When Day Breaks (10 page)

G
etting increasingly closer to deadline, Lauren found fault with every single script suggestion Annabelle made and complained bitterly that she wasn’t getting the support she needed. Though Annabelle attempted to reassure Lauren and do everything she could think of to provide the most editorial and material assistance possible, she was relieved when her cell phone rang. It was an opportunity to escape the truck and get away from Lauren.

“Hi, Annabelle. It’s Eliza. How’s it coming out there?”

“It’s coming.” Annabelle’s voice was flat.

“That good, huh?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be able to make a piece. We have exteriors of the property, an interview with the housekeeper and some neighbors.”

“Any of them see anything?” asked Eliza.

“Well, the housekeeper, as you know, is the one who found the body. We have only reaction to Constance’s death from a couple of the neighbors. Nobody can see anybody else’s house out here. So far we haven’t had anyone come forward to say they heard or saw anything suspicious.”

“Police?” asked Eliza.

“They say they’ll send someone out to talk in a half hour. I really wish we could get pictures of the pool, but the police still aren’t letting anyone on the grounds. I called Boyd Irons and asked him to call Constance’s sister and see if we could arrange access through her.”

“That’s kind of a long shot, isn’t it?” asked Eliza. “If the cops want the crime scene cordoned off, they aren’t going to open it just because Constance’s sister asks them to.”

Annabelle heaved a deep sigh. “You know that, and I know that, but Lauren wanted to try anyway.”

“I get the picture,” said Eliza. “Not the easiest assignment you’ve ever had, huh?”

“Let me put it this way,” said Annabelle. “Lauren is a challenge. I know she’s under a lot of pressure, so I’m trying to make allowances.”

“All right,” said Eliza. “Get back to it…but, Annabelle?”

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m very sorry about Constance. I know you two were very close.”

“Thank you, Eliza. I appreciate your saying that. Our friendship disintegrated quite a while ago, but at one time we were really tight. We started out at KEY together, and over the years she was a good friend to me. But, unfortunately, the relationship changed.” Annabelle paused as she reflected. “I always hoped that Constance and I might patch things up someday. I always thought there would be plenty of time for that.”

T
he five o’clock news blared from the radio in the taxi Boyd took uptown from his place to Central Park South. He listened carefully to the announcer’s words. Constance had been found dead in the pool at her home in Westchester County. Police weren’t sure yet what the cause of death was. It was the same information Boyd had gotten from Linus Nazareth when the executive producer had called for Constance’s sister’s phone number this morning. Boyd was glad he hadn’t had to break the news to Faith Hansen.

The cab pulled to the curb, and Boyd paid the fare. The doorman standing beneath the awning nodded in recognition. He wondered if the doorman had heard the news yet.

Taking the elevator to the fifteenth floor, Boyd dug into his pocket and pulled out the key. He let himself inside and stood listening in the entry hall. He heard nothing but the clock ticking from its case on the fireplace mantel.

“Kimba. Where are you?” he called, and waited. But the cat didn’t appear.

How many times had he resented having to come up here to feed Constance’s cat? How many times had he come into her apartment and wished it were his, instead of that tiny downtown studio he could barely afford? How many times had he looked out the huge window at the sweeping view of Central Park and pretended he lived here? How many times had he told himself that Constance didn’t deserve this place? She could afford it, yes. But she didn’t
deserve
it.

Boyd went into the kitchen and put out fresh food and changed the water in the cat’s bowl. Then he went down the hallway and cleaned out the litter box. He was in no hurry to complete the unpleasant chore, because the next one he had to undertake would be much more difficult.

After he washed his hands, Boyd went into the master bedroom and stretched out on the tufted chaise longue positioned in the corner. He opened his cell phone and, finding the number, pressed the button to call Constance’s sister. Faith Hansen answered on the third ring.

“Hello. This is Boyd Irons, Constance’s assistant.” His voice trailed up at the end, in a question.

“Of course, Boyd.”

“Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you would remember me.” He’d programmed Faith’s number into his cell phone so that he would be able to reach Constance’s next of kin in case of an emergency, but Constance hardly ever asked him to get her sister on the phone for her. Boyd was glad now that he’d made it a point to speak to Faith at the luncheon yesterday. The poor woman had looked so ill at ease that he felt sorry for her.

“God,” said Faith. “Was the luncheon only yesterday? It seems like a hundred years ago.”

“I’m so sorry about your sister, Mrs. Hansen. I really, really am.”

“Thank you, Boyd. I appreciate that.”

“I wanted to ask you what I could do to help.”

There was a momentary pause as Faith considered the offer.

“You know, there is something you could do to help,” she said. “Would you go to Constance’s apartment? I would really appreciate it if I didn’t have to drive in and pick something out for her to wear. You know, something to send over to the funeral parlor. You probably know what her favorite things were more than I do.”

“I’d be happy to do that,” said Boyd. “Well, not happy exactly, but…”

“I know what you meant, Boyd.”

Boyd thought of the fabulous garments hanging in the closets and wondered what he would pick for a last outfit for Constance. The blue Oscar de la Renta? The pale yellow Ralph Lauren? The black Armani? And who was going to get all the gorgeous dresses and suits and handbags? He had friends in the Village who would kill for that wardrobe.

“I’m actually at Constance’s apartment now,” he said, pulling himself from his reverie. “I’m feeding her cat.”

“Oh, no. I hadn’t realized Constance had a cat.”

Real close sisters,
Boyd thought.

“Yes. Kimba.” Boyd hesitated before continuing. “I was thinking maybe I should take the cat home with me—or I could bring it out to
you
if you’d like.”

“Uh-uh. I’ve never been a big animal fan,” said Faith. “I can’t even think about having a cat. I already have enough poop to clean up around here. I’d appreciate it if you would take care of it, Boyd.”

“All right, Mrs. Hansen.”

“Thank you, Boyd.”

“People will be asking me, Mrs. Hansen. Do you have any idea what the arrangements will be?”

“We can’t plan anything firm until the autopsy is completed, but I understand that the police are fast-tracking that,” said Faith. “I do know that we’ll have a private funeral and burial as soon as possible. No sense in prolonging things.” Faith paused, trying to focus on the essentials. “I guess that’s something else you could help me with, Boyd. Would you prepare a list of people you think should be invited to attend the funeral? I really don’t know who Constance was close to.”

“All right,” Boyd agreed. “But are you just interested in having good friends of Constance’s, or do you want to include some of her professional colleagues as well?”

“What do you think about that?” asked Faith.

If you only ask people who felt affection for Constance, the pews will be pretty empty,
thought Boyd. “I think it’s respectful to include the people she worked with,” he said. “Her professional life meant so much to her.”

“It was just about everything,” said Faith.

“Okay. I’ll get the list together and check on the clothes,” Boyd said. “Anything else?”

“Actually, Boyd, there
is
something else,” answered Faith. “I’ll need Constance’s attorney’s phone number. Please don’t think terribly of me, but I really need to know what’s in her will.”

“Of course,” said Boyd. “Hold on. I’ll look up the number on my cell phone.”

From his many “reconnaissance missions” through the drawers and closets of Constance’s apartment, Boyd knew exactly where the will was—and what was in it.
God,
he thought.
When she finds out what Constance actually left her, she’s going to lose her mind!
Revealing that information wasn’t Boyd’s job, he felt, so he dutifully gave Faith the attorney’s telephone number.

“I have one more thing to ask you, Mrs. Hansen. I hate to bother you with it.”

“What is it?”

“Our newspeople are out at Constance’s country place, and the police aren’t letting them on the property. They wanted me to ask you if you could pull any strings. You know, as next of kin and all.”

“You know what, Boyd? I don’t really want to get in the middle of that. I hope you understand.”

“Certainly. But I had to ask.”

“I get it,” said Faith. “No problem.”

As Boyd snapped his cell phone closed, Kimba jumped up on the chaise and into his lap. A tear trickled down Boyd’s cheek as he stroked the cat’s soft gray fur. He was surprised that he actually felt as bad as he did about Constance’s death. Yesterday Boyd had been relieved that he no longer would have to work for her. Now, sitting in her bedroom, he felt conflicted at the thought that he would never see Constance again.

B
.J. waited until Lauren’s piece had been fed from the satellite truck to the Broadcast Center before he walked down the road and found a secluded spot.

“B.J. D’Elia for Eliza Blake,” he said into his cell phone, momentarily wondering if he was going to be put off onto an assistant. But Eliza took the cameraman’s call herself.

“Hi, B.J. What’s up?”

He recounted the conversation about the missing ivory unicorn he’d overheard as he crouched behind the fence near the pool, and he told her about the dead dog that Boyd said had been found on Constance’s property the morning before.

“Interesting,” said Eliza. “Very interesting. We’ll make some calls here and see what we can find out.”

“Should we tell the police about the dog?” asked B.J.

“No, let’s hold off on that,” answered Eliza. “If we can confirm it, the police will hear about it on the broadcast tonight, along with everybody else.”

The police would neither confirm nor deny that an ivory unicorn, or any other jewelry, was missing, but Boyd Irons provided the phone number for the young man who had spotted a dead, full-grown Great Dane on Constance Young’s property when he went to empty the contents of the pool’s skimmer baskets in the woods.

“I was told to dispose of the dog, so I did,” the pool man said. “But let me tell you, it was a pretty hard job getting that thing off the property and out to the dump.”

After Eliza introduced
The KEY Evening Headlines
from the Broadcast Center, Lauren Adams’s piece from Westchester County led the show. Lauren’s narration explained what had been happening, the housekeeper described what she’d found when she came to work that morning, well-heeled neighbors expressed their shock, and a police spokesperson said only that it was too soon to determine the cause of death and that the investigation was continuing. There were pictures of the media frenzy that had been created as every news organization wanted to have a story on their airwaves about the death of Constance Young, but there were no pictures from inside the fencing that surrounded the property.

At the end of the preedited package, Lauren appeared live, on-screen, standing at the head of Constance’s driveway.

“Eliza, there are still many unanswered questions tonight. Police sources tell us that they hope to have the results of Constance Young’s autopsy as early as Monday.”

The camera shot was switched to the Broadcast Center studio, where Eliza sat at the anchor desk.

“Let me ask you, Lauren, about this report that a dead dog was found on the property yesterday. What do you know about that?”

Lauren stared into the camera, a blank expression on her face. There was an awkward pause before Eliza realized that Lauren had no idea what she was referring to.

“A workman says he found a dog, a Great Dane, lying dead in the woods out near the pool yesterday,” Eliza jumped in. “It could be just a coincidence, of course, but the police will certainly be checking into that, won’t they?”

Lauren’s discomfort was apparent. “They certainly will be, Eliza.”

“Thank you, Lauren.”

The second she was sure she was off the air, Lauren pulled out her ear-piece, disconnected her microphone, called the Broadcast Center, and asked to be put through to Range Bullock in the control room.

“What was that all about, Range?” Lauren fumed. “I looked like an idiot.”

“I don’t know, Lauren,” the
Evening Headlines
executive producer answered, keeping his voice low. “You tell me.”

“Why didn’t anybody talk to me about that dead-dog story?” Lauren demanded.

“We assumed you knew about it. You’re out there. You should have known. Don’t you talk to your own people?”

“What do you mean?” Lauren’s voice rose in suspicion.

“B.J. D’Elia is the one who told Eliza about the dog, and we confirmed it with Boyd Irons and the pool guy,” said Range.

“So my cameraman and my assistant are both screwing me,” Lauren pondered aloud. “Nice. Very nice.”