The Cinderella Murder

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Clarence had accused Frank of knowing nothing about television, but he was expert enough about entertainment generally to realize this woman could be bluffing. Would anyone really want to watch a show about the Cinderella Murder if he wasn’t part of it? If he hung up now, could that stop the production in its tracks? Perhaps. But if they went forward without him, he’d have no control over their portrayal of him. They could place him at the top of their list of people who remained “under suspicion,” as the show was called. All he needed was for ticket buyers to boycott his movies.

  “I’m afraid I did not learn of your letter until just now, Ms. Moran, or I would have gotten back to you sooner. But, yes, I’ll make time for your show.” Across the table, Clarence’s eyes shot open. “Have you spoken yet to Madison Meyer?”

  “We’re optimistic that all the relevant witnesses will appear.” The producer was keeping her cards close to her vest.

  “If Madison’s anything like she was the last time I had contact with her, I’d show up at her front door with a camera crew. There’s nothing more compelling to an out-of-work actress than the spotlight.”

  Clarence looked like he was going to jump out of his chair.

  “I’ll let you work out the details with Clarence,” Frank said. “He’ll have a look at the calendar and get back to you.”

  He said good-bye and returned Clarence’s phone to him.

  “I’ll make scheduling excuses until she finally takes the hint?” he asked.

  “No. You’ll make sure I’m available. And I want to do it in L.A. I want to be a full participant, on the same terms with all the other players.”

  “Frank, that’s a bad—”

  “My mind is made up, Clarence, but thank you.”

  Once Clarence had left him alone, Frank took another sip of his scotch. He had gotten where he was by trusting his instincts, yes, but also because he had a raw talent for controlling the telling of a story. And his instincts were saying that this television show about Susan Dempsey would be just another story for him to control.

  • • •

  Talia watched from the hallway beyond the den as her husband’s assistant left the apartment.

  She had been married to Frank for ten years. She still remembered calling her parents in Ohio to tell them about the engagement. She’d thought they would be happy to know that her days of auditioning for bit roles and advertisements were over. They would no longer have to worry about her living alone in that sketchy apartment complex in Glassell Park. She was getting married, and to a wealthy, successful, famous director.

  Instead, her father had said, “But didn’t he have something to do with the death of that girl?”

  She had heard the way her husband had spoken to Clarence and to that television person on the phone. She knew she had no chance of changing his mind.

  She found herself twisting her wedding ring in circles, watching the three-carat diamond turn around her finger. She couldn’t help but think that he was making a terrible mistake.

  10

  Laurie was exhausted by the time the 6 train stopped at her local station, Ninety-Sixth Street and Lexington. As she climbed the stairs up to street level, her new Stuart Weitzman black patent pumps still not broken in, she quickly reminded herself to be grateful for her freedom to ride the subway without fear, like everyone else. A year earlier she wouldn’t have dared.

  She no longer scanned every face in every crowd for a man with blue eyes. That was the only description her son, Timmy, had been able to offer of the man who had shot his father in the forehead, point-blank, right in front of him. An elderly woman had heard the man say, “Timmy, tell your mother that she’s next. Then it’s your turn.”

  For five years, she had been terrified that the man known as Blue Eyes would find and kill her and Timmy, just as he had promised. It had been nearly a year since Blue Eyes was killed by police in a thwarted attempt to carry out his twisted plan. Laurie’s fears hadn’t entirely died with him, but she was slowly beginning to feel like a normal person again.

  Her apartment was only two blocks away, on Ninety-Fourth Street. Once she reached her building, she gave a friendly wave to the usual weeknight doorman on her way to the mailboxes and elevator. “Hey, Ron.”

  When she reached her front door, she slipped a key into the top bolt first, then a second key into the doorknob, and then secured both locks behind her once she was inside her apartment. She kicked off her heels while she dropped her mail, purse, and briefcase on the console table in the entryway. Next was her suit jacket, which she tossed on top of her bags. She’d find time to put everything away later.

  It had been a long day.

  She headed straight for the kitchen, pulled an already-open bottle of sauvignon blanc from the refrigerator, and began pouring a glass. “Timmy,” she called.

  She took a sip and immediately felt the stress of the day begin to peel away. It had been one of those days when she hadn’t had time to eat or drink water or check her e-mail. But at least the work had paid off. All the pieces for Under Suspicion to cover the Cinderella Murder were coming together.

  “Timmy? Did you hear me? Is Grandpa letting you play video games already?”

  Ever since Greg was killed, Laurie’s father, Leo Farley, had stepped in as a kind of co-parent for Laurie’s son, Timmy. Timmy was nine years old now. He’d spent more than half of his life with only Mommy and Grandpa to take care of him.

  She couldn’t imagine how she would have managed to continue working full-time if it weren’t for her father’s help. He lived one short block away. Every single day, he walked Timmy to and from school at Saint David’s on Eighty-Ninth Street off Fifth Avenue and stayed with Timmy in the apartment until Laurie returned from work. She was far too grateful ever to complain, even when Grandpa allowed Timmy small indulgences like ice cream before dinner or video games before homework.

  She suddenly realized that the apartment was completely silent. No sounds of her father talking through a math problem with Timmy. No sounds of Timmy asking his grandfather to repeat all the favorite stories he had already heard from Leo Farley’s days with the NYPD: “Tell me about the time you chased a bad guy with a rowboat in Central Park,” “Tell me about the time the police horse got away on the West Side Highway.” No sounds of videos or games coming from Timmy’s iPad.

  Silence.

  “Timmy?! Dad?!” She bolted from the kitchen so quickly that she completely forgot she was holding a glass. White wine sloshed onto the marble floor. She trekked through it, running into the living room with damp feet. She tried to remind herself that Blue Eyes was dead. They were safe now. But where was her son? Where was Dad?

  They were supposed to be here by now. She rushed down the corridor to the den. Her father blinked at her from his comfortable leather chair. His feet were on the hassock.

  “Hi, Laurie. What’s the rush?”

  “Just getting some exercise,” Laurie said as she looked over to the sofa, where Timmy was curled up with a book in his hands.

  “He was wiped out from soccer,” Leo explained. “I could see his head dropping even on the walk home from school. I knew he’d fall asleep the minute he settled down.” He looked at his watch. “Oh boy. We’re going on two hours. He’ll be up all night now. Sorry, Laurie.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m—”

  “Hey,” he said. “You’re white as a sheet. What’s going on?”

  “I’m. It’s just—”

  “You were scared.”

  “Yes. For a moment.”

  “It’s all right.” He sat up in his chair, reached for her hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze.

  She might have been taking the subway matter-of-factly like everyone else these days, but she still wasn’t normal. When would things be normal?

  “Timmy,” her father said. “He said something about wanting takeout Indian food. Who’s ever heard of a nine-year-old who likes lamb saagwala?”

  At the sound of their voices, Timmy
’s eyes opened. He jumped up to give her a big bear hug. His enormous brown eyes, all expression and lashes, blinked up at her. She bent down to get closer to him. His head was still warm and smelled like sleep. She didn’t need a glass of wine to feel like she was home.

  • • •

  Three hours later, Timmy’s homework was done, the leftover takeout had been stored away, and Timmy—after enjoying his traditional “nighttime snack”—was tucked into bed.

  Laurie returned to the table, where Leo was finishing a second cup of coffee. “Thank you, Dad,” she said simply.

  “Because I called for takeout?”

  “No, I mean, for everything. For every day.”

  “Come on, Laurie. You know it’s the best job I’ve ever had. Now, is it just my imagination, or were Timmy and I not the only people in this apartment who were a little tired this evening? I swear, sometimes I think you’re right about that psychic connection you talk about.”

  When Timmy was born, Laurie was convinced that she and her son shared some inexplicable link that required neither words nor even physical contact. She would wake up in the middle of the night, certain that something was wrong, only to find dark silence. Invariably, within seconds, the baby monitor would crackle with the sounds of crying. Even tonight, hadn’t she had a hankering for chicken tikka masala during the subway ride home?

  “Of course I’m right,” she said with a smile. “I’m always right, about everything. And so are you about my being a little tired. Only it’s more than a little. I had a long day.”

  She told him about Brett Young’s conditional approval of featuring the Cinderella Murder in the next installment of Under Suspicion, followed by her phone call to Frank Parker.

  “Did he sound like a murderer?” Leo asked.

  “You’re the one who taught me that the coldest, cruelest creatures can also be the most charming.”

  He fell silent.

  “I know you still worry about me, Dad.”

  “Of course I do, just like you worried about me and Timmy when you came home today. Blue Eyes may be gone, but the very nature of your show means you’ve got a good chance, every single time, of being in the room with a killer.”

  “You don’t need to remind me. But I always have Grace and Jerry with me. I have a camera crew. Someone is with me at all times. I’m probably safer at work than I am walking down the street.”

  “Oh, that’s really comforting.”

  “I’m perfectly safe, Dad. Frank Parker has a huge career now. He’s not stupid. Even if he was the one who killed Susan Dempsey, the last thing he’s going to do is expose himself by trying to hurt me.”

  “Well, I’d feel better if Alex were one of those people who was always around you at work. Is he available for this project?”

  “I’m keeping my fingers crossed, but Alex has a law practice to run, Dad. He doesn’t need a second full-time job as a television personality.”

  “That’s all a story, and you know it. The more he’s on TV, the more business he gets for his practice.”

  “Well, hopefully he’ll be on board.” Quickly she added, “And not because of your reason, but because no one could be better than he was on the show.”

  “And because you both like being together.”

  “I can’t get past those detective skills, can I?” She smiled and patted his knee, temporarily putting the issue to rest. “Frank Parker said something interesting today. He suggested that the best way to get Madison Meyer to commit to the show would be to appear at her house with a television crew.”

  “It makes sense, like waving a needle in front of a junkie. You said her career is all but dead. When she actually sees how quickly she could be back in the spotlight, she might have a hard time saying no.”

  “And it’s Los Angeles,” she said, thinking aloud. “I can probably get a skeleton camera crew on a budget. With Madison, Parker, and Susan’s mother on board, I can’t imagine Brett not giving me the all-clear.”

  She picked up her phone from the coffee table and sent texts to Jerry and Grace: “Pack a bag for warm weather. We’re heading to L.A. first thing in the morning.”

  • • •

  The following afternoon in Los Angeles, Laurie pulled their rental van to the curb and double-checked the address against the one she had entered into the GPS. Jerry and the small production team they’d hired for the day—just a sound guy and two cameramen shooting handhelds—were already jumping out of the back, but Grace asked, “Everything okay? You look hesitant.”

  Sometimes it gave her the willies how well Grace could read her. Now that they were here, unannounced, at Madison Meyer’s last known address, she was wondering if this was an insane idea.

  Oh well, she told herself. This is reality television. She had to take risks. “No problem,” she said, turning off the engine. “Just making sure we’re in the right place.”

  “Not exactly Beverly Hills, is it?” Grace observed.

  The ranch house was tiny, its blue paint starting to peel. The grass looked like it hadn’t been mowed for a month. The weathered planter boxes beneath the front windows contained nothing but dirt.

  Laurie led the way to the front door, Grace and Jerry at her heels, the camera crew close behind. She rang the bell, once, then twice more, before she saw a set of red fingernails pull back curtains from the adjacent window. Two minutes later, a woman she recognized as Madison Meyer finally opened the door. Based on the fresh lipstick that matched the fingernails, Laurie guessed that Madison had done a quick touch-up before meeting her newly arrived guests.

  “Madison, my name is Laurie Moran. I’m a producer with Fisher Blake Studios, and I want to give you airtime on a show with more than ten million viewers.”

  • • •

  The house was cramped and messy. Magazines were strewn randomly around the living room, on the sofa, on the coffee table, in a pile on the floor next to the television. Most of them seemed to be celebrity magazines with important features like “Who Wore It Better?” and “Guess Which Couple Is About to Split?” Two narrow bookshelves that lined the wall by the entryway were packed with memorabilia from Madison’s short-lived success as an actress. At the center was the statuette she had received for her first role, the one Frank Parker had gifted her after Susan supposedly never showed up for her audition: a Spirit Award, not an Oscar, but still a sign of a budding career. But from Laurie’s research, she gathered that Madison had gone nowhere but down after that one recognition.

  “Did you get the letter I sent you, Miss Meyer?”

  “I don’t think so. Or maybe I did and I just wanted to see whether you’d be following up.” She smiled coyly.

  Laurie returned the smile. “Well, consider this the follow-up.” She introduced Jerry and Grace, who both shook Madison’s hand. “Have you heard of the special series Under Suspicion?”

  “Oh yes,” Madison said. “I watched the one last year. I even joked it was only a matter of time before someone came calling about my college roommate. I assume that’s why you’re here?”

  “As you know,” Laurie said, “there has been speculation over the years about whether you covered for Frank Parker. You said you were with him at his house at the time of Susan’s death.”

  Madison opened her mouth to speak but then pressed her lips together and nodded slowly. Close up and in person, Laurie could see that Madison had retained her beauty. She had long, shiny blond hair; a heart-shaped face; and piercing green eyes. Her skin was still pale and clear. But Laurie could also see the changes that time had brought to Madison’s face, as well as Madison’s attempts to forestall them. A telltale stripe of mousy brown revealed she was due for another dye job. Her forehead was unnaturally smooth, her cheeks and lips plumped by fillers. She was still a gorgeous woman, but Laurie wondered whether she’d have been even more beautiful without all the intervention.

  “That’s true,” Madison said. “I mean, the part about people speculating.”

  “You have
nothing to say about that?” Laurie pressed.

  “Am I the first person you asked? That letter you mailed seemed pretty generic.”

  “Ah, so now you do recall the letter,” Laurie said, arching a brow. “You’re right: we did ask others. We try to bring as many people who knew the victim as possible to—”

  “So who are the other people? Who has committed?”

  Laurie didn’t see the harm in Madison’s question. “Susan’s mother. Your other roommate, Nicole Melling, is interested. Frank Parker.”

  Madison’s green eyes sparkled at the mention of the director’s name. “I assume your show pays?” she asked.

  “Of course. Maybe not what a studio movie might pay, but I think you’ll find the compensation to be fair.” Laurie knew that Madison hadn’t had any studio film offers for a decade.

  “Then I’ll have my agent call you to talk terms before I’ll say anything on camera. Oh, and you.” She looked directly at the two men with cameras. “When it comes time to shoot, the left is my good side. And no backlighting. It makes me look old.”

  As Laurie made her way back to the rental car, she allowed herself to smile. Madison Meyer was playing hard to get, but she was already talking like the diva of the set.

  11

  Some people were just creatures of habit.

  Not Madison. Heck, Madison wasn’t even her name. Her real name was Meredith Morris. How old-fashioned was that? There wasn’t even a cute nickname she could make out of it. She’d tried Merry, but people thought she was saying Mary. Then she tried Red, but that didn’t even make sense for a blonde. But she always liked the alliteration. When she enrolled at UCLA to appease her parents, she changed her name to Madison Meyer, determined to get discovered by Hollywood.

  In various stages of her life, she had been a vegetarian, a gun owner, a libertarian, a conservative, a liberal. She’d been married, and divorced, three times. She had dated actors, bankers, lawyers, waiters, even a farmer. Madison was constantly changing. The only constant was that she wanted to be a star.