Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry

by Mary Higgins Clark

  On the way to the airport early Monday morning, she and her father made small talk and then rode in silence. Gina hated the feeling of awkwardness that hung in the air. She had never hesitated to talk to her father about Ted, work, politics, anything from the momentous to the trivial. She loved their conversations. But she found herself struggling with how to introduce a topic that was so important to her, to both of them.

  Sensing her reluctance, her father broke the ice. “So tell me, has the jury reached a verdict on Marian?”

  “Dad, I’m not judging Marian, you, or anybody. I’m just concerned. I’m worried that you’re going to move quickly to fill a void.”

  “Gina—”

  “Please, Dad, hear me out. I like Marian. I think she’s very nice. She’s an attractive woman. I’m delighted that the two of you are having a good time together. But knowing a few facts about somebody is not the same as really knowing that person. That takes time.”

  “Gina, I don’t think you’re giving your old man enough credit. A little wisdom usually comes along with a head full of gray hair.”

  They pulled to a stop in front of her terminal.

  “Dad, remember when you would tell me how much you liked Ronald Reagan when he was president? What he would say when he was dealing with the Russians—”

  “Trust but verify,” he said, smiling.

  “Excellent advice. I love you.”

  70

  Gina settled into her aisle seat for the two-and-a-half-hour flight to LaGuardia. The couple in the two seats next to her were about her age. She could not help but hear their conversation. They were planning a wedding. Holding hands as they spoke, he suggested how much easier it would be if they flew to Las Vegas and were married by an Elvis impersonator. She laughed, punched him on the arm, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

  It had been a long time since Gina had felt so alone. Most of her friends envied her life as a journalist and the freedom of movement if offered. It certainly had its advantages. But there’s something to be said for the familiarity of an office, seeing the same faces every day. For better or for worse, they know you as well as you know them. The sense of accomplishing as a team. Sharing a joke in the cafeteria. The spontaneous drink after work. She had been freelancing for three years. Most of that time was spent in her apartment or at a Starbucks, her laptop her only constant companion.

  She didn’t need a therapist to help understand why she was feeling so gloomy. Ted. If things were different, he would have been the one to help sort out her feelings. She was aching to see him. She wanted to talk to him about Marian Callow. His instincts were so good. His oft-repeated joke: “There are very few problems that can’t be resolved over a bottle of wine at dinner.”

  He had called when she was in Naples, but she had let the phone ring. She still couldn’t bring herself to listen to the message he had left. The text he’d sent late Saturday evening had brought her to tears.

  Gina, I accept that we’re finished. Not that I have much choice in the matter. You always valued how well we communicated. That makes it harder to understand why, when something went terribly wrong, we can’t even talk about it. Please assure me that you’re okay. I hope you’ve found someone who loves you the way I did. Ted

  His use of the past tense to describe his love was not lost on her.

  Just before the announcement came to power down electronic devices, Gina opened her phone and tapped a text to Lisa. Counselor, please say you’re free for a drink tonight. In need of your company.

  Less than a minute later the phone vibrated announcing the arrival of a text. It’s nice to be needed! DeAngelo’s at 7:30.

  71

  Lisa was already at the bar when Gina entered. She had thrown her coat over the back of the stool next to her to reserve it for Gina. Lisa had a Help me! look on her face as she was trying to be polite to an older man with the worst hair-dye job Gina had ever seen. He moved off after Gina sat down.

  “Who’s your new friend?” she joked.

  “Oh please! Anybody who just sold his company for twenty million dollars could find somebody to do a better job on his hair than that. It looks like he used shoe polish!”

  They both laughed.

  “So girlfriend,” Lisa began, “anything new on the Ted front?”

  Lisa was the only person outside of Empire Review that Gina had confided in regarding her REL News investigation. When Gina shared with her the magazine’s lawyer’s insistence that she had to break things off with Ted immediately, Lisa had said, “I hate to tell you this, Gina, but he’s right.”

  “I’m still getting calls and text messages,” Gina said. “Of course I feel awful, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “I know you are. Thanks. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Remember when I told you my father had met somebody?” Gina described the weekend in Naples, meeting Marian Callow, and her concern about her father.

  “It’s hard at our age, Gina, to think of our parents as sexual beings. My uncle Ken was a widower and he was dating a lot in his early seventies. He once told me, ‘The call of the wild is still sounding at my age. It may not be as loud or my hearing may not be as good, but no question, it’s still there.’ ”

  They both laughed. Gina again appreciated her good fortune to have Lisa as a friend.

  “Look, Lisa, I want him to be happy. I have my life up here. I like what I do. I love New York; I love my apartment. If he wants to share his life and what he has in Naples with her, who am I to object?”

  A troubled look came over Lisa’s face. “Gina, I’m going to put on my lawyer hat for a minute. You refer to your place on the Upper West Side as ‘my apartment.’ Did your parents or your father ever legally transfer ownership into your name?”

  Gina appeared stunned. “When they went to Florida, they gave me the apartment. I’ve lived there. I’ve paid the maintenance and all the expenses. It’s mine, right?”

  “Legally speaking, Gina, nobody cares who took care of the maintenance or paid to fix the appliances. If the apartment has not been legally transferred to you, including paying the appropriate gift taxes, or put into a trust for you, the apartment belongs to your father. He is free to leave it to whomever he pleases.”

  Silence hung in the air for a few moments. It was Lisa who finally broke it. “It’s always possible your parents or your father did the transfer without telling you. I can find out the owner of any piece of property in the city. I’ll research it and get back to you.”

  “I don’t know how long that will take, Lisa. I want to pay you for your time.”

  Lisa waved her off. “You pay for the drinks, and we’ll call it even.”

  72

  After her weekend in Naples Gina had been overdue for a good night’s sleep. Worry that her father was close to making a commitment to a woman he barely knew had weighed on her the three nights she was down there. A sound sleep in her own bed would be the antidote to her feeling of fatigue. But it wasn’t meant to be. Lisa’s warning about the apartment served only to increase her anxiety.

  It was 6:20 a.m. on Tuesday. She didn’t feel rested, but she was certain that she would be unable to fall back to sleep. Pulling on a robe, she headed for the kitchen.

  As she waited for the Keurig machine to brew the coffee, she tried to sort out her feelings. She had heard plenty of stories from friends and parents of friends who felt cheated with regard to what they thought they would inherit. In one family there were four siblings, two who were very successful and two who struggled financially. The parents left the bulk of the estate to their less-well-off children, believing they needed the most help. The successful children argued that hard work had made the difference in their lives. They felt they were now being punished for the sacrifices they had made.

  As an only child, Gina never had to wonder about what would happen when her parents were no longer around. “What was ours will be yours someday,” they had al
ways said. It was to be a logical progression, a handoff from one generation to the next. Completely uncomplicated.

  She breathed in the scent of the brewing coffee. It was already working its magic. She hadn’t taken a sip, but she was already feeling a little more awake.

  How did she even start the conversation with her father without coming off as really selfish? Dad, I’m concerned that you and Marian are headed down the aisle pretty soon. Before that happens, could you kindly put the place in New York in my name so she doesn’t get any ideas?

  Maybe that sounded so selfish because she was being downright selfish, she whispered to herself. Looking around the apartment, she thought, I didn’t earn this. Mom and Dad did. It was theirs; now it’s his. I don’t have a right to any of this.

  After several sips of coffee she felt her energy level increasing. She went to the kitchen table, tapped open her email account, and scanned the new ones. One had arrived at 6:33 a.m., seven minutes earlier. It included an attachment. She didn’t recognize the sender. All that was written in the subject line was “REL.” Now wide awake, she clicked and watched the email take shape on the screen.

  Miss Kane,

  I spoke to friend. She suggest I contact you.

  I was shock when I here Cathy Ryan dead. Like you, I don’t believe was accident. Paula Stephenson was another young girl hurt so bad. Like Cathy, I don’t believe she commit suicide.

  I have to be careful. Don’t try to find me.

  Gina clicked on the attachment and scanned the brief article. Thirty-one-year-old Paula Stephenson had been found hanging from her bathroom door in her Durham, North Carolina, apartment. Although they had not determined a cause of death, the police were investigating it as a possible suicide. I wonder how hard they’re investigating, Gina asked herself.

  There was a brief mention of time she had spent as the weather broadcaster on a station in Dayton. There was nothing about a current employer or next of kin.

  The article was from June 28, four months earlier.

  Gina glanced back at the name of the sender. It was a jumble of letters and numbers followed by “@gmail.com.” It reminded her of one of those suggestions that are made when they want you to choose a unique password.

  She reread the email. Was it from a fourth victim? The sender had been careful not to reveal his or her sex. It was also not clear if the sender was currently at REL or used to be there. Or for that matter it was possible he/she never worked there.

  The multiple errors in word usage suggested that English was not this person’s first language. Or maybe that was intentional, Gina thought.

  Whoever sent this knew what happened to Cathy Ryan and Paula Stephenson and knows Meg Williamson. It was too early to contact Williamson for help. Meg had done what she had promised. Gina had a new lead to follow. She hoped that the police in Durham would be more helpful than their counterparts in Aruba.

  73

  I’m getting my money’s worth out of this suitcase, Gina thought to herself as she threw the last few items in before zipping it shut. She glanced at her phone. Her flight would touch down in Raleigh-Durham at four o’clock in the afternoon.

  She had tried to accomplish as much as she could in the little over twenty-four hours since she had received the mysterious email about Paula Stephenson, emailing Geoff to describe the new lead she wanted to pursue. He had texted her an hour later. Sounds promising. Go for it. Be careful.

  Hoping the policy had changed, Gina had gone online to the Bureau of Vital Statistics, Durham, North Carolina. She was hoping to download a copy of Stephenson’s death certificate. No luck. For a fee it could be mailed to her. I’ll pick it up in person, she said to herself as she jotted down the address.

  She had spent the previous afternoon researching online private investigators. After speaking to Wesley Rigler, she was confident she had found one who could help her. Wes was in his early sixties. Before retiring two years earlier, he had been a lieutenant in the Durham Police Department.

  Earlier that morning she had received a text from Andrew, Cathy Ryan’s brother.

  Hi Gina, I know you’re busy and I don’t want to bother you. My mother keeps asking if there are any updates on what happened to Cathy. Is there anything you can share? Thanks. Andrew

  No matter how many investigations she did, this was the part that made her feel the most conflicted. Whether it was the nursing home abuse, the fraternity branding, or other stories she had pursued, the victims or their families had shared very private and confidential information with her. They had bared their souls and opened themselves to further pain to give her the information she needed to press forward. Most of them wanted, expected, or demanded to be kept in the loop.

  But experience had taught her that sharing everything she knew could create false hopes and in some cases jeopardize the investigation. It was a balancing act. Her response via text had been:

  Andrew, I’m sorry to say I don’t have anything new on Cathy. I’ve spoken to another woman who had a bad experience at REL and have a lead on a third potential victim. Am grateful to you and your parents for your trust. Gina

  She slipped her coat on, put her purse on top of her suitcase, and headed toward the elevator.

  74

  Gina used the electronic key to open the door of her room at the Durham Hotel on East Chapel Hill Street. Lisa had recommended it, saying her family had stayed there when they went down for her younger brother’s graduation from Duke.

  Ordinarily, Gina would have used the two hours of flight time to organize her thoughts, to put together a plan to make the best use of her time on the ground. There was no worse feeling—it had happened to her before—than being on the return flight home and realizing she had failed to follow up on a potential lead.

  She had ample reason to feel distracted. Much as she dreaded receiving a text or an email from Ted, going several days without hearing from him produced a different kind of hurt. More than ever before, she realized how much she loved him. She envisioned his arms around her as she explained that abruptly breaking up with him was the only thing she could do to protect him. He would think of something funny and sweet to say. Gina, do me a favor. In the future, stop protecting me!

  And now, only silence. She found herself hoping that his work on the REL News IPO was keeping him so busy that he would have no time to move on, no opportunity to start getting interested in finding someone else. I’ll find a way to make it all work out, she promised herself.

  Putting Ted out of her mind provided little respite. When her plane landed and she switched on her phone, there was a text from Lisa. Gina, sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings. The apartment is still in both of your parents’ names. Let me know how I can help. Lisa

  Gina was not surprised. She really couldn’t imagine her parents or her father having done that without telling her.

  Before receiving the email about Paula Stephenson, Gina had hoped to spend time looking into Marian Callow’s background. She especially wanted to track down her stepsons, the ones who have their own lives, and hear their impressions of the woman who had married into their family.

  She had said a silent prayer that things wouldn’t move too quickly in Florida. Getting engaged creates a momentum all its own. She remembered talking to a girlfriend who had a short-lived marriage. “Rings are bought, the church and reception hall booked, shopping for gowns, going over guest lists, rehearsal dinner, endless photos. The plans and events were like an avalanche going down the mountain. I knew on my wedding day I was marrying the wrong guy. I just felt powerless to stop it.”

  The ring of her cell phone snapped Gina back to reality. It was the private investigator, Wes Rigler.

  “Gina, I’m so sorry. My daughter has gone into labor two weeks early. I can’t meet you tonight, but if all goes well, I’ll be able to break free tomorrow afternoon. Is there anything I can help you with before I head to the hospital?”

  “I want to talk to the funeral home that took care of Step
henson’s body. Would you be able to find out which one that was?”

  “No, but I can make the search easy for you. When the medical examiner is finished with a body, it is shipped to a local funeral home. When the deceased is from out of town, they prep it and make arrangements for the body to be transported to the home the victim’s family wants to use. The City of Durham contracts with three funeral homes to provide this service. Have you got a pen?”

  Gina scribbled down the names. “Thanks, Wes. I don’t want to take you away from your family.”

  “Don’t worry. Once everything’s in good shape at the hospital, I’ll come join you wherever you are. Keep your phone on.”

  “Will do. Good luck. First grandchild?”

  “Numero uno. Can’t wait!”

  Gina put down the phone. The thought of a new baby arriving in the world made her think of, who else? Ted. Imagining the happy family converging on the hospital brought to mind her father, and guess who? Marian. Knock it off, she said to herself. You’re not going to get anything done if you spend the whole time sulking and worrying.

  75

  The next morning Gina called the first and second funeral homes. Neither had a record of having made arrangements for a Paula Stephenson. With some trepidation she phoned the third. Yes, they had taken care of her. There was only one mortician at their facility, the owner, Vaughn Smith. Mr. Smith was out of the office on business but would be available to see her at one o’clock.

  Change of plans, she thought to herself. She pulled a folder from her bag and opened it to Paula’s obituary. The address of her condo was 415 Walnut Street. She opened her laptop and went to Google Maps. The pictures revealed a relatively small four-story building. Probably no more than sixteen units.