Original Sin (61 page)

Tess rested her hands in her lap and tilted her head. ‘Please do.’

‘I’m from North Carolina and for five years I was with a marvellous woman. She died recently.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tess, not feeling too much sympathy for this obvious opportunist.

‘The lady’s name was Marion Quinn,’ said Kressler, leaning forward and handing Tess a photograph. In it a smiling lady of about forty was flanked by a little boy and a very young girl aged about four who was in a wheelchair. The girl in the wheelchair was obviously severely disabled. Her long hair was shiny and golden as corn, but her head flopped to one side of her body, her small shoulders were hunched. It was the sort of photograph that made you instantly sad.

‘The lady in the picture, that’s Marion,’ continued Kressler. ‘She was as sweet as she was pretty. She lived hereabouts and she used to take in foster kids – all the ones no one else wanted. Sick kids, handicapped kids. She had the patience of a saint.’

Tess pointed at the handicapped girl in the picture. ‘Was this little girl one of her foster children?’

Her words had a shot of both curiosity and wonder. Professionally she was trying to work out the connection to the Asgills, but privately she was marvelling at this remarkable woman who would take on a child who was not her own flesh and blood, a child that must take enormous time and personal strength to look after. Most of all, she wondered what a woman like Marion Quinn was doing with Ted Kressler, a man clearly on the make.

‘That’s an old photo,’ said Kressler, sipping his whiskey. ‘Marion took in those kids nearly ten years ago, before I was with her. A few months after this photo was taken she got sick, Crohn’s disease. It was pretty bad and she couldn’t do the foster thing no more. Those two kids went back to their natural parents.’

Tess looked at him, wondering where this was leading, but suspecting this was just the beginning of the story.

‘The little girl was called Violet,’ he said, pointing to the young child in the wheelchair. ‘Marion heard rumours that Violet’s mother didn’t want her no more and, well, you can imagine how that made Marion feel; made her feel as if she let poor little Violet down. Then she heard the child had been put up for adoption. As it happened, Marion had met Violet’s mother a few times before and she tried to get back in touch with her, maybe persuade her to keep Violet, but it was too late, the mother had moved out of town. She didn’t care nothing for the kid. Anyways, before she knew it, child had gone to new parents.’

‘Mr Kressler, I’m a busy woman, can we get to the point? How does this involve my clients?’ asked Tess. She was trying to brazen it out, but suspicions were already forming in her mind. Kressler waved away her protestations; he was clearly going to tell the story at his own pace.

‘I met Marion five years ago when she moved down to Charleston. She wasn’t as sick as she had been then, so we got married.’

‘And when did she die?’

‘Beginning of summer.’

He paused and drained off his bourbon.

‘Of course, I had to go through all her stuff, sort things out. She used to keep this file full of letters and pictures from the kids she’d looked after, real sweet. But then I found something interesting.’ He pulled out a toothpick and began to clear something from his teeth. ‘I found an old
New York Times
newspaper clipping that she’d kept. A story ’bout eight or nine years old, a story about a New York model called Paula Abbott who was marrying some super–rich heir to a cosmetic empire.’

Tess and Ted looked at each other across the table. Ted put the toothpick down on the table and smiled.

‘The little girl Violet, the handicapped foster kid? She was called Violet Abbott.’

Tess instantly recalled that Paula’s maiden name was Abbott, one of the bits of trivia she’d picked up when she’d researched the family before she began working with them.

‘Paula is Violet’s mother?’

‘You didn’t know that?’ he laughed sarcastically. ‘I don’t suppose she would have told many people. Probably not the sort of thing you boast about in polite society, that you dumped your kid because they weren’t perfect.’

Tess pursed her lips. ‘It’s speculation at best, Mr Kressler. Abbott is not exactly an unusual name.’

Kressler laughed. ‘Oh, give me a break.’

He reached into his jacket and pulled out another creased photo and slid it across the table. ‘As I said, Marion kept everything, she was quite a hoarder.’

The photo was old and grainy, but it was clear enough. Paula can’t have been more than twenty. She was kneeling down next to the girl who, heartbreakingly, appeared to be smiling at her mother.

‘Same girl as in the
New York Times
wedding story, right?’ said Kressler, a note of triumph in his voice.

Tess couldn’t deny it. Impossible though it seemed, Paula Asgill had another daughter.
Focus, Tess, focus
, she told herself. Was this really such a big deal? After all, John Kennedy had a sister closeted away in a mental asylum and it didn’t do
his
political career any harm. But a nagging voice in her head told her that things were different back then; in the Sixties the mainstream press didn’t pick over a public figure’s private life and use it as fuel to burn them at the stake.

Still, this might be a scandal, but it wasn’t an overdose at a sex party. Tess could certainly spin this in a more positive way – frightened young girl forced into adoption by circumstance and poverty, society is to blame, the child was well cared for – but there was one big stumbling block to that approach. Meredith. She wouldn’t like this at all. Tess had no idea how badly a scandal about Paula’s past would upset the Billington family, but she knew for sure that Meredith had been firm about one thing: no controversy before the wedding. None at all.

‘Is it money you’re after, Mr Kressler?’ said Tess.

‘Smart girl. Money for my old age,’ he said matter of factly. ‘Marion looked after that kid good. She never told no one.’

‘Which is more than can be said for you.’

Kressler ignored the jibe. ‘This Paula’s a wealthy woman now,’ he said. ‘She got the life she wanted at the expense of her child. Well, now she can afford to pay me to keep her little secret.’

There was a tiny part of Tess that agreed with him. She wondered how Paula could have given her child away? She had seen how hard Kevin Donovan was prepared to fight for Jack and what the thought of living without him had done to him. Tess felt sure that if she were a parent she wouldn’t –
she couldn’t
. She paused, realizing it was the first time she had thought about motherhood in a very long time.

‘It isn’t going to look very good, is it Miss Garrett?’ continued Kressler wiping his palms on his trouser legs. ‘Even down here we’ve heard of the Billington family. I don’t reckon a grand family like that is gonna like seeing Paula Asgill disowning her handicapped kiddie like that.’

‘I didn’t come here to be blackmailed, Mr Kressler,’ said Tess.

Kressler appeared unmoved. ‘Do you know how much Marion got for looking after Lucy?’ he said. ‘Two hundred dollars a month. She paid for the medical bills out of her own pocket. She wasn’t a rich woman, just a decent one.’

‘More than I can be said for her taste in men.’

His expression soured. ‘Take the photograph Miss Garrett,’ he said, standing up. ‘I got copies. Unless you wire me two hundred thousand bucks, I’ll be sending it to the media.’

‘Two hundred thousand … ’ Tess tried to keep her cool.

Kressler buttoned his jacket and nodded to the waitress. ‘I’ll let you pick up the cheque. And I expect an answer by Friday.’

CHAPTER FORTY–NINE

Nine o’clock at night and Brooke was still in the office. Over the past few weeks, this had become a routine, especially since the office had been closed for Thanksgiving. With the wedding practically on top of her and most of January blocked off for the honeymoon – a fifteen–day tour of Australia with a week at the Wakaya Club, the super–exclusive private resort in Fiji – she was desperate to get ahead of herself with work. Besides which, she liked to edit at night when it was completely quiet, with just the desk lamp and soft blue glow from the computer illuminating the pages of the manuscript. The dark seemed to insulate her from everything: the stress and expectation of the wedding and the vague, unsettled feeling that had been nagging at her since David’s new job offer.

At least this was one less worry, thought Brooke, turning another page. It had only taken a week to edit Eileen Dunne’s second novel; it was incredible how little work it needed doing to it and in many ways it was even more accomplished than Portico. Brooke had loved the way the story had grabbed her and transported her to another land, another world. It would be another runaway best–seller, she felt sure of it, and if it sold like
Portico
, it would make the ‘outrageous’ advance of three hundred thousand dollars look like a bargain. She looked up from the page as her mobile phone vibrated. Reluctantly, Brooke flipped it open.

Rocking
Portico
window display in Barnes and Noble. Matt

She put it down, smiling, wishing that David was not so busy and important that he couldn’t send her more impromptu, random texts. Suddenly she looked up again as she heard a chuckle. Mimi Hall was standing in the open doorway, sipping a cup of coffee.

‘Mimi!’ said Brooke, clasping her hand to her chest. ‘You scared the life out of me.’

‘Who was that? Matthew?’ asked Mimi, smiling in the dark.

‘Matthew?’ repeated Brooke dumbly.

‘Palmer,’ said Mimi, stepping forward. ‘Matthew Palmer, your friend from Eileen’s launch party.’

Brooke examined Mimi’s knowing expression. She was not going to lie to her, although she had no right whatsoever asking about her personal phone calls made out of work hours.

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘You speak to him a lot, don’t you? He must be a very good friend.’

‘He’s an old friend, yes,’ said Brooke, struggling to keep her voice calm. ‘But no, we don’t speak that often actually. He’s a ER doctor, they tend to be busy people.’

‘Funny you’re so close after that Jeff Daniels story earlier this year,’ said Mimi with deliberate vagueness.

‘Is there a problem here, Mimi?’

The older woman shrugged and took another sip of her drink. There was a long pause.

‘You owe me, you know that.’ There was levity in her voice but her eyes were still jealous and nasty.

‘And what exactly do I owe you for?’ replied Brooke, sounding defiant but feeling a sense of dread. Mimi had always had the ability to frighten her.

Mimi took a step nearer Brooke’s desk. She seemed to tower over Brooke, who found herself sitting up straighter in her chair.

‘Do you know how many reporters I’ve had calling me up, emailing me, even following me? All of them want to know information about you. Dirt.’

‘I hope you told them there’s nothing to tell. I think I’m what the tabloids call boring.’

‘I wouldn’t call you boring,’ said Mimi with a hard little laugh. ‘The papers would have a field day with this Matthew Palmer business. I think it’s what the tabloids call “dynamite”.’

‘Mimi, Matthew is a friend. David knows him too.’

‘Funny,’ said Mimi sarcastically. ‘I thought Eileen’s launch party was the first time they met.’

Brooke knew why Mimi was confronting her. Not because Brooke was suddenly a threat to Mimi’s position – it would take more than one success to be promoted even one rung up the ladder – no, Mimi was coming after Brooke simply because she was being
talked about
. For the past few months Brooke had been the star of Yellow Door. The only person worth talking about at the tables at Michael’s, or the various book industry awards that littered the year. Mimi might have an editor–of–the–year trophy and a fearsome reputation in the industry but, since Brooke’s engagement to David Billington and the ‘new Jackie O’ headlines, Mimi had retreated into the shadows. Brooke had always sensed that Mimi disliked her, but it was only now that she appreciated exactly how much.

Mimi placed her cup on a shelf and picked up a little snow globe that Brooke had bought in Paris on the trip when David had proposed.

‘You must know the emails are monitored at Yellow Door,’ said Mimi casually. ‘Someone told me there have been almost one hundred emails in the last three months between you and Matthew Palmer.
One hundred
. That’s quite a lot, especially for someone who apparently works as hard as you do. I guess if they checked out the phone records, you’ve been calling him a lot too.’

How dare she!
Someone told me there have been almost one hundred emails.
More like Mimi had been rooting around her office, checking her computer.

‘I am not having an affair with Matthew Palmer, if that’s what you’re implying, Mimi. If it’s any business of yours – which it most certainly is not – he is a friend. If you hadn’t heard, I am getting married to David, and I am in love with my fiancé.’ She stopped, aware that her voice was becoming louder as she spoke.