The First Wife

by Diana Diamond

  “What about the intruder who shot both of them?” Jane asked.

  “Intruders didn’t sell newspapers. We followed the ‘lover’ angles until we couldn’t find any lovers. When we finally fell back on the intruder, the police had declared his trail cold. We moved seamlessly from the carnally motivated murder to the pageantry of the funeral. The shots of William Andrews with his two kids looking over the flower-draped coffin was front page. Half our readers were torn with sympathy, and the other half thought that he was the killer.”

  Jane interrupted with a question. “There were people who thought that he had murdered his own wife?”

  “Sure, except no one could find the supposed mistress. I remember that private citizens were actually following him, hoping that he would lead them to the other woman. It was sort of comical, even at the time.”

  “What did you think?” Jane asked.

  Jack Dollinger shrugged. “I guess I decided that it might just as well have been an intruder. No one else turned up, and there was no other woman Andrews took up with.”

  “And the police? Did they have any ideas?”

  He shook his head, remembering the irony that surrounded the question. “There was only one police officer, a sergeant who also ran a gas station or something. All he knew was what Andrews had told him. When the state troopers got involved, the sergeant sort of vanished. And then the troopers couldn’t find anything. In the end, everyone was looking for an intruder. But his footprints were buried under a couple of feet of snow.”

  Jane stood up. “If you had to do another story about it, where would you start?”

  “I wouldn’t! Now that I work for William Andrews, digging up the dirt of his wife’s murder could put me out on the street.” Then he let his feet fall to the floor. “Why? Did Roscoe ask you to do some digging?”

  “No, just curious. I’ve met the man and I thought I’d like to know more about him.”

  John thought. “Well, there was a paper up in Albany that really took the lead. The Union, I think it was. But I don’t know whether it’s still in business.”

  “Thanks!” She repeated the name. “The Albany Union.” Jane dialed into its morgue and began entering keywords and dates. It took only a few minutes for her to come up with KAY PARKER SHOT TO DEATH.

  Prominent socialite Kay Parker was killed today by an intruder who entered her ski chalet in the Adirondacks in an apparent attempted robbery. Her husband, communications executive William Andrews, was also shot and was flown to Plattsburg Medical Center, where he is listed in stable condition.

  A family spokesman, Robert Leavitt, said that the murder occurred early this morning. Kay Parker left the second-floor bedroom and was confronted by an intruder in the kitchen on the first floor. William Andrews rushed down the stairs to his wife’s aid. Leavitt could not say whether Mr. Andrews had been shot separately, or had been hit by the same shotgun blast that killed his wife. Andrews was unable to provide any description of the shooter.

  Sergeant Peter Davis of Mountain Ridge said Mr. Leavitt, who was staying at an inn near the town, summoned him to the scene. Apparently Andrews, despite his wounds, was able to telephone Leavitt. Leavitt, who is a vice president of the communications company owned by Andrews, went to the house and then phoned the sheriff. Davis said that he had organized a search party to cover the countryside surrounding the crime scene. Poor visibility and falling snow are hampering the search, he said, and there are no leads yet.

  That was the substance to the first account of the crime. The story continued with a profile of Kay’s life in New York society that ran another two columns. There was also a two-paragraph biography on William, naming the communications companies and stations that he had acquired in the previous six months. The paper’s late edition carried a stock photo of Kay at a charity ball, as well as a brief sidebar indicating that William Andrews was now listed as being in satisfactory condition.

  Jane went to the next morning’s New York papers. The Times carried the intro in the lower left corner of the front page, and then the full story on page six of its news section. There was a map of the Adirondacks with a blowup of the Mountain Ridge area and a locator for the chalet. Pictures showed the chalet, smiling portraits of Kay and William, and a photo of two of the posse members in snow-encrusted ski clothing, sipping coffee. The article described Mountain Ridge as a crossroads town with a population of less than fifty that existed as a general store for the surrounding seasonal homes. Sergeant Davis, it mentioned, also owned the gasoline station.

  “The town is ill-equipped to investigate the killing or to manage the interests of such a high-profile crime,” the reporter allowed, quoting several leading citizens. “State police have taken over the investigation.”

  The Daily News ran the headline SOCIALITE SNUFFED. The story added nothing to the details of the crime but gave lavish coverage to Kay Parker’s life in the limelight. William Andrews may have been the intended victim, the reporter speculated. His aggressive business style had made him many enemies.

  The Post, where Jack Dollinger was working at the time, had highlighted the lurid. Under a subtitle VICTIM DECAPITATED, it informed its readers that Kay Parker had been hit in the face at point-blank range by a shotgun blast that carried away her head. It also hinted that the notion of an intruder was “highly suspect” and wondered why William Andrews called a business associate instead of calling either the police or a doctor.

  Jane backed away from the images on her monitor. Even after all these years, the details of Kay’s death were tough to take. It was easy to appreciate why William’s initial actions were frantic and lacked judgment. Impossible to appreciate was the impact that such gory details must have had on the children. No wonder they seemed hostile. She wandered off to get herself a cup of coffee and ran into Roscoe Taylor at the vending machine.

  “How was your weekend?” he asked.

  “Very nice,” she said, but then she guessed that he already knew many of the details. So she added, “I was out at Andrews’s horse farm in New Jersey. It’s a lovely place, but I could do without the horses.”

  He stirred sugar into his paper cup. “You and our new boss seem to be hitting it off rather well.”

  “His kids were there,” she rushed to point out, “along with his groundskeeper and house manager. They had planned a very full schedule with a lot of it on horseback. So I’ll be standing up most of the time during the next few days.”

  “Jack said you were interested in the murder of his first wife. Are you planning on writing a book?”

  “Just curious,” she said, dismissing the topic lightly. She decided not to share any more confidences with Jack Dollinger. When she got back to her desk, she escaped from the old newspaper files and clicked onto the financial markets. It was time for J. J. Warren to get back to work.

  Art was waiting in front of her apartment when she got home at the end of the day, supposedly to reassure her that he hadn’t been at her computer going through her records. “I swear, Jane, it wasn’t me,” he told her in the elevator with puppy-dog sincerity. “And anyway, I never would have hidden and sneaked out when you weren’t looking.”

  “Well, someone was here,” she said as she opened the apartment door. “Someone who knew I was out for the evening.”

  He shrugged. “Not me! Honest to God!”

  But his real reason for being there became immediately obvious. “So how was the weekend?” His leer told her that he was hoping for salacious details.

  “I fell off one of his damn horses.” She busied herself with dinner, taking down a big pot to cook the spaghetti. Art began setting the table for two. Jane let him continue.

  “Actually, the horse bolted. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck.”

  “Got any wine?” He was nosing around in the cabinet where they used to keep their liquor.

  “Next shelf. In the back,” Jane answered.

  He pulled out a jug. “This?” he asked disdainfully. “This stuff has be
en aged in the truck. Didn’t I teach you anything about wine?”

  “Only that we couldn’t afford it,” she said. She lit the gas under the water. Art set two glasses on the counter and poured from the jug into each. He tasted his own and reacted with horror but settled into a kitchen chair and took another sip.

  “So you fell off a horse. Did Big Bill gather you in his arms and carry you to his bedroom?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did.”

  His eyes widened. “To bed?”

  “Even better! To his Jacuzzi.”

  “No shit? You and the television mogul were together in his hot tub?”

  The phone rang. She lifted the handset from the wall mount, said hello, and then smiled pleasantly. “Give me just a second,” she said. “I want to get to a different phone.” She covered the mouthpiece and snarled at her former husband. “I want to hear you hang this up as soon as I’m on the other phone.”

  “It’s him, isn’t it? Your bathing partner?”

  “Just hang it up and make sure the water doesn’t boil over.” She set down the phone and went to her bedroom. The instant she was back on the line, she heard Art curse and the handset rattle to the floor. Only after another indecipherable mumble did the kitchen phone click off.

  “Who was that?” Andrews said, making no effort to hide his alarm.

  “My ex,” Jane said. “He’s probably looking for something that he left behind. Sounds as if he can’t find it.”

  He was in Vienna, just back from a dinner meeting. He had been thinking about her all the way across the Atlantic and throughout his day in Europe, and there was something that he had discovered. Something, he said, that he hadn’t mentioned before. “I love you very much.”

  Her heart misfired. There was an awkward pause when she knew she was supposed to say that she loved him, too. But she let the moment pass.

  “So I’m cutting my meetings short. There’s something I have to do in Paris first thing in the morning, and after that I’ll be heading back. Can we get together for a drink or something?”

  “You’ll be exhausted,” she warned.

  “I’ll catch a nap on the plane.” Then he added, “Please. I really miss you.”

  She agreed and he promised to pick her up at her apartment.

  “It was an accident,” Art said as soon as she stepped back into the kitchen. “I reached for the phone and burned my hand on the damn stove. When I jumped, I knocked the phone onto the floor. Look!” He thrust his burned hand in front of her eyes. “You can see the mark.”

  Jane didn’t look closely. “Better put some butter on it,” she advised. She began breaking the pasta into the boiling water.

  Art crept up next to her. “You’re not mad?” he asked.

  “Why would I be mad? It wasn’t my hand.”

  He stepped around her so that they were face-to-face. “What happened?”

  “Bill Andrews just told me that he loved me.”

  Art kept prodding all through their dinner, but Jane seemed to have gone off to another world. No matter how indiscreet the questions, she refused to be rattled. Yes, she had met his children. No, they weren’t particularly friendly. Yes, it was quite an estate, but no, she hadn’t an inkling as to how many acres. Yes, she had been in his hot tub. No, he hadn’t been in with her. They were putting the dishes into the washer when he asked the question that she knew was coming. “So, did you have sex with him?”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit personal?”

  “It’s a fair question. You spent the weekend with the guy and then he tells you he loves you. You must have done something to pique his interest.”

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” she said.

  “Then you did get laid!”

  “You can think whatever you want.”

  “I think you gave him the time of his life. I always said you were great in bed.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “Wrong? Hey, I remember you between the sheets. I bet he never had it so good.”

  “You’re wrong about us having sex. He was a perfect gentleman.”

  Art didn’t listen. “You know, just thinking about it gets me jealous. That was the one thing you were great at, and I don’t like the idea of him getting what I’m not getting….”

  “Art! Read my lips. Bill and I didn’t sleep together. The only reason I was in his Jacuzzi was that I was sore from the fall. He didn’t even stay in the room.”

  He screwed the cap back onto the jug and put it into the cabinet. “Do you ever think about our getting back together?”

  “Who?”

  “You and me!”

  “Never! Not once.”

  “I was happy living here with you,” he admitted.

  “You’re still living here,” Jane said. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be rid of you. But I don’t want you here tomorrow. He’s picking me up for a drink, and I don’t want you here either before or after.”

  Art smiled. “So, tomorrow is going to be the big night!”

  “Whatever it is, I’m hoping you won’t be part of it. Even if you think you might have lost a disk or a notebook or left your pen on my coffee table. Understood?”

  “Sure! Of course!” Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “I wonder if he has any interest in the theater.”

  “Art, don’t you dare.”

  “Don’t dare what? I was just wondering. Lots of business tycoons get into the arts just to show their human side. He might really enjoy getting into Broadway….”

  Jane’s fists clenched. “I swear, if you bring your plays over for him to read …”

  “For God’s sake, Jane, give me some credit. I just thought that if he was looking to get involved, producing a Broadway play or even off-Broadway…”

  “No! Don’t even think about it.”

  He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Okay, okay. But if he should happen to mention it…”

  “He won’t,” Jane promised, and led her former husband to the front door.

  Then she remembered Bill’s telephone call. He loved her. He was cutting short his business trip so that he could be with her. That changed everything. He was tall, handsome, dynamic, considerate, filthy rich, and he loved her. So maybe she should be answering the question of whether she loved him. Or at least whether she thought she might fall in love with him. Because tomorrow just might be the biggest night of her life, and she ought to be ready with the answers to all the important questions.

  14

  Robert Leavitt phoned her office to say that Andrews had called in from over the Atlantic. He was touching down at three and hoped to see her at seven-thirty. If there was any problem, would she please call his office. There was no problem. Seven-thirty was fine. All she had to work out was how she was going to handle a marriage proposal.

  “Bill, you’re in another world. You’re important, financial, and global. I’m nine-to-five. You’re a public figure. I cherish my privacy. Basically, I like my life the way it is. Let me stay where I’m comfortable. I’ll always enjoy seeing you and spending time with you. But I’m not sure I’d ever be happy living your life.” That was one possible answer. Honest, flattering, definite. Surely he would see how un-suited they were for each other.

  Or “Bill, I’m not the person you need. You should have someone like Kay, competent at managing your affairs, comfortable among world leaders and business tycoons, at home in high society. I’m a reporter for a suburban paper. I’m comfortable with the local Rotarians, and I’m at home eating pizza in my pajamas.” All true, even if it did downplay her abilities and ambition. Jane could learn to handle Kay’s multiple roles, and with the right patron she could certainly move up to a major-city daily. But it was a considerate refusal in that it placed the blame on her inadequacies.

  Or “As you know, I’ve just come out of a relationship where neither of us met the other’s needs. What you can’t know is just how shattering the divorce was to my confidence. I’
m not ready to try again. Couldn’t we just be friends for a while?” She didn’t like this line, because she thought she had met every one of Art’s needs, from praising his plays to picking up his socks. But it was easy on Andrews because it put all the blame on her and yet left open the possibility of her future rehabilitation.

  Jane wore the basic black she had picked up in Paris but dressed it up with different jewelry. She spent most of her time on her makeup and hairdo, and then began wondering why she was so concerned about her appearance if she intended to say no. Better she should costume herself as an old hag. That way, he might not even ask the question.

  Her buzzer sounded at exactly seven-thirty, and she lifted the intercom expecting to talk with the driver. She was stunned when she heard William’s voice. “Hi! I had to drive like a maniac, but I’m here. Can you spare a drink for a weary traveler before we head out to dinner?”

  “Sure!” She pushed the button, then looked around at an apartment that wasn’t ready for company. She ran to close her bedroom door, pausing at the bathroom for the few seconds it took to put her toothpaste into the medicine cabinet and hang a fresh towel on the towel bar. She went back through the kitchen and fired her breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. Then into the living room, where she reassembled the morning paper and straightened the sofa cushions. She was about to clean up the mess around the computer when the doorbell rang. “Time’s up!” she said to herself. She stood to her full height, straightened her dress, and made for the door. She opened it onto a large bouquet of roses with William Andrews peering through the petals.

  “I already threw away my cell phone,” he announced. “I thought these might be a better way to present myself.” He handed her the flowers and followed her into the kitchen, where she found a tall vase.