curly-haired toddler as well as a miniature Zen sand garden with rocks and a little rake. Never in her life had Rannie ever owned an office toy!

  To be sure, she had copyedited a lot of dreck in the course of her career, but this was also the office in which she had proofed the pages of a first novel nominated for a National Book Award as well as countless other worthy books, books that people took seriously. Corporate playthings did not belong here. Then Rannie stopped herself. No. She was the one who didn’t belong here.

  Tears about to prick her eyes, Rannie hurried off to the cube just down the hall where Ellen’s assistant sat. What was her name? Rannie looked unsuccessfully for a nameplate.

  The assistant was on the phone but held up a finger indicating the call was ending. “She’s not back till next Monday. And she wants a real vacation.” A pause. “Yes, from you too.” A half-exasperated, half-indulgent sigh escaped from the assistant. “That’s not true! I am diligent about phone messages. Yes, especially yours. Look, Larry, I think she gets home sometime over the weekend. Try then.”

  Call over.

  “Hey, Rannie. Thanks for getting here so fast.” The assistant—Diana? Dana?—took the aluminum case. “So? Can you at least give me a hint what’s in here? Everybody is saying Ret Sullivan wrote it!” She waited expectantly.

  “Sorry. Can’t say. Ellen made me swear on a stack of bibles.” Rannie handed in her bill. Then she made tracks for the elevator. It couldn’t come fast enough.

  At first there had been countless consolation calls and e-mails from colleagues, all to the same tune of general outrage caused by her dismissal. If Rannie could be booted out after ten years for some jackass’s mistake, then nobody was safe. But of course nobody was safe, not in this economy. Now four months later, general outrage had been supplanted by discomfort at her very presence. And it didn’t surprise Rannie, not a bit. In the world of an office, once you were gone, you were so gone. At least she had presented a cheerfully sane, “I’m okay—really!” demeano
r to one and all, she consoled herself. Then her eye caught something hanging off the sleeve of her sweater. A long thread?

  No. It was a spiraling length of dental floss.

  The elevator door swished open. Well, everyone knew she was still orally hygienic.

  Chapter 11

  On the uptown number 1 train Rannie stood and glared down at a man reading the Post, his knees spread so far apart that he took up almost three seats. Rannie could tell he saw her; still he didn’t budge. What was with these guys? Were they trying to tell you their balls were so ginormous that it was physically impossible for them to sit like a normal human being?

  Undaunted, Rannie wedged herself next to him. The front page of the Post was practically in her face, the headline story something about an attack that morning in Central Park. A woman dead. How swiftly Ret Sullivan had been knocked off the top spot in the tabloid hierarchy. Rannie wondered how long the Post would even bother to keep running articles on her murder without any breaking news.

  It wasn’t until the train was pulling into her stop at 110th Street that Rannie thought about the snippet of conversation she’d overheard at S&S. Ellen’s assistant had been talking to a Larry. All Rannie could think of was Larry Katz. Of course, there were other Larrys in the universe. Yet the assistant’s tone of voice, annoyed yet entertained, was exactly the reaction Larry elicited from women.

  Strange that Ellen, Larry Katz, and Rannie herself were all a mere one degree of separation from Ret. Of course, no world was smaller than that of publishing. And on the surface, the connections among them seemed perfectly innocuous, as plain as overlapping circles in a Venn diagram.

  Walking home, Rannie made a stop at Gristedes and soon was lugging three heavy grocery bags down 108th Street when her cell buzzed. Weighed down as she was, Rannie waited until she was in her apartment to retrieve the message. Nate. Reminding her that he had a long yearbook meeting after school and wouldn’t be home for dinner.

  Rannie speed-dialed Tim. “How does dinner for two sound?”

  It sounded fine to him, and as promised he arrived on the dot of six, tulips in hand. “Found a spot right in front of your building!” he crowed, his parking karma being something he continually bragged about. Rannie set the flowers in a green pottery pitcher on her dining table. Then, while water boiled for linguine and white clam sauce simmered on the stove top, emitting a pleasant garlicky aroma, they watched the local news. The top story echoed what Rannie had glimpsed on the front page of the Post, the Central Park attack.

  A reporter in a down coat, a wool scarf knotted noose-like around her neck, intoned solemnly into her mic, “Living in New York City, crime is no rarity. Yet a brutal murder shocks us all.” The mangled grammar caused Rannie’s nose to wrinkle involuntarily, as if she’d smelled something rotten—“crime” didn’t live in New York City, people did.

  “A bike rider discovered the body around ten thirty this morning. The police are still not saying how the victim died,” the reporter continued, brushing away a strand of blond hair blowing across her mouth. “The attack took place only a few yards from where I am standing, here in Central Park by the Ross Pinetum.”

  Rannie knew the area well from when Nate was in Little League; the Pinetum was a half-acre stand of evergreens bordering the northwestern edge of the baseball fields.

  “According to police, the victim was white, dark haired, in her thirties. She was wearing a red running suit. If anyone has information, please call this NYPD hotline number or go to WABC.com.”

  The Pinetum was not a secluded spot, although the heavy rain in the morning would have kept away everyone except fanatic joggers. Still, had no one been nearby to hear screams? Rannie turned to Tim with questioning eyes, but he shook his head. “Sorry. All I know is what we’re hearing right now.”

  Rannie had been the victim of a mugging herself, at knifepoint. Her purse was taken as well as her father’s Rolex wristwatch, one that she’d worn every day since he’d died. Still, she had to count herself lucky, especially since she’d been foolhardy enough (“fucking insane” was Tim’s blunt assessment) to be walking alone down her sketchy block late at night. This woman was out during daylight hours when Central Park was considered an urban playground. After the reporter mentioned that no identification was on the body, Rannie turned to Tim again. “You think this was a robbery?”

  “No. Who goes for a run loaded with cash?”

  Rannie nodded, acknowledging the logic. “But isn’t mid-morning a little early for violent crime?”

  “Go figure what sets off some whack job.” Tim reminded her of a similar attack in the park, years earlier. “Nice spring day, a woman is out for a walk, enjoying the weather, and suddenly she gets her head bashed in by some psycho who’s off his meds. It was right near a playground, filled with kids, mothers, nannies. No one heard anything. Horrible but it happens.”

  Over dinner, Tim turned to more mundane topics and recounted his recent trip to Amherst with his son, Chris, a good student and an even better basketball player, who was applying there. Tim had tuition worries and was contemplating part-time security work to bring in more money. “I’ve already got a second mortgage, and the bar is way down for the year.” He smiled ruefully at Rannie. “I mean, you know the middle class is hurting when cops are cutting back on their booze. . . . Amherst better come through with a nice hefty scholarship.”

  Rannie nodded and held up crossed fingers.

  Tim was about to take another forkful of linguine. “You can uncross your fingers. I got something way better going. My mom’s at Mass every day, lighting a candle to St. Aloysius. He’s the guy who looks out for students.”

  “Chris doesn’t need a miracle. He’ll get a good package.” Then Rannie remembered Daisy Satterthwaite’s miracle and, while Tim finished off a second helping of linguine, she told him about the painting of St. Godelieve.

  “Saint who?”

  “She’s the patron saint of sore throats.”

  “Hold it right there. That’s St. Blaise’s gig. After twelve years of parochial school, one thing I know is my saints. And I never heard of this—”

  “Godelieve. Her mother-in-law strangled her.” Rannie started clearing the plates. Tim followed her into the kitchen with the glasses and silverware. “Daisy seemed very sure of her facts. She believes praying to St. Godelieve cured her throat cancer.”

  “Probably some Protestant saint,” Tim said dismissively.

  “And what? That means she’s a knockoff, like a handbag?”

  “Exactly.” He said it with such finality that Rannie had no choice but to slap him, except that he caught her wrists before she could land a blow. “Uh, uh, uh. We don’t hit. We use our words, Miranda.”

  Then after swatting her with a dishcloth, Tim returned to the dining room where he wiped crumbs off the table. “You make a decent clam sauce,” he said.

  “Grazie, signore.” Rannie curtsied and blew out the candles. Cleaning up after dinner—it was all so ordinary and yet somehow a turn-on. Tim was relaxed in a way that few men were, or at least the ones Rannie knew. He wasn’t out to prove anything. He was what he was—utterly himself.

  Since her son would not be returning anytime soon, Rannie was all ready with a corny come-on—“And now for dessert—moi!”—when the phone rang.

  “Rannie, listen, it’s Dina.”

  Dina? A couple of synapses fired. Dina—that was the name of Ellen’s assistant. “Oh, hi!”

  “I need you to tell me I’m being crazy.”

  “What about?”

  “I’m worried about Ellen. After you left the office, I tried reaching her. I texted, called, e-mailed. I swore I’d let her know as soon as you handed in the manuscript. I left like a zillion messages.”

  “Maybe she didn’t think a reply was necessary.” Or else Ellen may have hooked up with a cabana boy tout de suite and the manuscript was no longer her number one priority. “Where is she? Martinique?”

  “Yeah. Look. I called t
he B&B. She never checked in. Her flight landed on time. So she should have arrived an hour later, an hour and a half tops.”

  “You’re sure about the name of the B&B?”

  “No, I wasn’t. So I tried googling anything that sounded even vaguely like Island Winds and called the places.” Dina’s voice rose an octave. “And then after work I was at a bar and something came on TV about a woman who got killed in the park this morning. It would be like Ellen to make sure she got in a run before a long flight. . . . Rannie, please, tell me I am being crazy.”

  “Everything okay?” Tim asked from the couch, where he was leafing through the newspaper, but Rannie batted away the question with her free hand. Suddenly she could feel a couple of clammy sweat beads trickling down her armpits. Anxiety was the most contagious disease, bar none. As for whether it was crazy to worry about Ellen, Rannie was not the best judge. Leaping to worst possible consequences was the only sport at which she excelled. Years ago, whenever one of her kids disappeared from sight at the playground for more than a moment, she’d instantaneously picture their face on the milk carton and herself on TV tearfully pleading for their return. Nevertheless, she took a calming breath now and tried to think rationally. Ellen could certainly be at some other, ungoogled B&B or maybe Ellen had gone to Martinique with a guy—the unnamed insignificant other—and the room was registered under his name. She tried out that one on Dina.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Or maybe Ellen never left the city. Maybe she felt she deserved a week of mental health days and is holed up in her apartment as we speak, watching DVDs, eating ice cream from the carton, and blissfully ignoring all communication from the outside world.” Rannie was on a roll now. “Have you called her building?”

  “Yeah. The guy on duty buzzed up but got no answer and I felt weird asking him to check the apartment. Maybe I should have. You think I should have, Rannie?”

  “I think there is probably some perfectly innocuous reason to explain all this.”