“Oh, my God,” Eliza gasped as she bent at the waist to absorb the blow. “That can’t be, Range.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“What happened?” she asked, closing her eyes, bracing herself for his answer.
“Not sure. Her housekeeper found the body this morning. In the swimming pool.”
“Constance drowned?”
“It looks that way. I assume there will be an autopsy to determine the cause of death. But here’s the deal. We want you to anchor tonight. Everybody at KEY News is going to be involved in covering this.”
Eliza recognized the pragmatism their profession required. A plane could crash, a bomb could blow up a bus on its way to school, a friend and colleague could die—and there was limited time to feel, or mourn. Always the immediate concern was how the story was going to be covered. Tears and sadness were luxuries that had to wait. “Of course,” Eliza managed to say, collecting her wits. “But I don’t love bigfooting the regular Saturday-evening anchor.”
“You won’t be. He’s on vacation. We were just having Mack McBride do a tryout as a fill in tonight.”
Eliza felt her chest tighten. She hadn’t seen Mack since they’d broken up months before, but the sound of his name made her pulse race.
“I didn’t know Mack was interested in anchoring.” Eliza restrained herself from asking when Mack had gotten in from London, how long he would be in New York, and where he was staying.
“They’re all interested in anchoring,” said Range. “Anyway, where are you now?”
“At Janie’s T-ball game.”
“All right. I’ll see you when you get in.”
“Fine, I’ll be there as soon as I can. But you know what, Range? Constance Young was a fabulous swimmer, and I’d bet my life that she didn’t drown.”
CHAPTER 14
The sound of the hooves as they pounded the soft earth was music to Lauren’s ears. Urging her horse on, she was exhilarated by the spring wind in her hair, the morning sun on her face, and the fact that she, Lauren Adams, was now the cohost of KEY to America. Monday morning she would take her place alongside Harry Granger and welcome millions of Americans into the KTA living room. She hoped those millions would reciprocate by inviting her to stay in theirs in the weeks, months, and years to come.
Linus had been right to insist she come up here for a nice long ride this morning. The ride was relaxing. It had been such a tense month. All the attention and media interviews and photo sessions and Botox injections and hair and makeup experiments. There was another rehearsal scheduled in the studio at the Broadcast Center this afternoon. Lauren still hadn’t made a final decision about the outfits her stylist had brought for her to choose from to wear on the first morning. She’d narrowed it down to two: a marine blue jacket and a red one. Either one she intended to team with a cream-colored skirt she knew cut her legs at the most favorable spot.
Lauren dismounted, stopping to pat the horse’s neck before handing the reins over to the stable hand. She took off her riding helmet as she walked toward her car. Opening the door, she reached for her canvas bag, pulled out a bottle of water and a pack of gum, and checked her BlackBerry. Five messages from Linus. She took a deep breath and called him.
“Lauren, I’ve been trying to reach you.” Linus sounded angry.
“I know, Linus, that’s why I’m calling you back.” Lauren slipped a stick of Juicy Fruit into her mouth.
“Nice answer. Do I need to remind you that now you need to be available for breaking news? You’re not doing lifestyle stories anymore.”
“Okay, Linus. You’ve made your point.” Lauren rolled her eyes as she checked her reflection in the visor mirror. “What’s up?”
“Tell me you’re still upstate.”
“Yes. I just finished my ride. I can be at the Broadcast Center in an hour if you need me.”
“No. I want you to go to Constance’s country house. You can’t be too far from it.”
“I’m not. I think I remember how to get there from that party she had last summer. Why?”
Linus voice softened. “Lauren, honey, this is a helluva way for you to start your new job, but I’m just going to tell you. Constance is dead.”
“What?”
“She was found at the bottom of her swimming pool this morning.”
Lauren let out a nervous laugh. “Very funny, Linus. Dead bodies don’t sink.”
“They do until the gases build up inside,” said Linus. “I’m serious, baby. Constance is dead.”
“Don’t call me ‘baby.’ I hate it when you call me ‘baby,’” Lauren snapped.
Though he was tempted to correct Lauren, letting her know that it was never all right to talk to him in that tone when they were communicating professionally, he decided to let it pass. Not because he knew that he himself had been unprofessional in calling her “baby,” but because he didn’t want to upset her. He needed her to be at the top of her game, focusing only on her job. He didn’t want her to waste a bit of energy being angry with him or resentful of his pulling rank with her.
“All right, I won’t call you ‘baby.’ But the sad fact of the matter is, what I’m telling you is true, Lauren. Constance Young is dead, and you need to drive over to her place right away.”
Flashing lights emanated from the tops of the police cars parked on the road in front of Constance Young’s country house. When Lauren arrived, the police had already cordoned off the driveway. She pulled the yellow tape up and slid beneath it, striding with confidence up the gravel trail.
“Ma’am, this is a crime scene. You’ll have to leave.”
Lauren looked at the tall young police officer who blocked her path. Her mouth formed a tight smile.
“I’m Lauren Adams with KEY News.” She showed him her press pass.
“Glad to hear it,” said the cop. “But the fact remains, you have to get off the property.”
“Surely you know that this is Constance Young’s home. Constance, until just yesterday, was with KEY News as well. I’m sure she would want us to have access.”
“No dice.”
“I want to speak to your superior.”
“Be my guest. But the chief isn’t going to tell you any different. In the meantime, please get off the property, ma’am.”
Lauren turned and stomped down the driveway. She saw a CBS van pulling up and a CNN truck behind it. Newspeople were setting up all over the place, staking their claims to the best live-shot locations. Lauren was the only KEY News presence to have arrived so far, and she felt outnumbered and outmatched. When she returned to her car, she called Linus and told him what was happening.
“Look, Lauren,” said Linus, “Annabelle Murphy and B.J. D’Elia’s crew are on their way up. They should get there any minute. Just stay put until they arrive.”
Lauren rifled through the glove box hoping to find a forgotten pack of cigarettes, but she had to settle for another stick of gum. She was snapping away impatiently when her KEY News backup team arrived.
“It took you guys long enough,” she greeted her colleagues.
“We got here as fast as we could, Lauren,” said Annabelle.
“Well, what do you propose we do now?” Lauren asked. “The police won’t let us on the property to shoot.”
Annabelle was about to answer when a middle-aged woman emerged from the driveway and walked into the street. Her face was ashen, her eyes swollen, her hair in disarray. Correspondent, producer, and camera crew converged on the stricken woman.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The woman looked at Lauren with fear in her eyes. “Well, I don’t want to get involved. Witnesses always end up getting the short end of the stick.” Her voice trembled.
“We’re with KEY News, too. We’re friends of Constance’s,” Lauren reassured the woman.
“You are?”
Lauren held up her KEY News card. “Yes, all of us worked with Constance on KEY to America every day.”
The woman blew her n
ose with the balled-up tissue that was in her hand. “I really don’t want to talk to you,” she said.
B.J. balanced his camera on his shoulder and reached into his pocket. “Here. Take this,” he said, holding out a snowy handkerchief.
With a shaking hand, the woman reached for the folded linen. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you,” she said.
“Just a few questions, please,” Annabelle urged. “I promise we’ll be brief, and then we won’t bother you anymore.”
The woman’s eyes darted around, and she looked as if she wanted to run away. Finally she swallowed and sighed, clearly just wanting to get it over with. “All right, then,” she said, bracing herself. “Go ahead.” B.J. clipped a small microphone to the collar of her blouse.
“How do you know Constance?” Lauren asked as B.J. started recording with his camera.
“I help her with the house,” said the woman.
“What’s your name?” asked Lauren.
“Ursula. Ursula Bales.”
“So, Ursula, what happened?”
“I came in this morning, just like I always do, trying to be quiet. I thought Miss Young was still asleep. So I started some coffee and cut up some fruit and mixed up a batch of the low-fat blueberry muffins she likes so much.”
Lauren listened, a concerned expression arranged on her face.
“Then I went out on the deck,” Ursula continued. “I could tell that Miss Young had had a drink the night before. She’d left a glass out there. So I brought it inside and put it in the dishwasher.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears again.
“Then what happened?” urged Lauren.
Ursula’s hand trembled as it wiped her cheek. “I went back out on the deck, and I looked down to the pool. I could see a towel on one of the lounge chairs, so I went down to straighten up. But as I got closer, I saw something dark under the water. At first I didn’t recognize it. And then I realized what it was. It was Miss Young, in her black bathing suit, at the bottom of the pool.” Ursula lowered her head and cried.
Annabelle made a notation in her notebook, marking the time of Ursula Bales’s statement.
“And then what happened?” asked Lauren.
“I called the police,” said Ursula, her voice quivering.
“You didn’t try to get Constance out of the pool?” asked Lauren.
“There wasn’t much point in that.” Ursula looked hurt. “There was no saving Miss Young.”
“Why were you so sure?”
“Sure of what?”
“Sure that she was dead,” said Lauren.
Ursula stopped, unable to continue.
Lauren repeated the question. “How did you know for sure Constance Young was dead?”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” said Ursula, finding her voice. “I have nothing else to say. I have to go now.” She pulled the microphone off and hurried away.
CHAPTER 15
As soon as she arrived at the Broadcast Center, Eliza went directly to the Fishbowl, where Range Bullock and the other producers were going over coverage plans.
“You’ll, of course, anchor from here, Eliza. For the lead piece, Lauren Adams will do a live-to-tape report from Constance’s house.”
“Who’s producing?”
“Linus sent up Annabelle Murphy. She and Lauren already have an interview with the housekeeper who found the body.” Range paused and shook his head slowly. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” he said.
“Neither can I,” said Eliza.
Range took a deep breath and shifted back into “coverage” mode. “Anyway, Lauren and Annabelle are sniffing around to see what other elements they can gather.”
“Good,” said Eliza. “What else?”
“We’re trying to get police authorities to speak to us, maybe get a doctor to describe what happens when someone drowns.”
“Are you sure we want to go with the doctor?” asked Eliza. “We don’t know for sure that Constance drowned.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I’m still reeling,” said Eliza, incredulous. “I can’t believe that this has happened. I was just with her. Yesterday she was on top of the world, and today…”
Range took a Tums tablet from the bottle he kept on the desk and popped it into his mouth. “No. You never know, do you?” he said. “I’m thinking I better get that will of mine together.” He bit into the antacid tablet. “Do you think Constance had a will? She was only thirty-six.”
“Probably,” said Eliza. “Constance has a sizable estate, and she wasn’t the sort of person who left much to chance.”
“I wonder who inherits,” Range mused.
“She has a younger sister,” said Eliza. “I met her yesterday. Faith seemed very different from Constance.”
“Well, now she stands to become a very wealthy woman.”
“That can be cold comfort when you’ve lost your sister,” said Eliza. “But getting back to tonight’s broadcast, we don’t know how Constance died—only that she was found in her pool. Maybe we should do a piece toward the end of the broadcast on water safety. Summer is about to start, and it might be a good idea to go over the hazards at the pool and at the beach. Get some statistics on the number of drownings and other water-related accidents and what can be done to prevent them.”
“Yeah. A cautionary piece. News they can use,” said Range. “All right with you if I get Mack McBride to do that story?”
Eliza nodded.
“Fine,” said Range. “At least he’ll be part of the show. He was pretty bummed out to hear he wasn’t anchoring tonight.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Eliza. “I’d be disappointed, too, if I came all the way from London thinking I was going to get the chance to anchor and then found out I was being pushed aside.”
Range shrugged. “That’s the breaks,” he said. “You’re the top dog. Mack’s not.” He turned his attention back to planning the evening news. “We’ll want to do an obituary, tribute-style piece on Constance. I think you should voice that, don’t you, Eliza?”
“Yes.”
“And I thought it might be interesting to do something on how anchorpeople affect the lives of their audience. How, in Constance’s case, millions of Americans started their day with her every morning. Viewers felt they knew her. We’ll get reaction from around the country. I was also thinking of calling in Margo Gonzalez to get a psychiatrist to talk about how Constance’s death might be affecting our viewers.”
“Getting reaction from people on the street sounds like a good idea,” agreed Eliza, “but isn’t calling in a psychiatrist a bit much? Won’t we be overstating the influence of an anchor? Come on, Range, will viewers really be psychologically affected by Constance Young’s death?”
“Don’t kid yourself. Of course they will be. That’s why the networks pay you guys the salaries they do. Because people tune in to see you, not just the news. They can get their news from many different sources. But they’re loyal to the anchor they trust and love. That’s the person they invite into their kitchens, their living rooms, and their bedrooms. When one of them dies, it’s personal.”
The door to the makeup room was open. Eliza peered inside, hoping that only Doris Brice would be there. The tall, erect woman, wearing a leopard-print tunic, black leggings, and a gold-sequined baseball cap, stood with her back to the door. She was alone and arranging bottles, containers of powders, and brushes on the top of the makeup table.
“Do you have any?”
Doris looked up at the light-rimmed mirror and saw the reflection of Eliza standing behind her. She smiled, knowing exactly what Eliza meant. She drew open the top drawer and pulled out a Butterfinger.
Eliza tore open the orange wrapper and bit into the candy bar. “I needed this,” she said. “What a day.”
Doris looked sympathetically at Eliza. “Yeah, it’s absolutely horrible about Constance. Just horrible.”
Eliza nodded.
“Do they know what happened yet?”
“Not exactly,” said Eliza. “They don’t know if she drowned, had a heart attack, or even if she’s been murdered or committed suicide. Nobody’s sure. It’s just so unexpected and terrible.”
Eliza climbed into the makeup chair and looked into the mirror. Wide-set blue eyes crowned by perfectly arched brows stared back. The lipstick had worn off, but the natural color of her full lips still provided contrast to her pale skin. Eliza rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and fingered the scar on her chin, the vestige of an eleven-year-old’s miscalculation and diving too deep in a Newport, Rhode Island, swimming pool. The scar was just out of camera range, but Eliza often absentmindedly rubbed it when she was deep in thought.
“Quit picking at that scar,” Doris commanded.
Eliza put her hand down and laid her head back against the headrest. “And to top things off, Mack’s here,” she said, closing her eyes.
Doris tightened the cap on a bottle of moisturizer. “Yeah, good news travels fast. I heard the skunk was in town.”
“You know everything before I do, Doris.”
“A lot of people come through this door, Eliza. And I’ve been here a long time. People tell me stuff.”
“I know they do,” said Eliza. “You knew Mack had slept with that woman in London way before I did. In fact, let’s remember, you were the one who told me.”
Doris’s big brown eyes moistened. “I hated telling you about that, honey, but I figured it would be better coming from me. I didn’t want someone catching you off guard and then gossiping to everyone about how you took the news. You know how everybody talks around here.”
“You did the right thing, Doris. It was better to hear it from you.” Eliza bit off more of the Butterfinger.
“How do you feel about Mack being back?” asked Doris.
“Glad that he’s just here for a few days,” answered Eliza. “But as much as I dread seeing him, I want to see him, if that makes any sense. I want to hate him, but I don’t.”
“You better watch out, Eliza. My mama always told me once a cheater, always a cheater.”
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