Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5)

by Laura Van Wormer

  I sigh. "Poor guy." I put the phone back and turn around. "You know he didn't do it. He's utterly harmless."

  "Sally, I've got to report that he's been here."

  "Yeah," I say dejectedly. I walk over and take his hands in mine. "But if I get him to come back—in the house—could you maybe tell the police he's in your custody? So he can at least get some sleep and I can get his lawyer again? For the morning? You know what that jail is like."

  "Sally—"

  "Please? He won't go anywhere. Really. And then we could just drop him off in the morning. And I can call his dad tonight and tell him he's safe. His dad's old. You don't want him to have to go down to the jail tonight. Let him get a good night's rest, too."

  Doug sighs heavily. "All right, I'll call Buddy. But you have to get him in here."

  I go outside and call Pete's name. No response. Scotty walks over to stand next to me. "Pete, come on, it's late and we're all tired. Come inside and take a hot shower. I'll give you some pa­jamas and I'll pull the bed out for you in the living room again." No response. "Doug and I will sleep in the bedroom, but Scotty will sleep in the living room with you. That way he can keep watch while you sleep." That way Scotty can keep tabs on you so Doug can sleep.

  Suddenly Crazy Pete steps out of the darkness. "Thanks," he whispers. And then he hurries past me into the house.

  Part II

  Manhattan

  14

  I left Castleford the next morning.

  I fixed breakfast for Doug and Crazy Pete, waved goodbye as they drove off to the police station, packed my bags, dropped Scotty off at Mother's and took off for New York.

  Mother is clever with money and she called one of her wild last-minute hotel numbers to book three nights at the Sheraton Center for me on Fifty-Seventh Street (less than six blocks from the West End Broadcasting Center, headquarters of DBS) for only $85 a night when the real rate is more like $245). I can't tell you how luxurious it feels to drive into downtown Manhattan, hand over the Jeep to the valet, waltz up to the front desk to check in and then unpack all my stuff in the room as if this is the way I've always lived.

  I am mad about hotels. Even motels, if it means a clean room and room service. The point is, I can't get over the wonderful­ness of having someone else clean up after me. A hot bath, room service dinner with wine, lounging in bed, a good movie on the TV and a bunch of magazines and newspapers spread out before me is my idea of heaven.

  And so, I am in heaven. I am also in New York!

  Mother knows how to reach me and so does Doug, but oth­erwise no one else does. And since I have shut off my cell phone, I have the added luxury of calling in to find out what is going on without having anyone being able to call me back. So what shall I do first?

  The Sheraton obviously caters to a business clientele because my steal-of-a-deal room has a large writing desk, two telephone lines and a fax machine. I set up my desk, organizing my files on Cassy Cochran, and run through a checklist of my tools: computer, computer battery, computer charger, adapter, por­table printer, ream of paper, steno pad, voice-activated tape re­corder, backup recorder, ten AA batteries, pens, pencils, Hi­-Liter markers. Okay, I am ready for work.

  I change into slacks and a linen blazer and low heels and walk over to the Expectations offices. At the reception area in the lobby, I find out that Doris Black came through: my name is on the security-pass list and I can go right up to the thirty-third floor.

  There is, I find, no receptionist on the floor beneath Verity's; this floor is shared with various departments of other maga­zines owned by Seymour Rubin. I wander down the hall, still half waiting for someone to throw me out of here, and find my way to the room of carrels for visiting writers. No one else is here. I walk over to the cubicle I think Doris said is mine and I smile because there is a little sign on it that has my name.

  I dump my briefcase on the floor and turn on the computer. I'm dying to see what kind of reference systems the magazine has, but my excitement is short-lived because I find that with­out a password I can't access anything more than simple word processing. I pick up the phone and ask the operator for Doris Black.

  "Doris Black," she says.

  "Doris, hi, it's Sally Harrington, the writer working on—"

  "I know who you are," Doris says congenially.

  "Well, I'm here, downstairs in my carrel—"

  "Verity will be very glad to hear it," Doris says approvingly. "You waste no time, Sally, and Verity is particularly interested in getting the Cochran piece done."

  "Yes," I say.

  "Can you hold the line, please?"

  She's gone before I can say yea or nay and then, just as fast, Verity is on the line. "Sally, bravo! And to think last night I was nervous you might not get to work on this story until next week. I knew I picked the right writer."

  I don't know what to say, so I just say, "Thank you."

  "Look, I'm canceling my luncheon date. You're going to be my luncheon date! How's that? I'll pick you up in twenty-five minutes."

  The next thing I know, I am walking down Park Avenue with Verity. She is keeping a fast pace, talking a mile a minute about something somebody did at the Groucho Club in London and how funny it was. We sweep into the side entrance of a build­ing on Park and in short order I realize I'm in the famous Four Seasons Restaurant. We walk past the coat check and up a stair­case and straight ahead.

  "I prefer the Grill Room," Verity says as a handsome man approaches. "Julian, darling, what a party last night!" Verity exclaims, doing that simultaneous kiss-and-restrain thing she does. "Julian, do you know Sally Harring­ton?" she asks, as if the maitre d' might know all Herald­-American reporters from Castleford, Connecticut.

  "No, I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure," he says, holding out a hand. "How do you do?"

  He leads us around the floor of tables in what I assume is the Grill Room, although I don't see a grill, to another set of stairs that lead up to a balcony overlooking the first level. We are shown to a table that is evidently Verity's usual hangout, be­cause Julian refers to it as "hers."

  Julian pulls my chair out for me and then Verity's. I notice the table is set for three. I don't say anything, though; I just look around.

  "The woman at that table below us," Verity says quietly, "is Betty Prashker. She's edited everybody from Stephen King to Dominick Dunne. She's a legend in book publishing. At the next table is Michael Anderson of the Times. I don't know who that attractive woman is with him. I like her dress. Looks French." She shifts her eyes. "And that, of course, is our former mayor, Ed Koch." Her eyes move on. "That what's-his-name from Bears, Stem. They bought the old American Brands build­ing, you know. And over there, in the comer, of course you rec­ognize Jane Pauley." Suddenly Verity's eyes light up and she waves at a younger-looking man who has come up from the coatroom level and is talking to Julian. "Here he is!"

  The young man circles the floor and takes the stairs up to the balcony. As he approaches the table I can see he is somewhere in his thirties, and if he is not handsome, then he is simply so smooth and well turned out he gives the impression of being so. "Verity," he says happily, holding out his hand, "I'm so glad you called."

  Verity doesn't rise but clasps his hand with both of hers. "I'm so glad you could make it on such short notice." She turns to me. "Sally, I want you to meet one of my favorite people in the world, Spencer Hawes. Spencer, Sally Harrington, the writer I told you about."

  "Sally," he says, holding his hand out to me.

  "Spencer's an executive editor at Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe," Verity explains as he sits down in the chair across from me.

  It is a very strange lunch, and for the life of me I can't figure out why I was invited. Verity and Spencer do nothing but gos­sip about the book publishing industry. A few names I have heard of, but most not, and frankly, after a while I can feel my­self getting edgy, wanting to get out of there to get back to work. The food is splendid, though—smoked trout appetizer and m
edallions of veal as an entree—and I enjoy it. And then, as we are all sipping coffee, suddenly all attention focuses on me.

  "I've got to go to this opening of a play tonight at the Joe Papp Theater," Spencer says. "One of my authors helped on the script. I was wondering if you might care to join me."

  I suppose he mistakes my surprise for deliberation, for he adds, ''It's supposed to be pretty good. Curtain's at eight. We could have an early bite and then go."

  "Do you have to go back out to Connecticut?" Verity asks, and suddenly I am relieved that I'm staying in Manhattan be­cause after the conversation these two have been having, it would seem positively homespun if I were to say I did.

  "Oh, no," I say, "I'm staying in town." (Like I'm a Jane Aus­ten character or something.)

  "Well then!" Verity says brightly.

  "I should go over my notes for tomorrow," I say. "My first interview session with Cassy is tomorrow."

  "Oh, go to the theater!" Verity urges. ''It will give you some­thing for polite chitchat with Cassy tomorrow."

  I look at Spencer and he looks at me as if he is hoping against hope I will say yes, although I cannot imagine why. I am sure he can get almost anybody to go with him anywhere. I have no­ticed he wears no wedding band, but that could mean any­thing, couldn't it? This whole lunch could mean anything since I am at sea as to why I am here in the first place. "I didn't really bring appropriate clothes," I begin.

  "What you're wearing is fine," Verity assures me. "It's only the Papp."

  "I think you look great," Spencer tells me. "So what do you say?"

  "Okay," I nod. "That would be very nice, thank you."

  He and Verity discuss where we should meet for our "quick bite" at six-thirty and Spencer writes out the address for me. He also writes down his office number and asks me where I am staying. I tell him.

  By the time we leave the Four Seasons, I am convinced that if I am to get any work done in New York, the last place I should ever go is to the magazine offices. A very large part of Verity's job, I am beginning to realize, is schmoozing around town, and I am guessing that Spencer is her contact at Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe. It is one of America's oldest book publishers; it was also one of the largest independent publishing houses in the country until it was sold to an international conglomerate and under­went drastic restructuring and turmoil in the 1980s. The pub­lishing house was sold yet again a few years ago to a German publisher.

  Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe, however, is still an awe-inspiring name in America, and thus, as an executive editor, Spencer holds an impressive and prestigious job. If nothing else, I gath­ered over lunch that he knows what and who the house is pub­lishing these days, what and who they're bidding for, or what and who they are besmirching because they aren't publishing it or them.

  I think Verity made him ask me to the theater. The question is, why?

  I return to the hotel and call Castleford for messages.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, Sally," my mother says on my voice mail, "but what on earth did you say to Gisela O'Hearn?"

  "Nothing, Mother," I report, dutiful daughter I am who calls her mama back immediately. "She asked me if you were seeing anyone and I said yes and she asked me Mack's name and so I told her."

  "When did you see her?"

  "Last night when I was jogging."

  "Well, she certainly works fast, I'll give her that," Mother mutters. "I was just at the grocery store, where I learned that I've run away with a scientist who works on nuclear bombs."

  We both laugh. Mother is so far out of the circles of gossip in Castleford I am amazed she's even heard this.

  "Why would Mrs. O'Hearn say something like that?"

  "Oh, sweetie, she's just not a very happy person."

  I suspect there is more to it than that. I think Mrs. O'Hearn is terribly jealous of my mother, even if she's very rich and Mother is not. But I am in New York supposedly working on the career opportunity of a lifetime and there is no reason I should get sidetracked by everyday Castleford nonsense, so I don't say anything.

  "The irony is, Sally, when you were a baby," Mother contin­ues, "Gisela and I were almost close. She had her baby, I had mine, and our husbands were up-and-coming in the construc­tion business. And later, when your father went out on his own, you know he gave Phil his first contractor's job."

  Yeah-yeah-yeah, Mother, I've got a world to conquer, can we please move this along?

  As if Mother hears me, she says, "Enough about that, dear, how is it going? How is the room?"

  I feel guilty I didn't call her immediately, because the room is terrific and she had gone out of her way to find it for me, and I tell her that, and tell her she's the greatest and I will let her know how things are going. And then I blurt out that I am go­ing to the opening of a new play at the Joe Papp Theater to­night. She asks, "With whom?" and I say an editor at Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe I met at lunch today at the Four Seasons, and Mother is just laughing and laughing, happy, saying that I cer­tainly don't waste time but soar right to the top, that's her girl!

  My next call is to Joe Bix's beeper number and against my better judgment I leave the number of the hotel.

  Then I call Doug's office.

  "Attorney Wrentham," he says.

  "Hi, it's Sally," I say, as if my five hours in New York have changed me so much that I need to identify myself because he won't recognize my voice." A lot of excitement around here," he says under his breath. "Carter's moving your friend Pete to a safe house." Carter is an assistant D.A. in the office who works on murders.

  "Whose house, my house?" I can't resist saying.

  "No," Doug says. "Listen," he whispers, "I can't talk now." He raises his voice. "So how goes it in the Big Apple?"

  "Great!" I say. "Verity took me to the Four Seasons for lunch and tonight I'm going to an opening at the Joe Papp Theater."

  "Oh, so it's Joe Papp now, is it? First-name basis?" he says.

  "It's the Joseph Papp Theater." I burn a little because he's right. I just picked up the slang ver­sion from Spencer and Verity.

  "So who are you going with, Verity?"

  Suddenly I feel guilty, because suddenly I don't want to tell Doug who I'm going with. I guess because this is supposed to be my little adventure away from Castleford and I also guess, in the back of my head, I want tonight to seem a little like a date­ for the sake of livening things up back home or something.

  "A friend of Verity's had an extra ticket," I say. "So I'm tak­ing it."

  "Well that's nice. Are you all set for tomorrow?"

  No, I think. I haven't done a damn thing all afternoon. "Yes," I say. "But Doug, won't you tell me why you're hiding Pete?"

  "No." And he means it. The other line is ringing on the hotel phone and I tell Doug I have to go, I just wanted him to know I'd be at the theater to­night so I wouldn't be talking to him later. I take the other call.

  "Man-oh-man, Sal, are things jumping around here," Joe Bix reports. The line is not the greatest and from the background noise I realize he is on his car phone.

  "What's going on?"

  "The dead man at Kaegle's Pond, Tony Meyers," Joe says. "He's some sort of toxic-waste disposal king from Long Island. Out of Riverhead. Has a lot of government contracts."

  "What was he doing in Castleford?"

  "Nobody knows, although he grew up here. His mother's in Arizona somewhere—no other family here."

  "Where'd you get this?"

  "I gotta friend at Newsday. But Sally, I need you to talk to D'Amico again. Yesterday Crazy Pete was wanted for murder, today he's persona non grata, no one's talking, no one knows where he is. His father's packed up and left for his sister's house in Florida. Claims it's too dangerous."

  "Why?"

  "Thinks whoever nailed this Meyers guy might go after them, I guess."

  "But why?"

  "I'm asking you!"

  "If Buddy's hiding him," I say, knowing full well, of course, that it's the county D.A.'s office that is,
"then I'd focus on the dead man and the toxic-waste angle. Toxic-waste disposal and Long Island smells like the Mafia to me."

  "That's an ethnic slur," Joe says.

  "Okay then," I say, correcting myself, "smells like organized crime. I'd focus on him and his business. What did Buddy say about us running his ID?"

  "We're okay."

  "Great, then do it."

  "He wants us to ask people to come forward if they saw Meyers, if they know what he was doing here. But I still gotta keep tabs on Crazy Pete, you know that. I'll be damned if we get scooped by an out-of-town paper. What if he gets killed or something and we miss out?"

  Why do I suspect Joe is not very concerned about Pete's well­ being? "I'll see what I can find out," I promise, hanging up and punching in Doug's number again.

  "Attorney Wrentham."

  "So it was a Mafia hit, huh?" I say. "And you guys are scared Pete will be next?"

  "The Mafia?" Doug says. "No one says the Mafia anymore."

  Bingo. So they are looking into the possibility of an orga­nized-crime hit on Meyers. "Maybe I will call you later," I say.

  "No way, snoopy reporter lady," he says. "Bye.”

  15

  I amaze myself at how nervous I am. I've showered and changed into a skirt and blazer and walk the blocks to the res­taurant where I am to meet Spencer Hawes. I am a little early, but he is already there, sitting at the bar. "Hey," he says, smil­ing, sliding off the stool to greet me, "you look great," and he warmly shakes my hand.

  We are seated at a small table and I order a glass of house chardonnay. We spend some time with small talk—he is from Maine, originally; his father owns a marina; he went to Brown University and briefly attended graduate school at Columbia; took a job at Time-Life Magazines; jumped over to Warner Books, then over to Simon & Schuster and then, three years ago, to Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe. Likes it a lot. I share a brief sketch of my life to date, including the fact that I am seeing Doug.

  "I'm sorry if I'm coming on too strong," he suddenly says, looking down into his glass of Scotch. He looks up. "It's been a long time since I've spent time with, well, you know—a New England kind of woman. Work ethic and all that."