That did not stop the journalists from hurling a barrage of questions: The financial reporter from The Wall Street Journal: 'Ms. Hale! This is only your second press conference ever. Does your appearance imply your company's in financial difficulties? Rumors to that effect have been circula—'
The photographer from one of the wire services: 'Ms. Hale! Could you look over this way—'
The cockney-voiced scandalmonger from The Enquirer: Ms. Hile! Any more news on what caused your husband's pline crash—'
The sleazy Australian from a competing tabloid: 'Is it true you're suing the maker of your late husband's aircraft—'
Dorothy-Anne's face was a carefully composed mask. She stared straight ahead, adroitly avoiding direct eye contact by gazing at a point above everyone's heads. It was a trick practiced by celebrities, movie stars, and members of royal families the world over, and it served Dorothy-
Anne equally well. Even the sharp-eyed observer would have been hard pressed to guess at the storms raging inside her.
And rage they did.
How dare they! she cried to herself, each verbal arrow piercing the armor of her dignity. What gives them the right to breach the precious walls of my privacy? Is nothing sacred?
It was all she could do to contain her outrage. The personal nature of these questions was—beneath contempt. This . . . this free-for-all! . . . was not why this press conference had been called!
Venetia felt her tension. 'Don't lose it, honey,' she murmured out of the side of her mouth. 'That's why they're baiting you.'
Dorothy-Anne drew a deep breath. Then, head held high, she walked over to the fruitwood lectern and stood behind it. Emblazoned on the front was the logo of the Hale Companies, a large stylized H, and on the wall above her, brushed bronze letters spelled out THE HALE COMPANIES, INC.
The moment she took up her position, camera shutters clicked and flashbulbs exploded; videocams zoomed in on her. She cleared her throat and glanced around.
The journalists had fallen silent.
Too late, she wished she had heeded Venetia's advice. Right now I could use a prepared speech, she realized in a panic. I've got no idea what I'm expected to say!
And offering up a silent prayer, she leaned forward into the cluster of microphones bearing the symbols of CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, and Fox 5.
'Ladies and gentlemen of the press,' she began, 'thank you for braving the weather and being here today. I'll get right to the point, but before I start, I'd like to clear up a couple of minor misunderstandings. Please bear with me.
'I've heard some of you call me Ms. Hale. For the record, I'm Mrs. Cantwell. Unlike my great-grandmother, who founded this corporation and kept her maiden name throughout her married life, I chose to take my late husband's.
'Which brings me to the second subject.'
She paused, wishing she could have bypassed this topic completely. But she had to bring it up, if only to spare herself additional pain later on.
She said: 'Undoubtedly, you are aware that four months ago, my husband died in a tragic airplane crash that claimed three lives.'
She heard a few murmurs, and here and there saw some sympathetic nods. The rest of the journalists were spellbound. Camcorders whirred; pens flew across the pages of steno pads.
'I don't need to tell you that grief is a highly private matter,' she said softly, a catch in her voice. 'As such, I hope you'll respect my privacy and understand my refusal to respond to any questions regarding my late husband and/or the crash. I shall, however, make one exception so that I might address a specific comment regarding this matter.
'I am not now pursuing, nor am I considering, a lawsuit against the manufacturer of the aircraft. Where these rumors come from, God alone knows. I assure you, there are absolutely no facts to substantiate them.
'Furthermore, if inquiring tabloids report that I was abducted by aliens, and am starting a chain of intergalactic hotels, I hope you will disregard those stories as well.'
A wave of appreciative laughter reduced the tension in the room.
Atta girl! Venetia applauded mentally from where she stood off to the side, arms crossed in front of her.
'Now that we've cleared that up,' Dorothy-Anne said, 'let's get down to the issue at hand—the tragic outbreak of salmonella poisoning at the Hale Hotel and Resort in Huatulco, that's in Oaxaca, Mexico.'
Drawing on her memory's stores, she proceeded to fill them in on everything she knew, making it clear she was not glossing over the facts, withholding any information, or playing spin doctor by downplaying a dreadful situation.
'No matter what the culprit turns out to be,' she went on, 'this is an unforgivable occurrence. There is no excuse for it.'
Venetia braced herself, fearing she knew what was coming. Girl, she thought, will you shut up while you're ahead?
Dorothy-Anne said, 'While it's true that accidents do happen, neither the Hale Companies nor I myself intend to diminish the seriousness of this tragedy. It's appalling, and quite frankly, should never have occurred.
'In short, I personally take full responsibility for it. The buck has to stop somewhere, and it stops here.'
Venetia shut her eyes. Shit, she thought in despair. She's gone and done it! Thrown open the doors to a class-action lawsuit—not to mention a slew of individual cases!
Dorothy-Anne concluded by saying, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I've shared all the information available to me thus far. We will keep you posted on any new developments as they unfold. In the meantime, if you have any questions . . . '
A forest of hands shot up.
Now's the time to ask, Dorothy-Anne completed sardonically to herself. She pointed to a well-coiffed brunette from ABC.
'Ms. Hale—sorry.' The reporter grimaced at her gaffe. 'I meant, Mrs. Cantwell—'
'That's quite all right,' Dorothy-Anne said graciously. 'Please, do continue.'
'Mrs. Cantwell, you've always made it a point to stay out of the public eye. Could you comment on what caused you to shun publicity in the first place? And what, specifically, made you change your mind?'
'I can,' Dorothy-Anne responded. 'Above everything, I've always treasured my family and my privacy—and in that order. Does it not stand to reason that the mother in me should want to shield my children from the public eye? Well, that has not changed.
'However, there comes a time when a corporation grows so large that it's in danger of becoming a faceless, anonymous entity. This, I felt, was happening to Hale Hotels.
'And our guests deserve better. Much better.
'So, in order to put a human face to the organization, I decided to step forward. This way, our guests can be assured that a real and caring individual actually is in charge.'
A kind of respect showed in the reporter's face. Dozens of hands flew back up.
Dorothy-Anne picked a journalist from the Washington Post.
'Mrs. Cantwell.' He made a production of frowning. 'You mentioned that there've been no fatalities as a result of the salmonella poisoning.'
'That is correct.' Dorothy-Anne nodded.
'But given the outbreak of Legionnaire's disease in Singapore last December, where there were fatalities—'
'Seven deaths at the Hale Dynasty Hotel,' Dorothy-Anne confirmed grimly, with a sigh. 'How well I remember.'
Venetia winced and thought: For God's sake! Did she have to put a specific number on past fatalities? And worse—identify the hotel by its full travel-brochure name?
The reporter from the Washington Post was saying: 'Legionnaire's disease and salmonella are both bacterial infections. Don't these outbreaks indicate that health problems are more prevalent in your hotels than, say, in another chain's?'
'Not necessarily. No.'
Instead of raising her voice, Dorothy-Anne lowered the pitch.
'Around the world, our levels of service, safety, sanitation, and luxury far exceed the industry standard. In fact, a little research on your part will reveal that, from Antigua to Zimbabwe, Hale Hotels are
without peers in all these categories.'
'That still doesn't answer my question, Mrs. Cantwell. Perhaps I should rephrase it.'
The reporter paused and tapped his lips, as if deep in thought.
'Mrs. Cantwell. Your hotels have had two outbreaks of infectious bacterial diseases within a space of three months. Don't you find this an extraordinary coincidence?'
'As a matter of fact, yes,' Dorothy-Anne replied truthfully, 'I do. And because of that, we have hired several independent research laboratories to conduct their own investigations.'
Venetia nearly groaned aloud. Girl, she thought, now you've truly left yourself wide, wide open. She wondered how much more of this she could watch. Really, there ought to be a law for well-intentioned people. They need protection, if only from themselves.
'I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cantwell, but I'm not sure I heard right. Correct me if I'm wrong. You are mounting your own investigation? In addition to those of the CDC and the local authorities?'
'That's right.' Dorothy-Anne stared at him challengingly. 'I would be remiss in my duties if I did otherwise.'
'Why? Do you have reason to suspect something might be amiss?'
'I did not say that. However, being responsible for hundreds of thousands of guests each and every—'
'Thank you, Mrs. Cantwell.' The reporter was smiling.
The room erupted in a show of hands. Dorothy-Anne pointed to a woman from the Associated Press.
'Mrs. Cantwell, I am a mother myself. As such, from one mother to another, would you want your children to stay in a Hale Hotel? Or would you have qualms?'
'I would have no qualms whatsoever,' Dorothy-Anne said staunchly. 'Moreover, we often do stay in our hotels.'
'Then despite these two outbreaks, you wouldn't fear for your children's safety?' the reporter pressed.
'Why should I? So long as they're adequately supervised, they couldn't be in a safer place than a Hale Hotel. I firmly believe that. The mother in me would never, ever, knowingly permit me to expose my children to any health or safety risk.'
The hands lunged back up. She selected an Englishman from the London Times.
'Mrs. Cantwell. Financial centers the world over are awash with rumors concerning your company's liquidity.'
They're what?
Dorothy-Anne stifled a gasp. She felt her stomach contract, as if slammed by an invisible fist, and her heart seemed to stop. Yet somehow, despite the icy grip of fear shriveling her insides, she managed to keep her face expressionless.
How did this get out? she wondered. Only a handful of people even know! It occurred to her that someone must have leaked the information. But who? And, if these rumors are circulating, why wasn't I forewarned?
But of course she knew why. Freddie had always overseen the day-to- day operations of the empire. It was he who'd kept his ear close to the ground; who'd met with bankers and power brokers; who'd stage- managed the deals; all so she could concern herself with the Big Picture.
But Freddie was gone, both from her life and the business they'd shared, and the position he'd held in the company had yet to be filled. Trouble was, she'd been unable to bring herself to find a replacement—as if by doing so she'd be severing the very last, and final, earthly tie between them.
But now, sobered by the consequences, she realized just how dangerously close to the brink her procrastination had brought her. She'd been operating in a vacuum, juggling his duties along with her own.
Yes. It was high time she faced it. Like it or not, Freddie's position had to be filled. And fast—before the Hale Companies suffered irreparable harm.
The Englishman was saying: 'According to our sources, the Hale Companies borrowed heavily in the late eighties in order to finance rapid—some say too rapid—expansion. Also, rumors have it that the Hale Eden Isle Resort is not only far behind schedule, but alarmingly over budget. Could you elaborate on any of this, and possibly shed some light on the actual severity of the company's debt load?'
'I can try,' Dorothy-Anne said, 'though quite frankly, as a privately held corporation it's our prerogative—and company policy—not to disclose financial data to the public.
'But to address your question about expansion. First, you must bear in mind that we've become a highly diversified company. The hotels are but one entity of what is essentially a conglomerate. In fact, of all our subsidiaries, the hotel division's profits to earnings ratio is a frac—'
She was interrupted by the bleating of a cellular telephone. It belonged to the reporter from the Washington Post.
Wouldn't it just, Dorothy-Anne thought, spiking him with a glare.
He answered with a sibilant 'Yes!' that was amplified in the silence, and which showed a cruel disregard for her and everyone else. As he listened, he seemed to grow as richly satisfied as a Roman emperor after an orgy of a meal.
She bridled. Arrogant bastard, she thought in disgust, impatiently tapping her fingernails on the polished lectern. She waited until he'd switched the phone off.
'An urgent call?' she inquired stingingly.
'As a matter of fact, ma'am,' he replied, 'yes, It was.'
'Good.' She smiled frostily. 'I wouldn't have wanted you to miss it.'
'Actually,' he said, luxuriating in confidence and playing cat to her mouse, 'you might wish I had.'
'Oh?' She raised her eyebrows.
Yawning, he pretended abject boredom, but his eyes gleamed as he dropped the bombshell. 'That,' he said, sitting back casually and sounding contented, 'was our correspondent in Huatulco.'
Oh, no, she thought, clutching the edge of the lectern with white- knuckled fingers. Dear God, please . . .
'Seems one of your salmonella patients has just died. Wouldn't have a comment, would you?'
For a moment Dorothy-Anne felt the floor drop out from under her. Tension squeezed her forehead and temples until it seemed her skull must surely fracture. The floodlights aimed on her glared like searchlights trapping a fugitive.
She had to force herself to lean forward into the microphones, and when she spoke, her voice was weary and uneven.
'My comment,' she said shakily, 'is that this press conference is over.'
Her announcement was met with a chorus of groans.
She said, 'I'm truly sorry, ladies and gentlemen. But I must leave for Huatulco at once.'
It was the last place she wanted to go.
'Thank you,' she said.
And Cecilia Rosen, Derek Fleetwood, and Venetia quickly hustled her back out.
'Jesus H. Christ! I have never, but never, been so humiliated in my entire life!'
The explosion occurred the moment Cecilia pushed shut the soundproofed door of Dorothy-Anne's office, and only a fraction of a second after Dorothy-Anne irritably shook her arms free of Derek's and Venetia's well-meaning hands.
Both of them instantly backed off and exchanged raised eyebrows.
'But do you know what I find truly amazing? Do you know what really gets my goat?'
Dorothy-Anne's voice was sharp as a scalpel, and slashed the fragrant conviviality of the country house atmosphere. It plunged the room temperature to the wind-chill-driven snow outside and rendered Derek, Venetia, and even Cecilia speechless—all the more since each of them had fully expected her to be drained after the ordeal of the press conference, and had been convinced she would require their soothing ministrations.
Instead, what they had on their hands was a chief on the warpath—as infrequent an occurrence as a giant meteor hurtling toward earth, and equally as unwelcome.
Now, barely daring to breathe, this triumvirate eyed Dorothy-Anne warily as she stalked the overlapping needlepoint rugs, hands clenched at her sides, cheeks flaming as though with war paint, her stride swift, dangerous, angry; a jungle beast undecided as to which prey to rip into first.
'How is it,' she was demanding icily, 'that members of the press— yes, reporters!—should be better informed about the state of this company's affairs than I am?'
S
he whirled around in fury.
'Can any of you possibly explain that?'
Her eyes pierced each of them in turn.
Venetia and Derek flinched, but remained prudently silent; Cecilia, over her initial shock, looked on with an expression of mild boredom. It took more than her boss letting off steam to ruin her day.
'Granted,' Dorothy-Anne continued bitingly, 'these last several months have hardly been my idea of a dream, and granted, after Freddie's death I needed a period of adjustment. However, I am not now, nor was I ever, as fragile and helpless as to need protection from this . . . this utterly sorry . . . this . . . this hideously appalling and inexcusable state of affairs!'
Unable to stand still, Dorothy-Anne resumed her agitated pacing; nervous energy, anger, determination, and displeasure bounced off her like visible sonar.
'My God!'
She pressed the fingertips of one hand against her forehead.
'What has this place deteriorated to when the chief executive'—her head snapped up, as if to catch her captive audience in some indiscretion—'yes, I am speaking about myself!—needs to learn things from'— she drew a deep breath and expelled it verbally—'members of the press!'
There was utter silence.
'So, what we are going to do'—Dorothy-Anne glared at Derek, Venetia, and Cecilia—'what I deem it necessary to do, is to call an emergency meeting.' She was silent for a moment, then said briskly: 'Cecilia.'
'Boss?'
'Get hold of the heads of each of our divisions. Posthaste. Tell them I'm calling an impromptu conference.'
'Yes, but I thought you were flying off to Huatul—'
'I am.' Dorothy-Anne cut her off and smiled fiercely. 'But I didn't say I was going to fly there alone, now, did I?'
Three sets of eyes stared at her.
'Stop looking at me like I've lost my mind. Why should I waste time when I can turn the flight into a briefing?'
'Ah!' Cecilia nodded, and from her pocket produced the little pad and pen she carried on her person at all times. Flipping the pad open, she clicked the ballpoint, poised it over a page, and waited.
'I want the executive in charge of each division to be present,'
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