Lake News (10 page)

Her eyes went wide. She loved her work here, she needed the money, and
she hadn't done anything wrong!
Frightened, she asked, “For how long?”

“I don't know.”

“Until this blows over? Until people forget?”

“That may take a while.”

The way he said it, the way he stared at her without blinking, told her more. “A permanent leave of absence,” she said, because the whole situation was so absurd, why not that?

“An indefinite leave. Just until you find a job somewhere else.”

She stared right back, angry at him now and not caring that he knew. He could play with words all he wanted, but yes, he
was
firing her. She tried to see it from his side. All she saw was a man who didn't have the courage to stand up for someone he believed in.

The bottom line, of course, was that he didn't believe in her.

Fitting her sunglasses to her nose, she left the office. She refused to think about the a cappella groups that she had brought so far, refused to think about the soccer player who couldn't
play the piano for beans but was learning something about music. She refused to think about the dozens of students she had taught and enjoyed in the last three years, and instead let her anger carry her to the front door; but sentimentality welled up anyway.

It died the minute she saw reporters on the steps. They came to life, surging toward her as she walked.

“Why are you leaving so soon?”

“How does the Winchester School stand on this matter?”

“Have you been in touch with the board of trustees?”

She tried to blot them out, but the questions were too close, too loud, too galling.

“Is the stutter the reason you won't talk with us?”

“Is it true that the New Hampshire charge was for grand theft?”

“Were you having sex with your accomplice?”

Revulsed, Lily shot a look at the man asking that question, wondering what hole he had slithered from. “That's disgusting,” she murmured and walked quickly on, ignoring another round of questions until a familiar voice said, “Are you prepared to apologize to the parents of Winchester students? They feel deceived.”

It was bald-headed, baby-faced Paul Rizzo. She eyed him sharply. “How do you know?”

“I've interviewed them. They're paying big bucks to educate their kids, and they think it's inappropriate for someone with your history to be teaching here. Would you comment on that?”

She shook her head and returned to ignoring the questions, but she couldn't
shake a sense of hurt. Yes, those parents were paying a lot of money, but if the point was a good education, she had delivered—and she hadn't been overpaid, that was for sure, not given her salary, not given the hours she put in. Those parents had a good deal.

They should have known it, should have appreciated it, should have felt even a small measure of loyalty. Same with Michael. Same with the board of trustees.

Besides, allegations were unproven charges. What about being innocent until proven guilty?

By the time she got home, she was angry again. She let herself into the lobby, all but closing the door in the face of Paul Rizzo, who had been breathing down her neck. She strode to the elevator, pressed the button hard, and listened for the clank and whirr inside that would tell her it was on its way. When the sounds grew more distant, she looked at the panel. The elevator had risen to the top floor.

Tony Cohn lived there along with five other tenants, but Murphy's Law said that he would be the one en route to the lobby, so she was prepared when the door finally opened.

He did a double take when he saw her, stepped out of the elevator, glanced at the front door, and swore. “Do you know what an imposition all this is?” he asked in a voice she had never heard. “I rent here for the prestige of it. Forget that now.”

She was so taken aback that she didn't think to stutter. “I didn't ask them to come.”

“No, but thanks to you they're here. Do you know that I've gotten calls? Phone calls? The
Post, Cityside,
even my own friends, wanting to know about you.” He
swore again, stepped back into the elevator, with her in it now, and punched the garage button before she could punch her own. She had no choice but to go down first.

She retreated into a corner of the elevator, folded her arms on her chest, and wondered what she had ever seen in Tony Cohn. Scowling, he wasn't attractive at all—and he had never given her the time of day, not really.

He snorted and said, “When I took this apartment I had the realtor check out the other tenants. The slate was supposed to be clean.”

“It
is
clean.” Then it occurred to her that what he had just said was odd. “You
checked out
the other tenants? Why would you do that?”

The door slid open. “Some of us have images to protect.”

He was out before she found a suitable retort, so she put a foot against the door to hold it open and called after him, “Only ones with their
own
secrets to hide!”

She let the door close, jabbed at the button for her floor, and glowered as the elevator began its ascent, thinking that every cloud did have a silver lining, and that if nothing else, this fiasco had shown her what an arrogant, egocentric jerk Tony Cohn was.

By the time she reached her floor she was regretting having wasted a single fantasy on the man. But she forgot about him completely when she opened the door to her apartment and heard the phone ringing. Dropping her briefcase, she gripped the back of the chair until the ringing stopped. She heard her own voice—then remembered that she had turned the machine off that morning. Ten consecutive rings would have turned it on again,
which meant that she'd had at least one persistent caller.

“Uh, yes,” said a hungover-sounding male voice, “I'm calling for Lily Blake. I'm, uh, a writer. I ghostwrote the biography of Brandi Forrest, uh, she's the lead singer with the rock group Dead Weight Off. Anyway, I'm sure you're getting lotsa other calls, but if you, uh, want someone to write your story, we should talk. I, uh, already called my publisher. They like the idea of sex and religion. They can get something out real fast. Uh. It's all in the timing. So if you want, call me.” He left a number with an area code that she didn't recognize.

Lily erased the message, then listened to those preceding it. Justin Barr must have been the persistent one, because his call came first. He called three additional times, at twenty-minute intervals. There were also calls from reporters in Chicago, St. Louis, and Los Angeles—all leaving names and numbers, as if she would really return their calls. There were messages from two friends expressing concern, and messages from two clients canceling engagements.

There was also a message from Daniel Curry, asking her to call. His voice held an odd edge. Nervous, she punched out the number of the club. His greeting was gentle enough, but she heard that edge again. “Tell me,” she said, steeling herself, and he sighed.

“You know how I feel, Lily. I know nothing happened. I believe in both of you. I
love
both of you, so this tears me apart, but here's my problem. The phone has been ringing off the hook with complaints.”

“Complaints?”

“We're completely booked for tonight, large tables, mostly sixes and eights.”

“Isn't that good?”

“Not this time. Regulars can't get reservations. Others complained about having to wade through reporters last night. The thing is that these people are the backbone of the club. The ones booking large tables now are fly-by-nights. They aren't the ones who'll be coming weekly, six months or a year from now. They're just jumping on the scandal bandwagon, one member inviting five, six, seven friends for the show, but that's not fair to the faithful.”

Lily had a death grip on the phone. She knew what was coming.

“I could take the easy way out,” Dan said. “I could blame it on money and say that the regulars will defect and then where will we be—but they won't, Lily. It isn't a matter of financial survival. It's the principle of the thing. I've always run the club a certain way. It's a quiet, private place. A classy place. That's why we loved having you play. Because you
are
classy.”

She waited.

“But this whole business is sordid,” he said. “Not a word of it is true, but it
is
sordid. Members are getting calls from the likes of Terry Sullivan and Paul Rizzo. Justin Barr is trashing us—not that we'd ever let that bastard step foot in the place, but he's creating a notoriety that we just don't need. Having people come to the club just to see—quote unquote—the woman who seduced the Cardinal, isn't what we're about.”

Lily remained silent, her head bowed.

“This kills me,” Dan went on, “because we all love you here.” He sighed. “But I think you should take some time off.”

“Are you firing me?” Two firings in one hour would be a record. Maybe the papers would buy that.

“No. I'm just telling you to stay home for a couple of days until this thing dies down.”

But she was discouraged. “Will it?”

“Definitely. It's like a car. No fuel, no go.”

“There's
never
been fuel, but the car went! If they don't find it one place, they'll find it another.” Exhausted, she ran a hand over her eyes. “Does this have to do with the felony thing?”

“What felony thing?”

“You haven't read today's paper?”

“No.”

She told him so that he would know—so that he would hear her side of the story first. “The Cardinal knows all this,” she said before he could ask. “Funny how conducive a clerical collar is to confession. He's off the hook now, but they're closing in on me.”

“Is there anything else they can find?”

“Yesterday I wouldn't have said there was anything, period!” She sank into the chair. “That was my one and only brush with the law. There's been nothing since—not a speeding ticket, not a parking ticket, not even a late credit card payment. What's left for them to write?”

They wrote about Lily's suspension from the Winchester School—it was front-page news on Friday morning. Terry Sullivan interviewed Michael Eddy, whose statements had enough force and indignation to restore his luster in the eyes of parents and trustees. Paul Rizzo focused on members of the board, with a long string of quotes expressing dismay at Lily's deceit, her immorality, and her lack of judgment. Justin Barr went wild about what he called the Lily Blake problem, inciting irate parents to call in discussing the teacher as a role model, the need for teachers of the utmost moral fiber, the responsibilities schools have to their students to protect them from those of poor character.

The
Post
offered a token quote from one parent who praised the work Lily had done with his child, but that quote was short and lost amid the others, as were Lily's denials of wrongdoing. The overall tone of the piece was one of self-righteousness that had more to do with the
Post
patting itself on the back than with any quest for the truth.

Both papers reported that Lily was taking time off from the Essex Club, but neither elaborated on that angle or gave related quotes. Lily suspected that Dan had refused to talk and that the print media, at least, was backing off from anything to do with the Cardinal. There was no further mention of an alleged affair, no further mention of shared smiles or late nights at the Cardinal's residence. Nor was there mention of Governor Dean.

The focus was on Lily, and Lily alone. She had become the story.

Another woman, one who loved the limelight, might have been pleased. But Lily had felt victimized before—as a child ridiculed for her stutter, as a teenager put on probation for a crime she didn't commit, as an entertainer losing a shot at the top after rebuffing the advances of the music director. Injustice happened. She should have been hardened to it. But she wasn't. She was so angry and upset that she couldn't play the piano, couldn't read, couldn't even play a CD, because nothing she owned was turbulent enough.

She was
so
angry that she put aside her distaste for lawyers and called the one Dan had recommended. His name was Maxwell Funder. Articulate and experienced, he was among the most visible attorneys in the state. She had seen him on the news many times and, cynically perhaps, wondered if his promise to be at her apartment within the hour had to do primarily with the publicity attached to the case. But beggars couldn't be choosers. Given that she could only afford to pay him for a consultation, she was grateful when he agreed to come.

In person, he wasn't nearly as impressive as the television
cameras made him out to be. He was older. He was also shorter and broader, and without makeup, more mottled.

But he was pleasant and patient. Sitting on the sofa, he listened while she vented. He frowned in dismay, widened his eyes in disbelief, shook his head from time to time—and she didn't care if he was pouring it on for her benefit. The sympathy felt good.