Let Me Whisper in Your Ear (13 page)

Thank God, the night was clear. No snow or icy rain. She'd been on her third martini when the party ended so abruptly. Nancy had wanted to numb herself. She hadn't realized she'd be doing the driving home.

She should have.
KEY News
and Gwyneth Gilpatric always had a way of invading their lives.

Nancy steered her six-year-old Taurus station wagon across the upper span of the George Washington Bridge and glanced out the driver's window, down the Hudson River to the illuminated Manhattan skyline. The Empire State Building glowed prominently.

The angry blare of another driver's horn forced her to swerve back into her lane and concentrate on her driving. The last thing they needed was a car accident. They couldn't afford it. As it was, she dreaded coughing up the fifty dollars she'd have to pay Julie for babysitting tonight.

She switched on the car radio and scanned the stations, stopping when she found what she was listening for.

“The forty-seven-year-old
KEY News
anchorwoman was pronounced dead on the scene. Police are investigating. Again,
KEY News
correspondent Gwyneth Gilpatric died tonight after falling from the roof of her Central Park West apartment.”

Nancy opened up the glove box and rifled around until her fingers felt the cigarette pack Mike kept there. She waited for the lighter to pop out from the dashboard, lit up and inhaled deeply.

What goes around, comes around.

39

A
MERICA LEARNED OF
the life and death of Gwyneth Gilpatric as the obit that Laura Walsh had produced ran on the KEY Television Network. The video package opened with tape from the very first
Hourglass
broadcast.

“Good Evening. I'm Gwyneth Gilpatric. And this is
Hourglass.
”

Then Eliza Blake's narration began, while viewers watched scenes of Gwyneth as she reported from around the world over the past fifteen years for
Key News,
ten of those years on
Hourglass.

“Gwyneth Gilpatric has been a regular visitor in American homes each Tuesday evening as the host of the
KEY News
magazine broadcast
Hourglass.
Through her eyes, we've watched the stories of our times.”

Video played of Gwyneth interviewing kings and presidents, walking with movie stars, standing atop the Berlin Wall as Germans swung at the concrete beneath her feet to tear down the ultimate symbol of Communism.

“Not only did she cover the obvious stories. If anything, Gwyneth Gilpatric's passion was finding and reporting the stories that no one else did. The stories that hadn't been told. She was the winner of scores of awards for her investigative reporting.”

Gwyneth appeared on the screen in a white cotton coat, walking among cow carcasses hanging in a contaminated meatpacking plant. She crouched beside a little girl in a wheelchair, a child who would never walk or talk because of medical malpractice at the hospital where she was born. Gwyneth patted the hand of an elderly woman who had been swindled out of her life savings by a wily con artist.

“America trusted Gwyneth Gilpatric and turned to her in times of national mourning.”

A clip of Gwyneth at one of the memorial services for the massacred Columbine High School students followed. Gwyneth spoke into her microphone.

“When I was a senior in high school, my biggest concern was getting into college and having a date for the senior prom. For today's students, the worries are far more basic. Will they survive the school day?”

Up came a black-and-white picture of Gwyneth from her own high school yearbook. She looked like so many other girls of her time. Long dark shoulder-length hair, parted in the middle. The traditional black drape pulled out toward her shoulders. A cross on a chain hanging from her young neck.

“She grew up in Fort Lee, New Jersey, the only child in a middle-class family. While attending Boston College, she decided what she wanted: a career in broadcast journalism. And to the benefit of us all, Gwyneth Gilpatric never looked back.

“Eliza Blake,
KEY News,
New York.”

40

I
T WAS DAYLIGHT
when Joel came home from
KEY News.
After they had taken Gwyneth's body away, there had been police questions to answer. Then he went to the Broadcast Center to make some decisions about how he and
KEY News
were going handle the next
Hourglass
broadcast. The network went right on—with Gwyneth or without her. But Joel didn't know what he was going to do.

He was surprised to see Kitzi up and sitting on the sofa in the living room. She still wore the peach robe he had left her in the night before.

Just last night.

“Happy New Year, darling,” Kitzi whispered.

She was drunk.

“I guess you heard,” he said, ignoring her inebriation, though normally he would be disgusted by it. He didn't care about her anymore. Didn't care about anything at this moment. “You must be very happy.”

“And you, dear Joel, must be very sad. Your poor Gwyneth gone. Whatever will you do without her?”

“Cut the crap, Kitzi.”

But Kitzi was enjoying her moment. Enjoying seeing him hurt. Hadn't he hurt her again and again and again?

“What will you do now, Joel? No Gwyneth to star in
Hourglass
and bring it to those rating heights. No Gwyneth to work so hard with late at night. No Gwyneth to spy on so pathetically with your trusty telescope.

“You disgust me.” Joel turned to walk away.

“Hey, Joel, don't you want to know how I found out the sad news?” Kitzi called after him tauntingly.

“I know you're going to tell me. On television, on the radio?” he asked dully.

Kitzi shook her mane of auburn hair and laughed defiantly.

“Better than that, dear Joel. Much, much better than that. You'll appreciate this. I saw it
live!

Joel stopped and turned toward her. “What do you mean?” he snapped.

Kitzi stalled. “You know I've always hated that damn telescope of yours. Hated what you did with it. Hated that you gave one to Gwyneth so the two of you could play your coy little games across the park. Hated that you'd rather study Gwyneth than me. You always found her so damned fascinating. What about me, Joel, what about me?”

Joel ignored her question but pressed for an answer to his own. “What do you mean? What did you see?”

Kitzi tried to read Joel's eyes but was uncertain what she saw there. Was it fear? Panic?

“I watched your darling Gwyneth fall to her death, Joel. Watched it on your own precious telescope.”

41

“I
STILL DON'T
understand why in the world you had Gwyneth's obit ready. I know you had a relationship with her, Laura. Had she told you she was sick?”

Mike Schultz and Laura, still dressed in their party clothes, stood in the Bulletin Center. The piece Laura had produced had been fed out three times now on the network line to the KEY affiliates. Viewers around the United States had gotten their instant thumbnail video sketch of the anchorwoman's life.

“No. Gwyneth hadn't told me she was sick. I actually did the piece a long time ago. It was kind of a practice thing.”

Mike looked at her skeptically.

“Really, Mike,” Laura insisted. “I worked on it a few years ago, when I was just starting to do the obits, and I've updated the video a few times since. Gwyneth was always jetting all over the place, doing stories on wars and insurrections and natural disasters. I remember thinking she could be risking her life. I knew we had lots of great material on Gwyneth in the archives and I thought it would be interesting to do a profile on her. I even thought I might show it to her and see what she thought. I never actually did, though. I thought better of it. I didn't want her to take any sort of offense.”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, I don't think many of us like to think that our obituaries are already done.” Mike thought for a moment. “But Eliza Blake narrated it. Didn't she ask any questions? Didn't she think it was weird?”

Laura tried to recall. “Eliza was anchoring
KEY to America
at the time. I slipped it into a pile of narrations she recorded after the broadcast one morning. I don't remember her asking anything about it. Maybe she thought it was something we were doing for the RTNDA.”

The Radio and Television News Directors Association met yearly in different cities. The network news divisions lavishly wined and dined the affiliate news directors, spending lots of money and effort to keep them satisfied and loyal. Splashy video presentations touting the networks' news accomplishments and stars were produced to be shown at the convention. With
Hourglass
a major component of
KEY News
' success, it could make sense that a piece would be done on Gwyneth.

Mike seemed convinced. “Well, lucky for us, once again, you saved our collective ass, Laura. Thanks a lot.”

42

T
HE BUSES RAN
a reduced holiday schedule on New Year's morning and it took forever to get back to Pearl River. Ricky was relieved that his mother was not there when he arrived home. She was probably at church. She was always running off to Mass.

When his mother did get home, she would ask him where he had been all night. He would answer her as he always did, with silence.

Ricky hung his new camel hair overcoat in the jammed front closet and snapped on the television. He clicked the button on the remote control until he found what he was looking for. Gwyneth Gilpatric's face.

The news announcer was telling the story of the sensational death. The fall to death as the fireworks exploded over Central Park. There was speculation as to suicide, but the police were questioning everyone on the guest list.

Ricky smiled as he went to his tiny bedroom. He peeled off his clothes and changed into blue jeans and an Islanders sweatshirt. Everything was going to be all right now. It didn't really matter how it had happened. Gwyneth was dead. Fair was fair.

Ricky had stood at the back of the car, behind the other partygoers, when the elevator doors had opened. As Gwyneth greeted her guests, Ricky had been able to slip to the side, avoiding her view. He followed the maid, with her arms full of coats, and handed over his own. Then he hid in one of the bedrooms.

The police would not be looking for Ricky to ask him any questions. He had sneaked out of the party before the police came and his name did not appear on Gwyneth's fancy guest list.

The new year was starting off right.

43

I
T WAS ALMOST
noon when Laura returned to her apartment. Gratefully, she kicked off the new expensive shoes that were pinching her toes. She had been up for the last thirty hours, but she knew she was not going to be able to sleep. Her mind was racing.

The red button on her answering machine blinked insistently. Automatically, she played back the messages.

“Laura, it's me, Francheska. Are you okay? That was some party. Call me.”

“Laura, it's Pop. I heard what happened. Are you all right, honey? Please call me.”

“Laura, this is Maxine. Mrs. Bronner. I remember your saying you were going to Gwyneth Gilpatric's New Year's Eve Party. I'm so sorry. Please call me when you can. I'm worried about you.”

“Laura, this is Joel Malcolm. I'm sorry to bother you at home, but with everything that's happening I want to get all my ducks in a row. The job is yours. I just spoke with Mike Schultz and explained that I want you to start with us right away, and grudgingly he agreed to let you go next week. I want to get this Palisades Park story together in time for February sweeps. Everyone is going to be watching to see how
Hourglass
does without Gwyneth. I'm determined to show them that
Hourglass
is bigger than any one personality.”

It was the news she had been waiting for.

44

Sunday, January 2

F
INALLY, THE PAYOFF
. All the plotting, all the patience, all the waiting had been worth it. It hadn't been easy. The nights spent tossing and turning, twisted with anxiety. Worrying that someone else would die before Gwyneth did. Praying that the ninety-nine other media elite who populated Casper's Ghostland would stay healthy.

Casper, the friendly ghost. But not a friend to Gwyneth Gilpatric.

Now winning the overflowing pot meant complete financial independence.

A new year, a new leaf.

45

W
ITH NO OFFICE
hours on New Year's weekend, Leonard Costello stood in his enormous Scarsdale kitchen, carefully measured out a quarter teaspoon of creme of tartar and stirred it into the pot of sugar and water on top of the stove. A half hour had passed since he had taken his medication and his hands were steady.

He threw in a dash of salt and cooked and stirred until the sugar dissolved and the mixture bubbled. He separated some egg whites into a mixing bowl and added a little vanilla. Bit by bit, he poured the warm sugar mixture from the pot into the bowl, whipping it with an electric mixer. In seven minutes, the stiff peaks would form, and he could begin.

He knew many of the best plastic surgeons had hobbies that they took quite seriously. Some painted, using oils or watercolors to express themselves. A few sculpted with clay or carved their fantasies from stone. Leonard loved to decorate cakes.

Staring intently into the bowl as the fluffy white frosting gradually appeared, Leonard felt the tension slowly leaving his body. He had been so worried about Gwyneth. She could have ruined everything.

Having worked so hard over the years to keep Gwyneth Gilpatric beautiful, how ironic that it was he who pronounced the woman dead as she lay on the unforgiving concrete sidewalk.