The First Wife

by Diana Diamond

  He picked up his jacket, which he had tossed half on the sofa and half on the floor. “Thanks for dinner,” he said on his way to the door. “My only suggestion would be that you put a thin slice of lemon in the finger bowls. And maybe a napkin!”

  Jane listened to the door click and then broke out laughing. Arthur could be a lot of fun, and he was generous to a fault. But he needed a mother more than he needed a wife. He was sinking and looking for someone he could hold on to.

  Did he really think that the piece she was writing would get her fired? It was scrupulously accurate in the details and neutral in tone. She thought she was correct in telling her readers that her suburban newspaper chain was too small to get Andrews’s attention. His subordinates wouldn’t challenge its news policies and business practices unless it lost money or incurred the wrath of the FCC. In that case, they would break up the chain and sell off the offensive pieces just as they would change the office furniture if it began to look shabby. But as to the larger picture, she quoted the government’s misgivings about media conglomerates that dominated markets. William Andrews, whether he intended it or not, was a dangerous man.

  Would he be angry when one of his own properties wasn’t spouting the party line? Had he expected that she would get with the program when he took the time to wine and dine her? Would he actually fire her just to still her disturbing clucking at the back of the coop? She would be very disappointed in him if he proved to be so petty.

  But she would be equally disappointed if he simply ignored her or judged her work too unimportant to be of concern. She had a quality act, even if it was on a very small stage. She had done her homework, given him his opportunity, and then set down the facts as she saw them. It was good journalism, and William Andrews ought to respect professionalism and recognize quality even when the report was not entirely to his liking.

  So what response did she hope for? Maybe a comment passed through Robert Leavitt and Roscoe Taylor that she had done a good job. Or maybe a note from Andrews himself, a routine thank-you written by his secretary and signed by him. Something that might say, “Your profile in the such-and-such edition was well presented. While I cannot agree with many of your conclusions, I can’t help but admire the professionalism displayed.” A typical example of personalized corporate indifference.

  She knew she wouldn’t be fired. Roscoe would quit before he would obey an order to give her a pink slip. But there were other ways of punishing her if the great man wasn’t pleased with what he read. Andrews could easily merge her paper with another in the chain to bring her under a more compliant editor. He could promote her to a dead-end job in circulation or put her in charge of something inconsequential like community events.

  On any scale, the downside risks of her story were heavier than the upside potential. Her implied alliance with the executives in Paris as well as pure self-interest suggested that she should eliminate the sniping and give more weight to the company line. After all, the world wasn’t going to stop turning because of anything printed in the Southport Post. The only thing clearly at issue was her relationship with the new management and its impact on her career.

  But she couldn’t do it. She could be dead wrong and still be a journalist. But if she tilted the truth one way or the other, she would stop being a reporter and become a pamphleteer. Public relations executives were paid to paint and polish their company’s actions until they were nearly unrecognizable. Journalists were supposed to cut through the camouflage and find the hidden agenda. If she tried to win the favor of Andrews and all the other passengers on his corporate jet, then she might as well join them and get in on the perks. A reporter didn’t need the love of the people she covered. What she needed was their respect.

  Jane sat across from Roscoe while he read her story, searching his face for his reaction. He chuckled. Did that mean he was pleased, or had he found something ridiculous? He frowned. Was something disturbing or just incomprehensible? She had no idea until he turned over the last page.

  “Pretty good!” he allowed, which from Roscoe was heady praise. “I think it’s the best one in the series. You’re less testy and more scholarly. More newspaper and less tabloid. Overall, I like it.”

  She smiled appreciatively. “So, any suggestions?”

  “Just one. Print it!”

  “As is?”

  “Is there something you’re not sure about?”

  You’re damn right, Jane thought. I’m not sure that this won’t be a career-limiting event. But she shook her head. “No. It’s all accurate.”

  “Then print it. That’s what we’re supposed to do around here.”

  The day it appeared, Jack Dollinger took her out for a beer and a sandwich in a tavern by the railroad station. “Quite a treat,” she told him. They usually ate in a coffee shop across the street. Dollinger raised his glass. “A great job,” he toasted. “You took the measure of our new owner and found him lacking.”

  Jane struggled with her first sip. “Is that the way you read it? That I found him lacking?”

  He nodded. “Sure! Not lacking in business skills or corporate avarice. But lacking in responsibility to the community. And that’s a hell of an indictment for a man who wants to control all our public communications.”

  She set her glass down. “Oh, Jesus,” she mumbled, and her head fell onto her hand. “An indictment?”

  “Isn’t that what you intended?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No. I have nothing against him. I just wanted to be fair.”

  “You were fair,” he assured her. “The man is heartless, and that’s what you said.”

  “No!” She had raised her voice and she was surprised at her own vehemence. She finished in a softer tone. “He’s far from heartless. He’s permanently crippled by guilt over his wife’s death.”

  Dollinger put on a skeptical expression. “You mean that business up in the woods when his wife was shot? Let me tell you, we never heard all the facts about that little affair. The stuff about some outsider breaking in was pure horseshit. It was an inside job. William Andrews knows damn well who shot his wife.”

  “What are you talking about?” she challenged. “How would you know?”

  “I was with the New York Post at the time,” Jack Dollinger began to explain. “Believe me, when we saw dirt, we dug. And when the dirt was on the rich and famous, we dug even deeper. That whole affair was one big cover-up!”

  “Jack, I just spent two days with the man. He’s not part of any cover-up.”

  “Maybe not personally,” Dollinger countered, “but the people in his company were. This was a hick town with a one-man police force. Andrews’s people had that poor rube of a sheriff so intimidated that he was afraid to talk to his wife, much less to the press.”

  “The state police were called in?” Jane said, repeating information she had gotten out of newspaper files.

  “Sure they were. Hours after the shooting. And after about six inches of snow came down so that they had no chance to track the so-called intruder. Then the governor, who just happened to have the endorsement of the Andrews television stations, pulled them off the case. Did you know that there wasn’t even an autopsy? Some local doctor filled out the death certificate. No competent medical examiner ever saw the body.”

  Jane became argumentative. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that Andrews did it himself.”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Well, for your information, Andrews was hit by the same shotgun blast that killed his wife. That would be quite a trick, wouldn’t it? Being on both sides of the trigger at the same time.”

  “We heard that he had been scratched. But even that was impossible to prove. The doctor bandaged him up, and then they whisked him off to a private hospital.” Jack paused while the waitress set down their sandwiches. Then he went on. “Didn’t Ted Kennedy claim he was injured in Chappaquiddick? Hell, he even had the gall to wear a neck brace at the inquest.”

  Jane was defensive of Andr
ews. “He wasn’t just bandaged, Jack. He nearly bled to death. He and his wife were together, and they were both shot.”

  Jack shrugged. “Okay, you may be right. It’s just that none of us ever bought that business about the intruder whose tracks were covered by the snow.” Then he conceded, “But that’s beside the point. I liked the piece and I thought you got it just right.” He again lifted his beer glass. “Congratulations!”

  Jane tried to enjoy her sandwich, and when they returned to the office, she could only manage to dabble in her work. Jack Dollinger’s comments had disturbed her, which only proved how much she had been taken by William Andrews’s charm. There was no other reason she should care whether all the facts on an old, unsolved crime had ever been brought out into the open. She wanted William Andrews to be an innocent and suffering victim. If he had covered up evidence or faked his own injuries, then he would be an accomplice to murder.

  Bob Leavitt had been first on the scene. Andrews had told her that. But how long was it before the police arrived? Snow had covered up his tire tracks and footprints, so he must have been there for quite a while. It was possible, even likely, that Leavitt had acted in his friend’s best interest and done all that he could to sanitize the crime scene. But why would it need to be sanitized? An intruder had shot a man and his wife together in a remote lodge. There probably wasn’t anything more that a small-town sheriff could reveal. And what was wrong with a governor using his influence to keep the state police from harassing one of his friends? Andrews had seen his wife shot to pieces and had been seriously wounded himself. Perhaps all the governor was doing was saving the victim further pain. Nothing would be gained by passing around crime-scene photos of his dead wife or dragging him in for questions that he had already answered.

  But still, Jack Dollinger was an experienced journalist with a nose trained to detect the faintest hint of deceit. And Jack could still remember even the most insignificant details of events he had covered years ago. If his recollection of the murder of Kay Parker suggested a cover-up, then maybe she should do a little more digging. That night she went online to major city dailies to see what information they might still be holding on a crime that was eight years old.

  8

  The next morning she bumped into John Applebaum in the lobby of her office. She looked curiously at the two men and two women gathered near the reception counter, and then did a double take when she recognized him from the Paris trip. For an instant she didn’t know which way to go. Just get on the elevator and act surprised when he dropped into her office? Or cross the lobby and reintroduce herself? He solved her dilemma by looking up and catching her eye just as the elevator arrived.

  “Mr. Applebaum,” she said with more delight than she felt, “I thought I recognized you.”

  He met her halfway. “Good to see you, Jane. We’re here to begin looking at our new acquisition. Maybe you can show us around.”

  She loaded them onto the elevator and took them up to the publisher’s office, located in the plusher area at the front of the floor. As soon as Jane introduced the guests, the secretary went to pieces trying to announce them and get their coffee orders at the same time. As soon as the publisher appeared, Jane took her leave, walked calmly to the door to the editorial area, and then ran frantically to Roscoe’s office.

  “Our new boss is here! John Applebaum! He’s got his staffers with him to look us over.”

  Roscoe wasn’t concerned. “Probably a bunch of bean counters here to check the books. They won’t be interested in the editorial operation.”

  “He said he’d be in to see us,” Jane warned.

  He shrugged. “Oh, he’ll look around and make a little speech about Editorial being the heart and soul of a newspaper. But believe me, it’s the business department he’s interested in. If he spends any time back here, it will be to count the paper clips.”

  He had barely finished when John Applebaum appeared in his doorway, dark jacket over dark open-collared shirt, which seemed to be the corporate uniform. For a moment Jane fantasized that the outfits might be rented by the week from a career clothes company.

  “Roscoe Taylor?” he asked, looking past Jane.

  Taylor ambled to his feet. “John Applebaum! Jane was just telling me that you might stop by.”

  “Stop by?” He seemed offended. “You’re the people I want to meet. Editorial is the heart and soul of this business.”

  Roscoe glanced at Jane. She labored to suppress her smile. Then she excused herself and left the men to their discussion. There was a lot of laughter between them, so she figured that Applebaum hadn’t brought dire news. She heard them ending their meeting with Applebaum complimenting Taylor on running a tight ship. Then, when she looked up, the new top gun in the chain was leaning into her office.

  “Good to see you again, Jane.”

  She got up to clear her guest chair.

  “No, don’t bother,” Applebaum told her. “I don’t have even a minute. But I did want to tell you what a fine job you did on your interview piece. We all thought you got us just about right. Bill was particularly pleased.”

  She blushed suitably and mumbled appreciative sounds.

  “He had to rush off to Mexico City,” he went on, “but he asked me to tell you how impressed he was. He’ll call you first chance he gets.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” she answered.

  Applebaum chuckled. “No, and it probably won’t happen. Bill’s schedule doesn’t give him any ‘first chance.’ But you should know he thought you did a great job, under difficult circumstances.”

  “Oh, the trip to Paris wasn’t that difficult—”

  He cut her off. “I think he was referring to the difficulty of writing an objective, in-your-face article about your boss. He encourages initiative and respects courage.” And then, his message delivered, he hurried back down the aisle to the business office.

  Roscoe replaced him the doorway. “Did he deliver the mantra?”

  “What mantra?” she asked.

  “That Bill Andrews ‘encourages initiative and respects courage.’ We’re supposed to recite it five times a day while lying prostrate and facing Wall Street.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought it was a personal compliment.”

  “No,” Roscoe answered. “It was a crock!”

  She laughed. “You don’t like him.”

  “Oh, I like him. He did his homework. He seems to know every place I ever worked and every story I ever wrote. He said that when they were evaluating the property, they all agreed that I was a key asset.”

  “That certainly was flattering.”

  “Flattering indeed,” Roscoe admitted. “But then in the next breath he wondered if we really needed to pay for three wire services. He was thinking of cutting the whole chain back to two.”

  “And you said …”

  “I said I’d probably stick with three even if the other editors thought they could get by on two. That was when he stopped telling jokes and taught me the corporate mantra.”

  Jane had to wonder. Was John Applebaum simply on a goodwill mission, bringing words of cheer to the whole organization? Had William Andrews really praised her story, or was that just part of Applebaum’s spiel? Roscoe seemed cynical, but all good reporters were cynical. So why did she believe that Andrews had taken the time to read her story? Or that he had promised to call her? Maybe it was all part of John Applebaum’s goodwill tour.

  Art was waiting for her in the apartment. His washing machine was leaking, and he had stopped by to run a few things through hers. Jane made a mental note to change the locks. If she didn’t, she would see more of her ex-husband than she had before he was ex.

  “I brought dinner,” he said. There were two containers of Chinese on the kitchen counter. “And there’s a pretty decent Chablis in your freezer. At least as decent as a four-dollar Chablis gets to be.” She took down plates and spooned out the chicken with pea pods and the shrimp rice. He attacked the wine and was disapp
ointed to find that it had a screw-on cap.

  “Art, do you remember the Andrews murder?” she asked, introducing a topic that was worrying her. “He and his wife were shot by a burglar, or something. It must have been seven or eight years ago.”

  He ran through his memory bank. “Yeah. Some nut broke in to their house and shot up the place. She was a big society lady, and he was the new kid on the block.” Then he wondered, “Did they ever get the guy? I forget what happened, but I don’t remember there being a trial or anything.”

  Jane didn’t think there had been. The intruder had escaped. The problem was that some people suspected that there had never been an intruder. There had been conjecture of a suicide, or some sort of dark secret that Andrews had covered up. She repeated her conversation with Jack Dollinger, but then added that people like to think the worst about the rich and famous.

  She went to her computer and began researching the news coverage of the crime while Art sat on the floor and sorted his laundry. They were separately involved when the phone rang. Jane took off an earring and answered. “Hello.”

  “J. J. Warren?”

  “Yeah …” She recognized the voice. “Yes it is.”

  “This is Bill Andrews. Am I interrupting anything?”

  She glanced at Art, who was rolling his socks. “No. Not at all.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I liked your story. It was a terrific piece of business reporting, informative and well balanced.”

  “I appreciate that. Thank you very much.” Art glanced up. He could tell by her tone that the call wasn’t as casual as she was pretending. He gave her his full attention.

  “You made me look a bit power-hungry and very aloof. I don’t see myself that way, but you may just be right. I’ll have to watch myself more carefully.”

  “Oh no, certainly not aloof,” she insisted. “Just… distracted.”

  There was an awkward pause. From his place on the floor, Art mouthed, “William Andrews,” with a wide-eyed look that made it a question. Jane responded with an excited nod while she tried to think of something to say. “I heard you were in Mexico City.” “I am. Just got back to my hotel room with half a dozen financial reports that I have to wade through. But before I got… distracted … I wanted to let you know that I read your piece and thought it was terrific.”