When Day Breaks (16 page)

P
aige was waiting when Eliza reached her office.

“The Cloisters wants to know if you would consider being the mistress of ceremonies Wednesday night for the reception and preview of their Camelot exhibition. It’s primarily for their major donors, but there will be a limited number of tickets available to the public. Constance was supposed to do it, but obviously that isn’t going to happen now.”

“Gee, Paige, I don’t know,” said Eliza, grimacing a bit. “I don’t really know enough about the Middle Ages.”

“They say they’ll send down some research if you like, but they don’t expect you to be anything approaching an expert. Basically they’re looking for a charming, well-known personality who will bring some prestige to the evening—more of a hostess than a lecturer or teacher.”

“Another night away from Janie? No,” said Eliza. “Tell them I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to do it.”

“All right,” said Paige, “but I really had to feel bad for the woman who called. Not only has she lost her emcee, but the focal point of her exhibition is missing. She sounded beside herself.”

“Surely she could find someone else,” said Eliza. “I bet Lauren would be happy to do it.”

“I actually suggested Lauren to her,” said Paige, “but she wasn’t enthusiastic. She said Lauren isn’t well known enough.”

“Lauren would love to hear that,” said Eliza. She thought for a moment. “All right, I’ll do it. I know how it is to be organizing something like that and have things seem to fall apart right before the event. And since Constance was going to do it, it would be nice if KEY News came to the rescue. Call the woman up, tell her yes, and ask her to send me that information about the exhibit.”

A
nnabelle came into Eliza’s office and held out the report.

“I thought you’d want to see this.”

Eliza took the document and scanned the autopsy findings. She looked up at Annabelle. “Cardiac arrest was the cause of death?” she asked. “That makes even less sense than drowning. Constance was in amazing physical shape.”

“Keep reading,” answered Annabelle.

There’d been alcohol in Constance Young’s system, but not an excessive amount. Her skin was rough, swollen, and wrinkled, consistent with being immersed in water. But there was no sign of the struggle usually associated with drowning, nor were her lungs or stomach filled with water. There were hemorrhages in her middle ear, sometimes seen in drowning cases, but the report noted that hemorrhages of this kind could also occur in cases of head trauma, mechanical asphyxiation, and electrocution.

The document went on to cite the police report finding that the lights and heater at Constance’s pool had shorted out, suggesting a possible surge of electricity. Eliza knew that electrocution victims die of cardiac arrest when current flows through the heart, disrupting the normal coordination of the heart muscles. The muscles lose their rhythm and begin to fibrillate. Death soon follows. Death when the heart stops. Cardiac arrest.

Taken together, the findings suggested that Constance Young had been electrocuted. But the question was, had the electrocution been accidental? Or deliberate?

Just as Annabelle was about to leave, Boyd Irons arrived at Eliza’s office.

“Constance’s sister called,” he announced. “She wants to have the funeral service tomorrow morning. At eleven.”

“Tomorrow? Isn’t that a bit quick? The autopsy was just released today,” said Eliza. “That makes me think the body is only being released today as well.”

“Yes, it’s quick all right,” Boyd agreed. “Faith told me she wants to get this over and done with. So I’m calling around like a crazy person, inviting people to come to the funeral home.”

“What kind of response are you getting?” asked Eliza.

Boyd shrugged. “Too soon to tell. But I do know there’ll be no lack of media. The press information department tells me the calls are coming in nonstop from every possible news and entertainment outlet.”

“Entertainment, huh?” said Annabelle. “What does it say when funerals are featured on entertainment shows?”

“I don’t know what it says,” Boyd answered. “But their viewers want to see that stuff, and the producers are eager to give them what they want.”

“Will cameras be allowed in the funeral parlor?” asked Eliza.

Boyd shook his head. “No, but they’ll be swarming all over the place outside.”

“Constance would have liked all the attention,” Annabelle said quietly.

After Annabelle and Boyd had departed, Eliza turned to her assistant.

“Paige, will you please call and order flowers to be sent for Constance’s funeral and order another arrangement and have it sent to Constance’s sister in New Jersey,” Eliza instructed. “Boyd can give you the addresses. And see if you can track down Margo Gonzalez for me, will you please?”

Ten minutes later the intercom in Eliza’s office buzzed. “Dr. Gonzalez is on line two, Eliza.”

“Thanks.” Eliza picked up the telephone receiver. “Hi, Margo. How are you?”

“Fine, Eliza. But I just got a phone call inviting me to Constance’s funeral tomorrow morning.”

“Will you go?”

“If I can move a few things around, I guess so,” said Margo. “But to tell you the truth, I’m surprised I’m being invited. I haven’t been working at KEY very long, and I didn’t know Constance all that well—in fact, I never felt she cared to give me the time of day. If this funeral is by invitation only, I don’t think I really qualify as one of the attendees.”

“I’m going to let you in on something,” said Eliza. “I gather that pretty much anyone who worked on
KTA
with Constance is receiving an invitation.”

Margo laughed. “Ah, now I get it. They want to make sure there’ll be enough people to fill the seats.”

“Something like that, I think,” said Eliza.

“Okay,” said Margo. “I’m going to try to be there.”

“That would be good of you,” said Eliza. “But that’s not really why I wanted to reach you, Margo.”

“What is it?”

“Actually, it’s about my little girl.” Eliza described the conversation she’d had with Janie at the breakfast table that morning, Janie’s fears, Eliza’s reassurances.

“It sounds like you handled it very well,” said Margo.

“I hope so,” said Eliza. “You’re never sure with kids.”

“Here’s what I’ve found over the years, Eliza, and what many studies have proved. Children don’t need to have two parents to be emotionally healthy. And parents don’t need to be perfect in their actions and responses, and that’s a good thing, because none of us
are
perfect.” Margo continued, “But they do have to be dependable and consistent for the child to feel on solid ground. I have the feeling from what I know of you, and what you’ve just told me, that Janie feels secure in your love and devotion to her. With that as a basis, it’s likely she’ll be able to handle whatever life hands her.”

“God, you don’t know how much I needed to hear that, Margo. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Margo. “It’s not easy being a single parent. I hope you’ll call me anytime you want to talk.”

T
he Great Dane lay on the examining table. Before he began any cutting for the necropsy, the veterinarian waved a wand over the dog. The wandlike scanner emitted low-frequency radio waves that picked up on a tiny transponder, the size of a grain of uncooked rice, implanted under the loose skin on the Dane’s shoulder.

The microchip supplied a number, displayed in the scanner readout window. The number would lead to the dog’s owner, someone who had thought enough of the Great Dane that he’d gone to the trouble of having the microchip implanted so that he wouldn’t lose the animal. How had that same animal, which had, at one time at least, clearly been prized, end up dead in Constance Young’s swimming pool?

The veterinarian wrote down the number on his report sheet, then picked up a scalpel.

T
he police called Constance Young’s assistant, wanting to know if there was someone named Graham Welles in her Rolodex or her computer address book. Boyd checked.

“There’s an Alexander Wells, W-E-L-L-S, at 79 Gleason Court in Westwood, New Jersey, “Boyd offered.

“No,” said the detective. “W-E-L-L-
E
-S. Graham Welles, middle initial P. as in Peter. And the address is 527 East Thirty-seventh Street in Manhattan.”

“Would it be all right if you told me why you wanted to know?” Boyd asked as he scribbled down the name and address and continued to search. He felt he and the detective were almost friends by now. They’d had so many conversations over the last few days, and Boyd had answered so many questions. Had Constance had any fights with anyone lately? Did Boyd know if she had any enemies? Who had she been dating? Was there anyone Boyd could think of who would want her dead? Boyd had answered at length, wanting to help as much as he could, hoping to stay on the good side of the police by cooperating.

“The dead dog that was found on the property was registered to this guy, but he’s no longer at the address listed on the database,” the detective said. “We’re going to the postal service to see if he left a forwarding address, and there are things we can do beyond that to track him down, but I just thought I’d run it past you first.”

“Sorry, Detective,” said Boyd as he finished his search. “I wish I could be of more help.”

Boyd hung up the phone, wondering if he should tell Linus or somebody from
KTA
about the conversation with the detective. But Boyd didn’t trust Linus enough to be certain he wouldn’t use the information in some way that would come back to haunt him. Besides, Boyd rationalized, the
Evening Headlines
would be the next broadcast to air. Any new information should be passed along to them, and Boyd felt that he could count on Eliza Blake to protect her source if it should come to that.

“Back so soon?” Eliza asked when Boyd walked into her office.

Boyd recounted his conversation with the detective and held out the piece of paper on which he’d written the name and address of the dog’s owner. Eliza took it from him.

“I’m going to give this to Annabelle and see what she can find out,” said Eliza. “Thanks so much for the tip, Boyd.”

“No problem, Eliza,” said Boyd. “But I hope I won’t get into any trouble for telling you about this.”

“You mean with the police?” asked Eliza.

Boyd nodded. “Or with Linus. I don’t know which one scares me more.”

M
r. Welles? Mr. Graham Welles?”

“Speaking.”

Yes.
Annabelle pumped her free hand in the air in a fist as she held on to the telephone receiver with the other. She had found him.

“Hi, my name is Annabelle Murphy. I’m a producer with KEY News. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

“Yes?” Graham Welles answered cautiously.

“I was wondering if you owned a Great Dane,” said Annabelle.

“Who is this,
really
?” asked Graham.

“I’m Annabelle Murphy, and I’m calling from KEY News in New York City. I understand you once lived in Manhattan?”

“What show do you work for?” the man asked, still unsure.

“
Key to Amer
—” Annabelle caught herself. “Excuse me,
KEY Evening Headlines
with Eliza Blake.”

“Oh, I’m a big Eliza Blake fan,” said Graham. “I watch her every night.”

“She’ll be glad to hear that, sir.”

“That place of yours must be in quite an uproar, huh?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Constance Young. Such a terrible thing to happen to such a young woman,” the man mused aloud. “Does anybody know exactly what happened yet?”

“No, not yet.” Annabelle patiently answered the man’s questions, wanting to build up as much connection as anyone could in a short, transcontinental phone call.

“I watched Constance Young all the time, too,” said the man. “To tell you the truth, I was going to follow her over to
Daybreak.
But I guess I’ll stay with
KEY to America
now.”

“Mr. Welles,” said Annabelle, “I’m hoping that you might be able to help us with a story we are doing on Constance’s death.”

“
Me?
How could
I
help you?”

It was obvious now to Annabelle that she had beaten the police in tracking down the Great Dane’s owner. Inwardly she congratulated herself on using the available technology and following through faster than law enforcement.

“There was a dog found on Ms. Young’s property,” said Annabelle. “A dog registered to you.”

“Marco?” asked the man.

“A black Great Dane?” asked Annabelle.

“Yes,” said Graham. “But how could that be? Did Constance Young adopt my Marco?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Annabelle.

“I had to give Marco up when I moved out here to the West Coast to live with my daughter and her family. I put ads in the paper and called everyone I knew, but nobody would take him. He’s such a big fella, you know.”

Oh, crap.
In her eagerness to follow the lead on the dog’s owner, Annabelle hadn’t given any thought to the fact that she was going to have to break the news that the Great Dane was dead.

“When I took Marco to the animal shelter, I was praying someone would adopt him.” Graham Welles sounded relieved.

“What animal shelter was that, Mr. Welles?” asked Annabelle. As she wrote down the answer, Annabelle knew she was being careful to get the information she wanted before risking upsetting her interviewee.

“I’m so glad they found a home for Marco,” said the man. He paused as a thought occurred to him. “But if Constance Young is dead, what will happen to Marco now?”

Annabelle braced herself. She could fib with some vague reference to the Westchester County animal authorities taking care of the dog, or she could avoid the question altogether and let Graham Welles hear from the police, when they inevitably contacted him, that his beloved Great Dane was dead. Either option wasn’t really playing it straight.

“I’m afraid I have some very sad news, Mr. Welles. Marco is dead.” No response came from the other end of the phone connection. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Welles. I really am.” As gently as she could, when the man began to ask questions, she told him an abbreviated version of what she knew. The dog had been found in the woods near the pool. The veterinarian had found the identifying microchip while examining the dog, which had led her to call. She didn’t mention that Marco’s body had been thrown into the dump or that the vet was dissecting Marco’s carcass to figure out how the dog had died.

“Again, Mr. Welles, I’m so very sorry,” said Annabelle. “But thank you for talking with me. Now I know which animal shelter to check to see who claimed Marco.”

“You mean, you don’t think Constance Young adopted him?” Graham sounded puzzled.

“I’m not quite sure what to think,” said Annabelle. “But if Constance had gotten a dog, I think her assistant would have known about it. As far as I know, he didn’t.”

“So you think Marco might have been with somebody else?” he asked. “Somebody else brought him to that house? Do you think that somebody might have
killed
Marco?”

“I’m afraid that’s a possibility,” answered Annabelle. “We are going to keep looking into this. But, Mr. Welles?”

“Yes?”

“Would you be willing to go on camera and talk to us for the story we’re doing tonight? We could send a producer and camera crew from our Los Angeles bureau to your house.”

Graham hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“It might help us find out what happened to Marco,” urged Annabelle. “If somebody knows something that could be helpful and hears you talking about him, it might prompt them to come forward with their information.” Annabelle took a deep breath, knowing how much she was asking.

“Well, all right,” Graham Welles agreed. “I’ll do it.”