Do You Promise Not To Tell?

by Clark, Mary Jane

  Sure, the mechanics were the same and her knowledge was easily transferable. A satellite feed was a satellite feed whether at KEY, CBS, or ABC. Videotape was edited the same way wherever you went. Farrell had a Rolodex of contacts and sources that would work for her just as well at any news division.

  It was learning a whole new cast of characters that didn’t appeal to Farrell. At KEY News, she could pick up the phone and know just who to call to get done what she needed done. She knew personnel history, who was good, who was mediocre. She didn’t want to move to another network and be forced to memorize the names and jobs of scores of new people. She could find her way around the maze of the KEY News Broadcast Center with her eyes shut. She didn’t want to start all over again somewhere else.

  But if something didn’t change, that’s exactly what Farrell would be doing. She knew Range wanted her out.

  Chapter 17

  Bunny’s back room was crowded at lunchtime, with students from Seton Hall and other village residents and shopkeepers. A short drive from campus on South Orange Avenue, the bar and restaurant was popular with anyone who wanted some good, cheesy, New Jersey pizza. Up front, men sipped midday beers at the old wooden bar, while college students hung out and chowed down at booths in the back.

  Peter and Professor Kavanagh sat in a booth in the corner.

  “I think you’ll have to tell your mother about this, Peter.”

  Peter helped himself to another pizza slice from the raised metal pie plate in the center of the table. Watching the young man shake red hot-pepper flakes and garlic powder over his pizza, the professor noticed that Peter’s worries weren’t affecting his appetite any.

  “My mother already has enough to worry about. Besides, I promised Olga I wouldn’t tell anyone about her egg.” Peter looked uncomfortable. “I’ve already broken my promise by telling you.”

  Professor Kavanagh considered Peter’s predicament as he sipped his cold Budweiser. Before it was over, many people were going to have to know Olga’s secret.

  “Peter, we’re talking about art fraud and millions of dollars here.”

  “I know. I know.” Peter closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the booth. He heard a loud conversation at the booth behind him, about the Seton Hall Pirates and their March Madness prospects. How he wished he could be concentrating on something as simple as basketball right now. But he knew the professor was right. He should tell his mother about all of this. Then she could decide what to do and how to tell Olga.

  Tim Kavanagh peeled several singles from his billfold and tucked them under the pizza stand for the waitress.

  “Look. If you want, I’ll come with you and we can both tell your mother. Would that make it easier?”

  Peter considered the professor’s offer. It would be good to have someone there to help figure things out, someone to lean on a little. That might be great for his mother . . . and for him.

  “If I decide to tell her, I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter 18

  It had been a good day, but Pat was anxious to finish up and get over to the American Woman health club to work out. With Emily curled snuggling at her feet, Pat was entering the day’s receipts into the Consignment Depot sales ledger when she heard the creaking of the front door opening. She rose from her desk tucked at the rear of the shop and, seeing who it was, Pat smiled with pleasure.

  “Olga! I was hoping you’d make it in today.”

  The wizened old woman looked brittle and worn as she crept toward Pat, but when she smiled back, it was clear that she was pleased by Pat’s welcome.

  “Here, Olga. Come try out this big wing chair we just got in.”

  As Pat helped Olga into the upholstered seat, she noted that the aged lady looked thinner and smaller than when she’d seen her just a few weeks ago, when she’d picked up the old woman’s brooch to take it to Churchill’s.

  Churchill’s reputation as a first-class auction house was well deserved. Over the last few years, as she had handled the arrangements for Olga to sell her pieces of Fabergé, Pat had been impressed with Churchill’s staff and their attention to detail. Each object to be auctioned was inspected, studied, and authenticated by Churchill’s experts. The auction house staked its considerable reputation on the fact that Churchill’s could be trusted to reveal everything known about works of art, furniture, and decorative objects on the auction block.

  That’s why Pat had taken the pin into Churchill’s weeks ago. Clifford Montgomery insisted on inspecting all Fabergé items himself before they could be listed in the Churchill’s auction catalogue.

  “Why don’t I make us some tea?”

  Olga nodded gratefully, and Pat went to the small kitchen and put the kettle to boil on the electric stove. She took some shortbread cookies from a tin canister and arranged them on an old pink-and-white Dresden plate. When the whistle blew, she fixed tea for them both, serving the dark amber liquid the way Olga liked it, in a glass instead of a cup.

  “Hmmm, that is good.” Olga sipped the hot tea appreciatively and warmed her old, cold hands on the glass.

  Pat was happy to see her take several cookies. “The check should be here soon.”

  Olga nodded. “That is why I come.” She slowly opened her worn, brown leather pocketbook, reached in with shaky fingers and withdrew a small blue booklet. Handing it to Pat, she said, “You put in for me.”

  Pat was momentarily saddened. It was tough to get old. Olga must really be feeling weak if she was handing over her bank savings passbook. The elderly Russian lady was adamant about taking care of her banking herself. Though Pat had volunteered to make trips to Westwood Savings Bank for her, Olga had always declined. Life experience had taught Olga to guard her monies carefully, and she had always wanted to see the deposits made herself.

  “Okay, Olga. I’ll be glad to take care of it. I’ll deposit the check as soon as it arrives and then I’ll drop the passbook off at your apartment.”

  “Good. My Papa, he take care of me again.” Olga delicately worked on her shortbread cookie. “How is my Peter?” she asked, changing the subject.

  Pat smiled broadly. “Wonderful. He’s loving college and, thanks to you, he is most enthusiastic about the course on Russian history he’s taking this semester.”

  “He is good boy.”

  “Yes, Olga, he is.”

  Of anything in her life, Pat was most proud of Peter. Her son, her only child. It seemed like such a short time ago that she had watched him ride his tricycle down the driveway, and wondered how he was going to make it without his father. But over the years, the two of them had depended on each other. As a single mother she had worked hard at raising him and at starting her own business. He had worked hard at school and tried to help his mother by not giving her much to worry about. Pat was grateful that in an age of horror stories about drug and alcohol abuse, as far as she knew, the worst Peter had pulled was smoking in the Westwood High men’s room. He’d been mortified when he was caught, and she’d been called to school for a conference with the principal. Afterward, contrite and very upset, Peter promised Pat that he wouldn’t do it again. His mother believed him.

  Since he had first started going to school, Peter would come to the Consignment Depot at the end of the schoolday. She could still remember watching the little redheaded boy swinging his book bag as he skipped up the sidewalk. Some days her heart felt as if it would literally burst with the love she felt for her child. He’d always be so happy to see his mother, giving her a big, hard hug. He would eagerly head for the kitchen for an after-school snack, and then he’d tell her the details of his day, what his teacher had said, who got yelled at, who had gotten into fights in the schoolyard. For Pat, the best part of having her own business was that it had allowed her to be there for her son after school each day.

  Peter had been in the shop when, years ago, Olga had brought in her first piece of Fabergé, a silver letter opener. Not understanding the concept of a consignment shop, Olga had wanted Pat t
o buy the letter opener. Patiently Pat had explained that she didn’t buy things, she only displayed and sold them for other people. Upon scrutinizing the silver piece, Pat had checked a book out of the public library and correctly identified the Cyrillic markings on it to read “Fabergé.” Pat let Olga know that the piece was probably too valuable to get the right kind of customer exposure in the Consignment Depot anyway. She urged Olga to take it to New York. Somehow, in her halting but persuasive English, the old lady had convinced Pat to go to New York for her.

  Pat had shown the letter opener with its famous markings to her son. She explained the history of the wondrous House of Fabergé and the connection with the doomed Romanov dynasty. Peter was enthralled, later choosing to do a term paper on the Russian Revolution. As part of his research, he decided to approach the old Russian lady and see if she could give him some first hand stories of that historic time.

  Olga came to love Peter. At first hesitantly, then more and more openly, she told the young man stories of her early life, and ways of the Old Country. Even after the school assignment was completed, Peter kept going over to see the old lady once a week. She complimented him on his name. “Peter the Great was the father of all Russia. Your name is strong. You be strong man, too.” Peter’s love for Russian history was born.

  But now, turning over the blue passbook in her hands, Pat’s thoughts turned from her son back to the Russian woman.

  “Olga, what will you do after this money is gone?” she asked gently.

  “Don’t worry,” she answered in a surprisingly firm voice. “I still have one thing left.”

  Chapter 19

  “It’s not working out, is it?”

  Farrell sat before Range Bullock, and though the door to the office was closed, a sign that the executive producer did not want any interruptions, Farrell knew she was on display for all the newsroom to see. The glass wall that fronted the newsroom was an invitation to gawk at the players inside the Fishbowl. She tried to arrange the expression on her face. Don’t let Bullock or any of the voracious busybodies posted in the newsroom see the panic she felt inside. Look confident, or they’ll smell blood.

  She’d made one last trip to the ladies’ room in another attempt to blot out the coffee stain on her shirt, but her rubbing had only made it worse. She saw Range glance at the brown spot on the snow-white field of her blouse, and she supposed her sloppiness would only be another nail in the coffin of Range’s opinion of her. She crossed her legs.

  As usual, Farrell had felt it necessary to talk first. Why? She remembered the old saying, He who talks first, loses. But it was her nature to take things head-on. Most times she liked that about herself. But this time, she should have let Range talk first. Let him bring up the tough subject. Put the ball in his court. Instead, Farrell had served right to him and she sensed his relief.

  “We missed a good story last night,” Range responded ruefully.

  “We didn’t miss it. A decision was made not to do it.” Farrell left unspoken the made by you, Range.

  For a moment Range glared at her, but when he spoke again, he sounded more resigned than angry.

  “You’re right, Farrell. I did decide not to go with it and now I’m sorry. I misjudged. I take full responsibility for that.”

  Farrell sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.

  Range rose and walked around his desk, taking a seat beside Farrell on the other end of the gray tweed couch. He angled his body toward her and bent forward, staring at his hands.

  “Look, I want to be honest here.”

  “Please do.”

  “In my thirty years of working in this business, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. My instincts are telling me that I shouldn’t renew your contract.”

  Farrell had known it was coming. Why, she wondered, did she feel the wind knocked out of her when it actually happened? A blow to the solar plexus. She inhaled deeply, but she’d be damned if she would cry. She dug her nails into her thigh.

  “Don’t you think you should base such an important decision on fact rather than instinct?”

  Farrell thought she detected a tinge of admiration in Bullock’s eyes. He seemed to consider her question.

  “You’re right. True, your work is basically solid. There hasn’t been a story I can point to and say, ‘See, Farrell screwed up. She made mistakes, she left out something important.’ But you haven’t been aggressive, either. I don’t see you going after stories, pursuing them vigorously. You don’t seem sold on your own work. Case in point, the Fabergé auction.”

  “Hey, I told you we should do that story,” Farrell protested.

  “Barely. You expressed no enthusiasm or commitment, no hunger. You could have sold me on it and you didn’t. In fact, sometimes I sense you’re almost relieved not to have to do a piece.”

  Farrell snapped. “If there’s any truth in that, it’s only because I know that you won’t go for anything involving me. The cards are stacked against me in the first place.”

  Range opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He rose and walked back behind his desk.

  “Well, then, perhaps we should write it off to bad chemistry,” he said coolly. “And that is a good enough reason for me. The Evening Headlines producers are part of a very well-trained, exclusive team. We have to play well together, anticipate and understand each other.”

  “So. . ..” She trailed off. She was going to make him say it.

  “Your contract expires in six weeks. It won’t be renewed. You better start looking for another job.”

  Farrell skulked back to her office, Range’s dictum pounding in her head. In a funny way, she was relieved. At least it was out on the table.

  What was she going to do now? She should start making some phone calls right away, start sniffing around to see what was out there. She had connections at the other networks.

  What was she going to answer when asked why she was leaving KEY News? She could say that after working at the network for fifteen years, she’d wanted to try someplace new, start something fresh, didn’t want to get stale. They might buy that.

  Or she could just tell the truth. She hadn’t gotten along with her executive producer. Just about everyone in the industry had, at one time or another, an executive producer he clashed with. Personality conflicts were de rigueur in the television news business.

  She supposed she might as well go with the truth. Whoever might interview her at the new place could easily pick up the phone and call Range. No point in lying when they would just find out the truth anyway.

  Ugh. Looking for a job. The worst. Farrell marveled that some people actually liked it, enjoyed the search, the challenge of the hunt for better employment. She despised it.

  But that could be symptomatic of the bigger problem. She hated to admit to herself that Range could have a point. Maybe she wasn’t hungry enough. Why hadn’t she insisted more strenuously about the Fabergé story?

  The hallway leading to her office was deserted. She prayed that her office would be empty as well. The last thing she wanted to deal with now was Dean Cohen.

  No such luck.

  Dean was putting on his coat to go home.

  If only she’d been a minute later, she’d have missed him entirely.

  Don’t look upset, she commanded herself.

  “Everything okay?” Dean looked concerned.

  Was he sincere? Maybe. But she didn’t want to go into it with him.

  “Yup. Everything’s fine. Just fine.”

  Chapter 20

  Sticky. That much blood was sticky. Despite the rubber gloves, despite the slicker and galoshes, despite the goggles and the cap, Misha’s blood found a way to ooze through the plastic, the plasma tacky and thick.

  How did those guys in the meatpacking industry do it? Perhaps if you did it enough, it got easier, maybe you got used to it—hacking and sawing your way through skin and muscle, sinew and bones.

  And the sound. That was the worst part of all. Joints snapped a
nd popped. Bones broke with a sickening crack. And the saw droned steadily, back and forth, back and forth.

  Piece by piece, section by section, Misha went into black heavy-plastic garbage bags. The body was dumped in a local landfill. The head was thrown into the Hudson River along with the fingertips, food for the fish newly returned to the cleaned-up waterway. All part of the plan.

  It was filthy work, and exhausting. Funny how a human being could sleep so well after so gruesome an experience. It was the sleep of the deadly . . . and the desperate—

  What an idiot! In the haste of disposing of Misha, one loose end had been left dangling. The design plans—they were still out there in Little Odessa.

  Chapter 21

  The bony fingers of Nadine Paradise rubbed the milky enamel crescent she’d bought at the Churchill’s auction. Her eyes, eyes that had watched vigilantly for nearly eight decades, appreciatively took in every detail of the work of art that was meant to be worn.

  Life was strange. After eight decades on this earth, she knew this. That she should now own both halves of the brooch, proved it.

  There were some things she should cut back on, but the purchase of this pin was a necessity, not a luxury.

  Nadine sighed and sat back in the comfortably worn, green velvet armchair, her old eyes falling on the silver-framed black-and-white picture sitting on the mahogany table beside her. A young ballerina in a feathered headpiece was caught in midair in one of a series of whipping turns from Swan Lake. Nadine remembered with pleasure that the most famous ballet critic of the time had called her dancing both “astonishing” and “frightening.”