When Day Breaks

by Mary Jane Clark

  “How’s everything else with you, Mack?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Are you enjoying living in London?”

  “Yeah. It’s great. But I can tell I’ll be ready to come back home when my overseas stint is finished.”

  “Have any idea when that will be?” she asked.

  “I still have another six months on my contract,” he answered. “Then we’ll see where I go and what I do.”

  Eliza looked at him quizzically. “You aren’t thinking of leaving KEY News, are you?” she asked.

  Mack looked down at his shoes. “I’ve had a lot of time to think over there, Eliza. I’ve been thinking about life and what I want from it. Professionally I’m not totally certain about what I want.” He raised his head and looked directly into her eyes. “But personally there is one thing that I’m always sure of.”

  Eliza felt her pulse quicken. She wasn’t ready for this conversation. Not now. Part of her wanted to put her arms around him and hold on to him. The other part of her wanted to run away from him. She chose the flight response.

  Looking at her tank watch, she made an excuse about having to attend to something for the broadcast. She left Mack standing in the hallway watching after her as she fled into her office.

  CHAPTER 20

  As the Saturday-afternoon visitors were milling through the halls of the Cloisters, Rowena sat in her office. She listened intently as the head of security questioned the man who had stood guard while Stuart Whitaker and Constance Young took their private tour.

  “Were you with them every moment?” the security chief asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You never left their sides?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You know, Jerry, sooner or later the truth always comes out. There are pictures of a national news anchorwoman wearing what looks to be a piece that we’re depending on for our new exhibit. Now that woman is dead. Don’t you think that when the police are told that the unicorn amulet is missing from the Cloisters and they look at the images of Constance Young wearing just such a piece right before she died—don’t you think the police will be up here to investigate?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well?”

  “There aren’t any video cameras in the area where the unicorn was kept,” said Jerry.

  “And that means you think no one will be able to figure out who took it?” asked the security chief. “Don’t kid yourself, Jerry. Something will give it away, and if you know anything, it’ll be a helluva lot better if you share it now.”

  Jerry squirmed in his chair.

  “If I find out you know something, Jerry, not only will you be fired, I’ll see to it that you never get another security job.”

  Jerry’s shoulders sagged. “Okay, okay. Mr. Whitaker pressed a hundred-dollar bill into my hand and told me to go outside for a smoke. I just thought he wanted to be alone with her in there for a little while. Who wouldn’t want to be alone with a babe like that, especially a nerdy guy like him? I thought, what the heck? Whitaker has given millions to this place. Why would he take something from it?”

  Rowena interrupted. “We don’t know that Stuart Whitaker took the amulet, Chief. Maybe someone else did.”

  “What? You think Constance Young took the amulet?” the head of security asked.

  “I don’t know what to think,” said Rowena. “But even though I hate to have the museum exposed to negative publicity, I do know it’s time to call the police. There’s no other choice.”

  CHAPTER 21

  A string of vans, cars, and satellite trucks with New York press plates lined the road in front of Constance Young’s country house. With each addition of a rival news organization, Lauren Adams grew more tense.

  “We don’t have enough,” she complained, snapping her gum. “We should have the very best access, but we’re stuck out here just like every other network or station. We don’t have anything that will separate our coverage at Constance Young’s house from our competition’s, and that’s just crap. What are we going to do about it, Annabelle?”

  You mean, what am I going to do about it? thought Annabelle, refusing to get flustered. “I’m not sure, Lauren,” she said aloud. “Our hands are pretty well tied. If the cops won’t let us in, they won’t let us in.”

  “Exactly the kind of defeatist attitude I love to hear from my producer,” Lauren answered. “If that’s the best you can come up with, we’re in even more trouble than I thought.”

  B.J. stood within earshot, listening to the exchange. He glanced at Annabelle, who subtly shook her head from side to side, warning him not to say anything. He knew that Annabelle could take care of herself. She had one of the best reputations at KEY News. Correspondents were constantly asking that Annabelle be assigned to produce their stories. Yet B.J. ached to put Lauren in her place. Experience, though, had taught him that there was a price to be paid for contradicting or even speaking up to the on-air talent. He had tried that when he’d worked as a producer-cameraman with Constance—and when his contract was up, he wasn’t renewed as a producer. Only his union membership had saved the cameraman portion of his job. B.J. was certain that Constance had been instrumental in cutting him down. He suspected that Lauren might also be capable of destroying anyone who got in her way.

  He’d been debating whether to mention to Lauren what Boyd Irons had told him when they were in the men’s room. Just the day before, a dead dog had been found in the woods that surrounded the country house. B.J. didn’t know if that would turn out to be a coincidence, but screw Lauren and her bad attitude. He wasn’t going to share any editorial information with her at all. He was going to concentrate solely on the video he recorded. He would still do his utmost to get the best pictures he could, though—since that was what he was going to be judged on.

  He approached Lauren and Annabelle. “I’m going to cut through these trees and see if I can get in there and get some pictures of the pool,” he said, softly so that none of the other newspeople could hear.

  Lauren nodded approval. “Finally somebody’s doing something,” she said.

  Making sure nobody was looking in his direction, B.J. made his way through the high grass at the side of the road and slipped between the trees. His shoes sank into the soft, muddy ground, and he cursed himself for not wearing his work boots. He’d thought he’d be shooting at Constance Young’s luxurious country house, not traipsing through the woods.

  As he went deeper, B.J. began to hear voices, which he assumed to be the police searching the property. He followed the sound, coming to a high fence. Tall evergreens on the other side blocked the view to the pool, but the bushes also shielded B.J. from sight. If he wanted pictures of the pool, he was going to have to climb the fence. Getting the camera over would be no small feat.

  Taking off his belt, B.J. threaded it through the handle of the camera and fastened it, creating a long leather circle, which he pulled over his head. Then he carefully slid the camera around to his back. With his hands free, B.J. reached upward and boosted himself off the ground, managing to grab onto the top of the fence. He tried to hoist himself up, but he couldn’t make it over, and the leather strap, weighed down by the camera, nearly strangled him.

  Standing on the ground again, B.J. could hear the voices coming from the other side of the evergreens.

  “Something new has been added.”

  “What is it now?”

  “We’re supposed to be looking for a unicorn.”

  “A what?”

  “A unicorn. You know. Those horses with the long horn coming out of the middle of their heads? Well, we’re supposed to look for a little ivory one.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “It’s some sort of antique, and it’s missing from a museum, and Constance Young was seen wearing it around her neck. We’re supposed to see if we can find it out here.”

  “How did she get it?”

  “What do I look like? The Jeopardy! champ? How do I know? Maybe
someone gave it to her, maybe she stole it, maybe she was killed for it.”

  Lauren watched for B.J. while she paced up and down at the side of the KEY News satellite truck. Finally she spotted him coming out the woods and rushed toward him.

  “Did you get the pictures?” she asked with an expectant look on her face.

  “I couldn’t. The fence was too high,” B.J. explained, out of breath. “But—”

  Lauren cut him off. “What do you mean, you didn’t get them?”

  Her tone irked B.J. “Just what I said,” he answered. “I wasn’t able to climb over the fence with my camera. But—”

  “No buts, B.J. You didn’t get the pictures, and that’s that. I don’t have time to listen to any excuses. I have a script to finish writing.” Lauren spun around and stalked back to the satellite truck.

  B.J. watched her go and struggled to keep his face expressionless. If anyone asked him later, he could truthfully say that he had tried to tell her.

  Stupid, stupid woman.

  CHAPTER 22

  Getting increasingly closer to deadline, Lauren found fault with every single script suggestion Annabelle made and complained bitterly that she wasn’t getting the support she needed. Though Annabelle attempted to reassure Lauren and do everything she could think of to provide the most editorial and material assistance possible, she was relieved when her cell phone rang. It was an opportunity to escape the truck and get away from Lauren.

  “Hi, Annabelle. It’s Eliza. How’s it coming out there?”

  “It’s coming.” Annabelle’s voice was flat.

  “That good, huh?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be able to make a piece. We have exteriors of the property, an interview with the housekeeper and some neighbors.”

  “Any of them see anything?” asked Eliza.

  “Well, the housekeeper, as you know, is the one who found the body. We have only reaction to Constance’s death from a couple of the neighbors. Nobody can see anybody else’s house out here. So far we haven’t had anyone come forward to say they heard or saw anything suspicious.”

  “Police?” asked Eliza.

  “They say they’ll send someone out to talk in a half hour. I really wish we could get pictures of the pool, but the police still aren’t letting anyone on the grounds. I called Boyd Irons and asked him to call Constance’s sister and see if we could arrange access through her.”

  “That’s kind of a long shot, isn’t it?” asked Eliza. “If the cops want the crime scene cordoned off, they aren’t going to open it just because Constance’s sister asks them to.”

  Annabelle heaved a deep sigh. “You know that, and I know that, but Lauren wanted to try anyway.”

  “I get the picture,” said Eliza. “Not the easiest assignment you’ve ever had, huh?”

  “Let me put it this way,” said Annabelle. “Lauren is a challenge. I know she’s under a lot of pressure, so I’m trying to make allowances.”

  “All right,” said Eliza. “Get back to it…but, Annabelle?”

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m very sorry about Constance. I know you two were very close.”

  “Thank you, Eliza. I appreciate your saying that. Our friendship disintegrated quite a while ago, but at one time we were really tight. We started out at KEY together, and over the years she was a good friend to me. But, unfortunately, the relationship changed.” Annabelle paused as she reflected. “I always hoped that Constance and I might patch things up someday. I always thought there would be plenty of time for that.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The five o’clock news blared from the radio in the taxi Boyd took uptown from his place to Central Park South. He listened carefully to the announcer’s words. Constance had been found dead in the pool at her home in Westchester County. Police weren’t sure yet what the cause of death was. It was the same information Boyd had gotten from Linus Nazareth when the executive producer had called for Constance’s sister’s phone number this morning. Boyd was glad he hadn’t had to break the news to Faith Hansen.

  The cab pulled to the curb, and Boyd paid the fare. The doorman standing beneath the awning nodded in recognition. He wondered if the doorman had heard the news yet.

  Taking the elevator to the fifteenth floor, Boyd dug into his pocket and pulled out the key. He let himself inside and stood listening in the entry hall. He heard nothing but the clock ticking from its case on the fireplace mantel.

  “Kimba. Where are you?” he called, and waited. But the cat didn’t appear.

  How many times had he resented having to come up here to feed Constance’s cat? How many times had he come into her apartment and wished it were his, instead of that tiny downtown studio he could barely afford? How many times had he looked out the huge window at the sweeping view of Central Park and pretended he lived here? How many times had he told himself that Constance didn’t deserve this place? She could afford it, yes. But she didn’t deserve it.

  Boyd went into the kitchen and put out fresh food and changed the water in the cat’s bowl. Then he went down the hallway and cleaned out the litter box. He was in no hurry to complete the unpleasant chore, because the next one he had to undertake would be much more difficult.

  After he washed his hands, Boyd went into the master bedroom and stretched out on the tufted chaise longue positioned in the corner. He opened his cell phone and, finding the number, pressed the button to call Constance’s sister. Faith Hansen answered on the third ring.

  “Hello. This is Boyd Irons, Constance’s assistant.” His voice trailed up at the end, in a question.

  “Of course, Boyd.”

  “Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you would remember me.” He’d programmed Faith’s number into his cell phone so that he would be able to reach Constance’s next of kin in case of an emergency, but Constance hardly ever asked him to get her sister on the phone for her. Boyd was glad now that he’d made it a point to speak to Faith at the luncheon yesterday. The poor woman had looked so ill at ease that he felt sorry for her.

  “God,” said Faith. “Was the luncheon only yesterday? It seems like a hundred years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry about your sister, Mrs. Hansen. I really, really am.”

  “Thank you, Boyd. I appreciate that.”

  “I wanted to ask you what I could do to help.”

  There was a momentary pause as Faith considered the offer.

  “You know, there is something you could do to help,” she said. “Would you go to Constance’s apartment? I would really appreciate it if I didn’t have to drive in and pick something out for her to wear. You know, something to send over to the funeral parlor. You probably know what her favorite things were more than I do.”

  “I’d be happy to do that,” said Boyd. “Well, not happy exactly, but…”

  “I know what you meant, Boyd.”

  Boyd thought of the fabulous garments hanging in the closets and wondered what he would pick for a last outfit for Constance. The blue Oscar de la Renta? The pale yellow Ralph Lauren? The black Armani? And who was going to get all the gorgeous dresses and suits and handbags? He had friends in the Village who would kill for that wardrobe.

  “I’m actually at Constance’s apartment now,” he said, pulling himself from his reverie. “I’m feeding her cat.”

  “Oh, no. I hadn’t realized Constance had a cat.”

  Real close sisters, Boyd thought.

  “Yes. Kimba.” Boyd hesitated before continuing. “I was thinking maybe I should take the cat home with me—or I could bring it out to you if you’d like.”

  “Uh-uh. I’ve never been a big animal fan,” said Faith. “I can’t even think about having a cat. I already have enough poop to clean up around here. I’d appreciate it if you would take care of it, Boyd.”

  “All right, Mrs. Hansen.”

  “Thank you, Boyd.”

  “People will be asking me, Mrs. Hansen. Do you have any idea what the arrangements will be?”

&nb
sp; “We can’t plan anything firm until the autopsy is completed, but I understand that the police are fast-tracking that,” said Faith. “I do know that we’ll have a private funeral and burial as soon as possible. No sense in prolonging things.” Faith paused, trying to focus on the essentials. “I guess that’s something else you could help me with, Boyd. Would you prepare a list of people you think should be invited to attend the funeral? I really don’t know who Constance was close to.”

  “All right,” Boyd agreed. “But are you just interested in having good friends of Constance’s, or do you want to include some of her professional colleagues as well?”

  “What do you think about that?” asked Faith.

  If you only ask people who felt affection for Constance, the pews will be pretty empty, thought Boyd. “I think it’s respectful to include the people she worked with,” he said. “Her professional life meant so much to her.”

  “It was just about everything,” said Faith.

  “Okay. I’ll get the list together and check on the clothes,” Boyd said. “Anything else?”

  “Actually, Boyd, there is something else,” answered Faith. “I’ll need Constance’s attorney’s phone number. Please don’t think terribly of me, but I really need to know what’s in her will.”

  “Of course,” said Boyd. “Hold on. I’ll look up the number on my cell phone.”

  From his many “reconnaissance missions” through the drawers and closets of Constance’s apartment, Boyd knew exactly where the will was—and what was in it. God, he thought. When she finds out what Constance actually left her, she’s going to lose her mind! Revealing that information wasn’t Boyd’s job, he felt, so he dutifully gave Faith the attorney’s telephone number.

  “I have one more thing to ask you, Mrs. Hansen. I hate to bother you with it.”

  “What is it?”