by Leslie Meier
After Arnold and Camilla, the name that came to mind was Pablo, the photographer. He must certainly have resented Nadine’s influence at the magazine, where Camilla ignored his ideas in favor of her half-cracked notions. Lucy knew from her own experience how frustrating it was to see her byline on a story she didn’t believe in. An example that came to mind was a puff piece Ted had insisted she write about the visit of an aspiring pop star to the outlet mall last summer, even though she had argued that her time would be better spent on a story about the school budget. He’d overruled her, insisting that the story would appeal to younger readers. She’d been embarrassed when it appeared, and she couldn’t imagine that Pablo had been very happy about attaching his name to a photo spread of homeless people modeling priceless gems. If he had any artistic integrity at all he must have been mortified to have his talent employed to mock those unfortunate souls.
Pablo’s buddy Nancy was no fan of Nadine’s either, thought Lucy, adding her name to the list. Nancy certainly seemed eager to comfort Arnold; she’d been all over the man at the funeral. Perhaps she saw herself as the next Mrs. Arnold Nelson and decided the road to matrimony would be a lot smoother if she got rid of the first? From her point of view it would be a win–win situation: even if she failed to snag Arnold, she would have the benefit of getting Nadine out of the way at work.
Phyllis was another Jolie employee who benefited from Nadine’s demise: she got her job. Was that reason enough to kill the woman? After all, Phyllis had seemed devoted to Nadine. If the woman told her to jump, Phyllis jumped. That was how it appeared anyway, but Lucy knew that appearances could be deceptive. Maybe Phyllis resented Nadine every bit as much as Pablo did but had been better at masking her emotions. Lucy decided she’d love to know Phyllis’s true feelings.
And then there was Elise, the fashion editor who didn’t seem all that interested in fashion. She seemed to be working at the magazine only because her old college friends Camilla and Nadine were there. It reminded Lucy of a favorite saying of her mother’s: “Three’s a crowd.” To her mother’s way of thinking, people naturally tended to pair off, and not just matrimonially. Two could walk abreast comfortably on a sidewalk, but if there were three someone had to walk alone. Two could sit together at a theater and chat while waiting for the show to start, but not three. Two could ride together in the front seat of a car, but the third had to take the backseat. What if Elise had gotten tired of sitting in the backseat? Would she kill to ride shotgun? Lucy remembered how she had supported Camilla at the funeral, and she added her name to the list, which was growing rather long without even considering the makeover winners.
Most of them could be dismissed, she decided, because they’d had no contact with Nadine before they arrived in New York. There were a couple of exceptions, though. Cathy, for example, had a history of sorts with Camilla and Nadine, having encountered them through her work at Neiman Marcus. And Maria lived in New York. Maybe she’d had some sort of run-in with her. But where would Cathy or Maria, or any of the other people on her list for that matter, get anthrax? And how could they handle it without getting sick themselves?
Lucy reached for her coffee cup and took a sip, but the coffee was cold. She’d been so absorbed in her list of suspects that she’d forgotten to drink it. Coffee had a way of cooling off, and so did investigations, if you let them sit too long. Lucy knew that time was not on her side if she was going to catch the anthrax poisoner, but she didn’t know how to begin. Back home she’d simply grab her reporter’s notebook and start asking questions, but it wasn’t that simple here in New York, especially since she’d been officially warned off by the FBI. She needed to find a way to investigate that wouldn’t rouse suspicion: she needed to fly below the radar. But how she was going to do that was anybody’s guess. She got up and shrugged into her coat.
Outside, on the sidewalk, it occurred to her that emotion was clouding the issue. As a reporter she’d conducted plenty of investigations in Tinker’s Cove and she’d always been more or less personally involved, but not like this. This time it was her daughter who’d been attacked, and she was determined to do everything in her power to bring the poisoner to justice. The hell with justice, she thought, striding along the sidewalk; she’d like to strangle whoever did this to Elizabeth, or even better, she’d like to give this heartless villain a taste of his own medicine. Or hers. She’d like to inject a big fat horse syringe of deadly microbes into his bloodstream and see how he’d feel then.
Walking along the sidewalk in the direction of the hospital, Lucy passed a newsstand and stopped to read the headlines: “Martha Stewart’s Jail Décor,” “Rosie’s New Weight Loss Plan,” “What I Saw in Michael’s Bedroom,” and “Scott Peterson’s Girlfriend Talks.” Taking a New York Tattler off the pile and paying for it, Lucy looked for the story about Nadine’s death, but didn’t find anything. Tucking it in her bag she came to a decision. There was one surefire way she knew to ignite an investigation, and she was going to do it. She hailed a cab and gave the address of the Tattler. After all, what she had to tell them was a lot more sensational than Rosie’s latest diet.
* * *
The Tattler encouraged tips from readers and once Lucy had cleared the metal scanner and her bag had been checked for guns and explosive devices, she was sent straight up to the newsroom to talk to the news editor, Ed Riedel. Her spirits climbed as the elevator chugged upwards; it was such a relief to be doing something positive. She could hardly wait to tell this Ed Riedel the inside story of Nadine Nelson’s death.
But when the elevator stopped and the doors ground open, she found she was not the only person in New York who wanted to spill their guts to Ed. She would have to take a number. There wasn’t even room on the long bench in the hallway; she would have to stand.
Just as well, decided Lucy, waiting would give her a chance to organize her thoughts. So she unbuttoned her trusty plaid coat and leaned against the wall, alternately shifting her weight from one foot to the other and wishing she’d worn her duck boots. It wasn’t long, however, before a seat opened up. The line was moving along briskly. She hoped that was a good sign. Probably none of the others had a story that was as important as hers.
“Seventy-six,” called the receptionist, and Lucy hopped to her feet.
“That’s me.”
The receptionist cocked her head toward a door, and Lucy trotted in to tell Ed Riedel all about it.
He was sitting at a worn, gray steel desk, leaning on one elbow. His chin was resting in one hand; the other hand was busy doodling on a big pad of foolscap. He looked like an old, tired bloodhound, and no wonder, thought Lucy. The things he must have heard.
“Whatcha got?” he asked, getting right to the point.
“Anthrax poison at Jolie magazine. Nadine Nelson died of it and my daughter also has it, but she’s getting better,” said Lucy, making it snappy.
Riedel’s bleary eyes suddenly became sharply focused. She felt as if they were lasers, burning right through her.
“Anthrax?”
“That’s what the doctors say.”
“And Nadine Nelson is . . . ?”
“The beauty editor, wife of real estate developer Arnold Nelson. Her funeral was this morning at Frank Campbell’s.”
“Rich broad, huh?”
Lucy nodded. “Somebody sent her a powder compact loaded with anthrax. My daughter got some on her skin. She’s in the hospital.” Ed seemed to be losing his focus so Lucy added, “The FBI is investigating.”
“Your daughter works at the magazine?”
“No. We won a mother–daughter makeover.”
Ed gave her an appraising once-over but didn’t say anything. Lucy didn’t much like it and pulled herself up a little straighter. “Listen, this is a big story. I’m a reporter myself, in Maine, and I know news when I see it. I can give you the inside scoop. I saw Nadine when she was sick, I was there when Camilla Keith learned about her death, I’ve been sitting at my daughter’s bedside in the hospita
l. Just ask me what you want to know.”
Ed’s gaze had shifted. He was staring off in the distance, drumming his fat fingers against his chin.
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna touch this with a ten foot pole.”
“Why not?”
“The FBI’s involved, and if it really is anthrax like you say, you gotta figure Homeland Security is all over it.” He leveled his eyes at her. “You heard of the Patriot Act?”
Lucy suddenly understood why even the Times hadn’t printed the story. The realization made her sick.
“So nobody’s going to print this?”
He scowled and shook his head, then slowly cocked one eyebrow. “Not unless you can tell me who sent the anthrax. Now that would be worth big bucks.”
Lucy was definitely interested. “Big bucks?”
“We pay for stories. Why do you think all those people are out there? A story like this could be in the six figures, if you get it right.”
“But how am I . . . ?”
He shrugged. “You say you’re a reporter.”
“But the government couldn’t figure out . . .”
He cut her off. “That’s why it’s worth six figures. Now get out of here.”
Lucy got to her feet, feeling slightly woozy. Six figures. “Did you say six figures?”
Ed nodded. “Take my card. Ya never know.”
The elevator creaked and groaned ominously as the car descended with Lucy inside. She felt like groaning herself. Maybe even wailing. What was going on? She had a terrific story, she knew it, but even the New York Tattler was afraid to print it because of the government. What was the world coming to?
Lucy wanted to give Ed Riedel a piece of her mind. What sort of journalist was he? Wasn’t the truth more important than anything? How was a democracy supposed to operate if newspapers were afraid to print the truth? Somebody had poisoned her daughter, somebody had killed Nadine and who knows how many other people, maybe this whole flu epidemic was actually an anthrax attack, and they were going to get away with it.
The little sign on the door said PUSH but Lucy slammed her hand against it, making the door fly open. She wanted to shake some sense into Ed Riedel, into those smug FBI agents, into the whole stupid world.
She marched along the sidewalk, building up a head of steam, when somebody grabbed her arm, saving her from an oncoming car. She hadn’t noticed the flashing DON’T WALK sign and she’d almost walked right into traffic. Looking around, she couldn’t even tell who had saved her, who she ought to thank. It was time to calm down, she told herself as she waited for the WALK signal. She needed to cool off—she needed a little space, a little distraction. Back home she’d go for a walk on the beach, to get some sea air and clear out the cobwebs, but here she’d have to take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. She headed for the nearest subway.
When the train pulled into the South Ferry stop, Lucy waited for the doors to slide open so she could get off, but they remained stubbornly closed. In fact, she realized, her car was barely in the station. Belatedly, she noticed a sign warning South Ferry passengers that they must be in the first five cars of the train. Furthermore, passage inside the train to the first five cars was not possible when the train was in the South Ferry station.
So she sat and waited as the train snaked its way around the subterranean loop of track at the bottom of Manhattan Island and exited at Rector Street, the next stop. She was surprised, when she surfaced onto the sidewalk, to find herself in front of a quaint little church, clearly a survivor from colonial times. She paused, peering through the wrought iron bars of the fence, and stared at a stone obelisk marking the grave of Alexander Hamilton. It was a shock to realize he wasn’t just a name in the history books but a real flesh-and-blood man who had walked these streets and prayed in this church. Tall office buildings now loomed over it; the lower tip of Manhattan was now home to the stock exchange and brokerage houses. Just beyond the church was Ground Zero, where the Twin Towers had stood before the terrorist attack. Lucy paused at the fence enclosing the enormous empty space, now cleaned up and resembling any other construction site.
On the one hand, she thought, life had to go on. Rebuilding was a way of defying the terrorists. But on the other, it was hard to forget the suffering that had taken place that day. Maybe the site should be left empty as a memorial.
She felt terribly sad leaving the site, but many of the people walking briskly along the sidewalk didn’t seem to notice it. Of course, she realized, these people worked nearby and they passed it every day. It was in their consciousness, sure, but they couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, or the possibility of a future attack. If they did, they’d go crazy. They certainly wouldn’t be able to get on the subway or ride the elevator up to the top of one of the adjacent office towers.
She strolled past the famous statue of the bull, that most American symbol of optimism, and noted that it stood on Bowling Green, now a little park filled with homeless people but once the place where seventeenth-century Dutch settlers had once spent their leisure hours bowling.
George Washington had come here, to nearby Fraunces Tavern, to say farewell to his troops. Walt Whitman had written about New York, and so had Herman Melville. He’d written about the Battery in Moby Dick, the same Battery Park she was walking in now, on her way to the ferry terminal. And in much the same way as he’d described, people were still drawn there daily to gaze at the Narrows of New York Harbor, now spanned by the Verrazzano Bridge, and to think of the vast ocean beyond.
The ferry terminal itself was under construction, but renovations to the waiting area were completed, and a small crowd of people had gathered in front of a set of steel and glass doors through which the ferry could be seen approaching. They grew restless as it docked, and they had to wait for the New York–bound passengers to disembark before the doors opened and they could surge forward, down the ramp to the boat. There were plenty of benches to sit on but they were largely ignored by these restless New Yorkers who couldn’t imagine sitting down comfortably until the ferry was clear and then strolling aboard in a leisurely fashion. Finally, the crowd thinned, the doors slid open, and the crowd surged forward.
Lucy marched along with the rest down a wide ramp, wondering who all these people were and why they were taking the ferry in the middle of the day. They couldn’t be commuters at this hour; maybe they were tourists like her? She glanced about, looking for telltale clues like cameras and shopping bags, and spotted Deb Shertzer walking a few feet from her, wearing her funeral black.
“Hi,” said Lucy, with a smile. She was pleasantly surprised to see a familiar face, having grown used to passing hundreds of strangers every day.
“Well, hi yourself,” said Deb, falling into step alongside her. “What are you doing down here?”
“I’m just taking a ferry ride to clear my head,” said Lucy. “This has all been pretty overwhelming and I need a break.”
“No wonder,” sympathized Deb, tucking an unruly strand of her short hair behind one ear. “You certainly got more than you bargained for. How’s Elizabeth doing?”
Lucy felt that Deb really cared; she wasn’t just going through the motions and saying the expected thing. Unlike most of the women at the magazine who took great pains to look smart and fashionable, Deb wouldn’t have looked out of place in Tinker’s Cove with her boyish haircut, sensible walking shoes, and flower-print cloth tote bag.
“She’s much better. Thanks for asking.”
A cold blast of air hit them as they stepped aboard the ferry, and Lucy inhaled the familiar scent of gasoline mingled with ozone and salt water and for a moment imagined she was at the fish pier in Tinker’s Cove.
“People forget New York is a port city,” said Deb, apparently reading her mind. “With all the tall buildings it’s easy to forget Manhattan’s an island.”
“It’s not like any island in Maine, that’s for sure,” said Lucy, peering through the windows in hopes of glimpsing the ranks
of skyscrapers clustered around Wall Street. That view was blocked, but she could see a huge tanker passing on the port side, and across the water she could see docks and warehouses lined up on the Brooklyn shore.
“I’d like to stand outside on the deck but I think it’s too cold.”
“Probably nobody out there today but cuddling couples,” said Deb, taking a seat on one of the long benches that filled the ferry’s belly. “Believe it or not, a ride on the ferry is a popular cheap date.”
Lucy had a sudden panic attack. “I forgot to pay!”
“It’s free,” said Deb.
“That is a cheap date,” said Lucy, taking the seat beside her. “Do you make this commute every day?”
“No. I live in Queens and take the subway to work. My mother lives in Staten Island so I’m taking advantage of a free afternoon to visit her.” She looked out the window as the ferry started to pull away from its berth. “The offices are still closed.”
“What did you think of the funeral?”
Deb looked at her curiously. “That’s right, you were there, weren’t you? You saw Elise freak out at Pablo.” She shook her head. “That’s just like her, you know. I have no doubt Camilla told Pablo to take the photos, then got Elise to take it out on him when she changed her mind.”