Read Do You Want to Know a Secret? Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
“Look, let’s take this one step at a time. Tomorrow, I have a shoot all day. Why don’t you make a copy of the notes and bring them over here on Sunday. We’ll go over them and decide what to do next.”
Calmer now, Jean nodded. “I’ll make copies of everything. There’s more in there I didn’t even get to read . . . something about a judge, and a file named
JOY.ALL
. Maybe I should call Yelena.”
Eliza wanted to go to Bill’s old office right then. But another day wouldn’t matter.
Many heads turned
to stare as Eliza Blake entered the crowded Marriott ballroom. She stood in the doorway, erect and elegant in a form-fitting white strapless gown. Her hair was swept up in a French twist which showed to advantage her long, graceful neck and the twinkling diamond studs decorating her earlobes. She wore no other jewelry.
“So this is how it feels to make an entrance with a star,” Mack whispered in her ear.
Eliza smiled up at him in reply.
“You’re beaming,” he said.
“Mack, I actually feel glamorous tonight. I haven’t felt glamorous in a very long time.”
“I’m glad I’m here to see it.”
She took his hand. “You’ve certainly made your contribution to making me feel this way.”
He wanted to kiss her, long and hard. But that would have to wait. Later, after an evening of anticipation.
“Eliza. Mack.” Louise Kendall, smashing in a tuxedo-style suit with a very high slit in its long, black skirt, came to their side. “Eliza! You look wonderful. Thank you again, so much, for coming tonight. We’re sold out! Everyone wants to see and hear you!”
Louise steered them to one of the fifty round tables that dotted the festive room. Five hundred well-turned-out people had paid five hundred dollars a ticket to support New Visions for Living and its goal to open yet another group home for the developmentally disabled. The theme this year was “Black and White” and the ballroom was decked out accordingly. Black and white helium-filled balloons covered the ceiling, white dinner plates lay on top of black porcelain chargers, and flower arrangements of white blooms dominated each table. In a corner of the room, a white BMW coupe with a black convertible top preened seductively. Some lucky raffle winner was going to drive home in style tonight.
“I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve seated you next to William.”
“Fine. I’d especially like to get to know William a little better.”
Louise smiled gratefully. “Well, don’t let him chew your ear off.”
What a gentle soul the young man was! He cast his eyes down bashfully as Eliza extended her hand to him, but he managed to shake it firmly. Eliza complimented him on how handsome he looked dressed in his dinner jacket.
“You look pretty, too,” William said, blushing.
Eliza gently tried to draw him out and they talked for a while about his group home and his computer. “My dad and I worked on the computer,” he said quietly. “I miss my dad.”
“I miss your dad, too, William. Many people do.”
“They do? I thought I was the only one.”
Eliza felt the sting of tears. The poor kid. Bill was central to William’s life, as John had been central to hers. Just a few weeks after his father’s death, William must be hurting terribly.
She felt the faint stirrings of a headache.
Now, Louise was standing next to her chair.
“Eliza, have you met Father Alexander Fisco?”
“I remember you, Father. From Bill’s funeral. It was a beautiful Mass.”
The priest smiled, almost shyly, Eliza thought. “Thank you.”
Louise was going on. “We’re blessed to have Father Alec here tonight to give the invocation before dinner.”
Eliza made a mental note to talk to the priest before the evening was over. Father Alec took the seat on the other side of William.
People kept coming over to the table, wanting to be introduced to the anchorwoman. Louise did so enthusiastically. Satisfied diners this year would mean guaranteed ticket sales next year. Louise stood again, now accompanied by a slick-looking man in a tuxedo. Eliza finished swallowing her Fiorinal.
“Eliza, I’d like you to meet Judge Dennis Quinn. Dennis and Bill worked on fund-raising for New Visions years ago. After a hiatus, Dennis is back working with us again, and we couldn’t be more pleased.”
Eliza rose to shake the man’s hand, but she was interrupted by her young dinner partner.
“The man with the funny red hair.” William was staring at the judge with a dark scowl on his face.
Eliza looked back at the judge. His hair was jet black, streaked with a few grays.
William looked down at his plate and began speaking to himself. “Well, you’re gonna give it back every bit, how can I do that, we’ll figure out a way, well you’re gonna give it back every bit, how can I do that, we’ll figure out . . .”
No one moved. Louise tried to quiet the young man, placing his spoon in his hand, telling him, “It’s okay, William.”
Louise looked up apologetically.
Judge Quinn shrugged and smiled uneasily. “Poor kid,” he said.
William went back to eating his fruit cup. Father Alec stared at the judge.
How could late
June be so hot? It must be that global warming thing.
A blast of scorching air shot through the window at the toll plaza. The black Lincoln Continental pulled off the New Jersey Turnpike at 15W and headed for Route 280, the highway that led to Newark and points west.
The advance call this morning had been a good idea. The priest had not asked for identification. When asked about the possibility of confession, Father Alec had answered that the sacrament of reconciliation was celebrated in the cathedral every Saturday at 11:30. After learning that anonymity was essential, the priest had been very reassuring: it was unlikely that many people would be coming to confession on a sweltering Saturday morning.
“Father, I’d rather even you didn’t see me.”
“Fine.” The priest had not missed a beat. “I could wait for you in the confessional at the fourth station of the cross, at the right rear of the cathedral at 11:30. I won’t be able to see you from inside the box. And once you get inside, you’ll be able to see my outline through the screen, but I won’t be able to see you.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe he wasn’t. But the chance had to be taken. It was important to know if Father Alec was going to present a problem. A problem that would have to be dealt with.
Route 280 was a real garden path. Industrialized Newark was the garden. Driving this way every day would be really depressing. Fortunately, there was no need for that. Today would be a one-shot deal. Unless, of course, it was necessary to take care of the priest.
Getting off at Exit 14, the Lincoln turned right onto Clifton Avenue. Immediately after Branch Brook Park, the granite cathedral loomed. Heat waves rippled over the brick courtyard of Pope John Paul II Plaza, as the car passed slowly in front of the cathedral and then took a turn to the right onto the street that separated the church from the public high school. The rectory was attached to the rear of the cathedral.
Father Alec had explained that it would be necessary to enter the cathedral through the side door of the rectory. The beautiful, massive front doors of the cathedral were only open on Sunday and for major services. At all other times, anyone entering had to pass through the rectory lobby. A chance to be seen, but a chance that had to be taken.
The car clock read 10:45. Okay, find a place to park. The Lincoln continued down the street and pulled into a spot at the corner. It would be easy to pull out from here.
There was no one to pass on the short, hot walk back down the street to the rectory entrance. Inside the welcoming coolness, the teenager at the office window barely looked up. The youngster’s demeanor suggested that his policy was to answer, not ask, questions. Lucky.
A black and white sign indicated that the cathedral was to the right, down a long hallway flanked with stained glass depictions of rather dour-looking saints. Entering at the side of the main altar and looking around carefully, Dennis saw that the priest had been right. The cathedral appeared to be empty. There were no Catholics hanging out in church on this unusually hot Saturday in June.
The best thing to do would be to act like a tourist and slowly make the path around the interior walls of the building until the fourth station was located. A pious pilgrim would have walked across the width of the nave to begin the Way of the Cross on the eastern wall. Here, at the western end of the transept, was where the Savior’s sorrows ended.
Walking down the west aisle, the impious could begin at the fourteenth station, which was a multicolored mosaic of the lifeless body of the Christ being lowered into the tomb.
Ah, the last shall be first.
The next station was Jesus coming down from the cross, followed by Jesus expiring on the cross, Jesus being nailed to the cross, Jesus being stripped of his garments, Jesus falling a third time and, then, Jesus consoling the holy women of Jerusalem.
The vestibule was a welcome break from Jesus’ travails. It might also be a good place to hide and wait. Up the east aisle of the nave, to the fourth station, “Jesus Meets His Afflicted Mother.” The oaken confessional box was right beside it. No need to go farther. Find a place to hide where the confessional was visible.
11:00 A.M.
The vestibule provided as good a spot as any. No one would look askance at someone admiring the carvings there or reading a pamphlet on the cathedral basilica. A quick look down a short hallway off the vestibule provided a bonus. A small area with double doors. The slit between the doors provided a perfect view of the fourth station. It was very unlikely that anyone would come upon this spot. It was a good place to sit and watch.
Time passed. A small pleasant-looking, white-haired man with a large key ring attached to the belt loop of his workpants entered the nave and began making his way along the eastern wall of the church, methodically shining the marble floor with his large, electric floor polisher. At the same time, Father Alec, dressed in a black clergy shirt, crossed the church and stopped to genuflect in front of the main altar. He quickly caught up to the older man.