Do You Promise Not To Tell?

by Clark, Mary Jane

  Farrell suspected how close Stacey’s bullet had come to her heart, and she was grateful. Thank you, dear God, thank you, she prayed. Her gratitude, though, could not eclipse the sheer joy of knowing that she had the pictures necessary to tell the most exciting story of her career.

  Chapter 137

  Good Friday

  Russian Peasant Folk Belief

  “Whoever fasts on this Friday

  will be saved from robbers.”

  Farrell mustered all her mental and diminished physical strength as she one-handedly tapped her script into her computer. Her stomach growled, but there was no time to eat. Frustrated at the interruption, she answered her ringing telephone.

  “Farrell Slater.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Hi, Robbie, what’s up?”

  “What’s up with you! I haven’t heard from you in days.”

  “I’m on a deadline, Rob. I’ll tell you all about it later. But I’m glad you called. Can you pull some old black-and-white footage of the Romanovs for me? I need it for this piece.”

  “Okay. Sure. What’s the piece about?”

  Unwilling to take the time to tell him, but not wanting to brush her brother off, Farrell decided to read Robbie the script she was working on.

  “What do you think?” she asked, when she had finished.

  “Big sister, do I have something for you!”

  Chapter 138

  Farrell sat in the Fishbowl Friday evening to watch Evening Headlines, as Range’s invited guest. Her shoulder, draped with a white sling, throbbed intensely. Her brown eyes were bloodshot and tired. But she sat regally, her head held high.

  For two and a half intense minutes, Farrell’s eyes, and those of the KEY News staff—and, she would later discover, the eyes of nine million American viewers—were trained on their television sets.

  For the dozenth time, Farrell watched the piece that she had put together over the last twenty-four hours. Eliza Blake narrated in her trained, well-modulated voice.

  “KEY News has learned that the Fabergé Imperial Easter Egg auctioned last month at Churchill’s auction house for six million dollars was a fake.”

  Up popped a sound bite from a spokesman from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “Art forgery is much more common than people realize,” he said.

  Eliza appeared on camera again in a bridge, shot earlier in the day in front of Churchill’s. “It’s a story that’s rocking the art world, a story that began in the St. Petersburg of czarist Russia, wended its way across the world, and came to an end at Churchill’s, New York’s famous auction house. A story that mixes the human emotions of greed and fear, and the all-too-human deeds of deception and murder.

  “KEY News producer Farrell Slater began following this story last month when Churchill’s auctioned an enameled egg purported to be the last Imperial Easter Egg commissioned to famed jeweler Carl Fabergé by Czar Nicholas II, shortly before the emperor was overthrown during the Russian Revolution. Known as the Moon Egg, it was never delivered to the czar and his wife Alexandra who, along with their five children, were executed by the revolutionaries.”

  Farrell had chosen some archival, black-and-white footage of the Romanovs that Robbie had pulled for her and interspersed it with material that B. J. had shot at the Russian exhibit. The large oil paintings of the emperor and empress worked well here.

  “In the chaos of the Revolution, much of the contents of the St. Petersburg House of Fabergé was seized by the new government, who sold the jeweled treasures simply for the value of their precious metals and stones, unaware of—or caring little for—their artistic value. Some pieces were smuggled out of the country. Many treasures were lost completely. Some have turned up from time to time over the years.”

  More video of the Fabergé pieces at the Metropolitan Museum were just right there.

  “That was allegedly the case of the egg that Churchill’s auctioned. It was said to have been discovered at a New York City flea market. Churchill’s vouched for the authenticity of the egg.”

  Video of the auction appeared, leading to a sound bite from Clifford Montgomery’s opening remarks that day.

  “ ‘We’ve had many beautiful Fabergé items that have been our privilege to auction over the years,’ ” said Churchill’s president, “ ‘but none of them has matched the magnificence of the Imperial Moon Egg.’ ”

  Eliza continued narrating the story. “On Wall Street, Churchill’s stock rose on the ensuing publicity and record purchase by an anonymous buyer. But KEY News has learned that the egg Churchill’s auctioned was a forgery and that the real Fabergé Moon Egg had been in the possession of the daughter of a Fabergé workmaster, the man who actually made the egg in the Fabergé studio in 1917.”

  Everyone in the Fishbowl listened intently as the video B. J. had shot that day which seemed so long ago at Olga’s apartment, appeared onscreen.

  Thank God Robbie had found it. Farrell silently resolved to give Jack the videotape box and ask him to have it dusted for fingerprints. Dean, you’re not off the hook yet, my man.

  Faithful to her promise, Farrell just used the video of the old woman’s hands holding the Moon Egg; she did not show Olga’s face.

  “And, in another bizarre and deadly twist, police are investigating the murders of Churchill’s employee Meryl Quan, and Misha Grinkov, a Russian emigré and jeweler in the Brighton Beach section of New York. Investigators now believe Grinkov made the fake Moon Egg and that both murders were committed by Victor Paradise, son of ballet legend Nadine Paradise.

  “But Victor Paradise is not available for questioning. He was killed by a Churchill’s doorman as he defended himself against Paradise’s attack. In police custody is Stacey Spinner, an interior decorator from Saddle River, New Jersey. Authorities close to the investigation say that Spinner is the mastermind behind the forgery and the murders, and that Churchill’s president Clifford Montgomery knowingly authenticated the Moon Egg forgery. Montgomery, too, is in police custody at New York Hospital where he is recuperating from a gunshot wound.

  “Churchill’s held an emergency meeting of its board of directors today, as the price of Churchill’s stock plummeted on the New York Stock Exchange.

  “Eliza Blake, KEY News, New York.”

  As the closing credits ran at the end of the broadcast, Range rose from his seat.

  “Good work, Farrell. That’s an award-winner, for sure. Thank you.”

  Chapter 139

  Easter Sunday

  Farrell popped another miniature milk-chocolate Easter bunny into her mouth.

  “Keep it up,” Jack warned, “and you’ll have no room for Pat’s dinner.”

  Farrell stuck out her tongue playfully. “Don’t bug me. I’ve barely eaten in two days, and I’m starved.”

  “Here. If you want to try something heavenly, have one of these,” Tim Kavanagh offered. “I picked up this Belgian chocolate at a little shop near the UN when I was in the city with my class last week.”

  Farrell chose a rich candy from its golden box and bit into it appreciatively.

  “Dinner is served,” called Pat, carrying a large, honey-roasted ham to the dining-room table. Emily followed along behind her mistress, eager for any table scraps that might come her way.

  Farrell took a seat at the end, so that her sore arm could face out, safe from possible pokes from a dinner companion. Jack sat next to her. Across from them, Tim Kavanagh and Choo-Choo Charlie eyed each other competitively. Farrell got the feeling that Pat was enjoying having both men there, vying for her attention. Peter took his place at the head of the table and Pat seated herself at the other end, nearest to the kitchen door.

  “This looks wonderful, Pat,” Farrell said, observing the feast spread out before them.

  At his mother’s urging, Peter said grace. Finishing the prayer, he remembered to be thankful for his surrogate grandmother’s recovery.

  “Eat up, everybody. But save a little room. There’s a big strawberry shortcake for d
essert. I thought we could all take a ride up to Nadine’s after dinner and share it with them. Olga came home from the hospital yesterday, you know.”

  It seemed to Farrell that everyone was making a concerted effort to keep the dinner conversation light. When they finished eating, they wandered into the living room and Peter switched on the television as the fanfare of the Sunday edition of KEY Evening Headlines began to play.

  “Can’t get away from the place,” Farrell remarked, as she settled in to listen to the weekend anchor.

  “The Kremlin announced today that the last Imperial Easter Egg, created for the doomed Russian czar Nicholas II, will be returning to St. Petersburg, the city in which it was created over eighty years ago. Russia anonymously purchased the Moon Egg for six million dollars at auction last month, withholding announcement of the acquisition until Easter, traditionally the country’s most important day.”

  “So that’s who bought it!” Farrell exclaimed. “But what about Olga? The Moon Egg is hers!”

  Peter smiled. “When Mom and I drove Olga home to Mrs. Paradise’s house yesterday, Olga told me that a nice FBI agent had come to see her. She told him that she didn’t want to make any claim on the egg. She said it’s the right thing for the Moon Egg to go back to Russia.”

  Farrell turned to Jack. “Did you know all this?”

  Jack nodded, smiling.

  “And the six million dollars? Who gets that?” asked Farrell.

  “No one,” Jack said. “Russia isn’t going to have to pay for the egg at all, which is a good thing, considering the financial mess they’re in. Olga said she doesn’t want the money. And Churchill’s board of directors is waiving any commission that may have been earned. Smart move if they want their auction house to have any kind of future.”

  “Come on,” called Pat, pulling on her blazer and carrying a covered cake plate. “Let’s go over to Nadine and Olga’s.”

  As the group rose to leave, Farrell took Jack’s hand and pulled him aside.

  “I have a surprise of my own,” she whispered.

  Jack waited expectantly.

  “Range told me he made a mistake. A mistake he says he wants to correct. He asked me if I want my job back.” Farrell tried, unsuccessfully, to wipe the smug smile off her face. It had been so satisfying to watch and listen as the executive producer admitted he was wrong.

  Jack’s blue eyes crinkled at their corners as he grinned down at her.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense, Farrell,” he urged. “What did you tell him?”

  She shrugged, feigning indifference she did not feel. For all the arguments she’d made to herself to the contrary, Farrell knew she was not ready to leave KEY News and the world of broadcast journalism. She was relieved, grateful and thrilled to have her job back. At the same time, she wasn’t about to let Range think his was her only option. Let him worry for a while.

  “Come on, hot shot,” Jack insisted. “What did you say?”

  “I told him I’d think about it and let him know.”

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Mary Jane Clark’s new novel

  DANCING IN THE DARK

  Coming in July 2005 in hardcover

  from St. Martin’s Press!

  PROLOGUE

  Thursday evening, August 18th

  Deprived of sight, her other senses were intensified. She stood in the darkness, seeing nothing, but hearing the persistent roar of the Atlantic Ocean in the distance and the soft flapping of wings right above her. Her nostrils flared at the smell of must and decay. The ground was damp and cold beneath her bare feet, her toes curling in the wet, sandy dirt. She felt something brush against her ankle and prayed it was only a mouse and not a rat.

  Three days in this dank chamber were enough. If she had to stay any longer, she would surely lose her mind. Still, when they found her, as she fantasized they would, the police would want to know everything. To survive this, she’d have to be able to recount every detail of what had happened.

  She would tell the police how he’d leave her alone for what seemed like hours at a time. She would tell them how he’d gagged her when he left so nobody would hear her screams and how he would only lower the gag to press his mouth against hers when he returned.

  The police would want to know what he’d said to her, but she would have to tell them that she had stopped asking him questions after the second day of captivity because he’d never answered. He’d expressed what he wanted by touch. She’d be sure to tell them how he’d caressed her and lifted her up, how he’d maneuvered his body against hers, how she had known she must follow his lead.

  As she continued to mentally organize the information the police would surely need from her, she felt a familiar rumble from her stomach. She had eaten sparsely of the meager provisions, but that didn’t really bother her. Hunger was a familiar friend. She knew the ability to survive with minimal sustenance was one of her most impressive strengths, though, of course, her parents didn’t see it that way. Nor did her former friends or teachers or the health care professionals who had worked so hard to steer her away from the path she had chosen for herself. They didn’t see what to her was only obvious. Not eating was the ultimate control.

  As she listened to a pigeon cooing from the eaves above her, she thought more about her parents. They must be frantic with worry. She imagined her mother crying, and her father pacing and cracking his knuckles, over and over, his annoying habit whenever he was upset. Was everyone in town out looking for her? She prayed they were. She hoped that anyone who had ever wronged her, anyone who had ever snubbed her, anyone who had ever hurt her, was worried about her now.

  The low rumble of the waves rolled in and out, and she began to rock to the rhythm, trying to soothe herself. It was all going to work out. It had to. She would tell the police what had happened, how he’d silently pulled her to her feet. Without words, he’d shown her what he wanted her to do by the way he moved his body next to hers. She had danced in the dark for him. Danced again and again, trying desperately to please him. Dancing for her life.

  Four hours later

  The security guard raised his arm and pointed the flashlight at his wrist. Still an hour to go before his shift was over. Time for one last patrol.

  Strolling along the empty paths, George Croft pulled his handkerchief from his uniform pocket, wiping his forehead and the back of his neck. Except for the excessive heat, it was a night like many others in the quiet oceanside community. An occasional throaty snore emanated from the canvas cottages he passed. The rules permitted no loud talking after ten o’clock, and most lights were off by 11:00 P.M. The combination of sun, heat, and salt air had left the summer occupants ready for a good night’s sleep.

  Finishing up on Mt. Carmel Way, the guard cut across the grass and stopped to check the doors of Bishop Jane’s Tabernacle and the Great Auditorium one last time. The massive Victorian-style wooden structures were locked up tight as drums. The illuminated cross that shone from the top of the auditorium, serving as a naval landmark for passing ships, beamed into the night, signaling that all was well.

  He was satisfied that everything was in order, but he still had another fifteen minutes before he was officially off duty. God forbid something happened before 2:00 A.M., and he wasn’t on the grounds. He’d lose his job over that. And, although she didn’t live in his patrol area, that young woman was still missing. If some sick nut was intent on abducting another Ocean Grove girl, the guard wasn’t going to have it happen on his watch.

  Lord, it was hot. Longing for a drink of cool water, George turned his flashlight in the direction of the wooden gazebo which protected the Beersheba well. He knew the first well driven in Ocean Grove had been named for a well in the Old Testament. Beersheba’s waters had been good enough for the Israelites back then, and good enough for his town’s founding fathers, but he preferred the bottled stuff. Still, the gazebo was as good a place as any to wait it out until his shift was over.

  With no breeze blowi
ng in from the ocean, the night air was especially still. He trained the yellow light on the lawn in front of him and walked slowly, trying to kill time. Noticing one of his shoes was undone, he put the flashlight down in the grass and stooped to tie the lace. It was then that he heard the scratching sound.

  The fine hairs tingled on the back of his clammy neck and George spun the flashlight in the direction of the noise. He squinted, trying to identify what he was seeing. A dark, motionless mound lay at the base of the gazebo.

  With caution, George stepped a little closer. Just when he heard the scratching again, he detected slight movement coming from the form. Slowly, slowly, he approached until, finally, the glare of the flashlight reflected off the pale skin of a female face, blindfolded and gagged.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Mary Jane Clark’s exciting novel

  HIDE YOURSELF AWAY

  Coming in June 2005

  from St. Martin’s Paperbacks!

  PROLOGUE

  He wanted to have the light on, but she was just as glad that wasn’t a possibility. Any illumination coming from the playhouse windows would beckon one of the staff to come and investigate.

  He also wanted to have some music and had brought along his cassette player, but she insisted on silence. They couldn’t risk the noise traveling out into the soft, night air. The only undulating rhythm coming from within the cottage this night would be the slow, steady rocking of their bodies.

  She lay on her back on the wrought-iron daybed, thinking of the youngsters who had napped on the mattress. She strained at every cricket’s chirp and skunk’s mournful whine from the field outside. She wondered if there were animals in the condemned tunnel that ran beneath the playhouse. She hoped not, since that was their predetermined escape route should they ever need it.