Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery

by Tatiana Boncompagni

  He half-smiled. “I can tell why you’re good at your job.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please, Dad.”

  He clasped his hands together under the table, straightening his posture against the hard back of his chair. “Yes, in the beginning. I think she hoped I wouldn’t put two and two together.”

  “Why didn’t you leave her? She tried to trap you.”

  The corners of my father’s mouth sagged. “It was no trap. I was in love. Your mother told me she had no contact with the man who had gotten her pregnant. It was a short-lived affair.”

  I balked, angry at him for not being more upset with my mother. But this is how it had always been between us—him defending her, her “choice” to take her life, while I’d condemn her as a selfish coward. “Fair enough,” I finally said. “But my understanding was that it wasn’t a passing fancy. Mom wanted him to leave his wife.”

  He shrugged. He didn’t care.

  “She never told you it was Charles Kravis who had gotten her pregnant?”

  “I’m sure she would have if I asked. I didn’t want to know.”

  “But you did find out.”

  “Several years later. After your mother had died and you’d gone to stay with Olivia on Nantucket. Charles figured it out, and I was terrified he was going to take you away from me.”

  “Charles told me he offered to give you money.”

  “Through his lawyers, yes. I said no thank you, through mine, and that was the last we heard from him.” He rapped the grained surface of the table with his knuckles. “Listen kiddo, are you mad at me for not accepting his help?”

  “No. That’s not it. I just wish you’d been honest with me.”

  “Long ago your mother and I decided to leave the past where it was. You were—and are—as much mine as any child could be. So what if you didn’t share my DNA? That didn’t matter to me. And in the eyes of the law, I was your father. My name was on your birth certificate.”

  I reflexively touched the bandage on my head. It still hurt, as did my hands and ribs. “I’m sorry, Dad, but I still think I had the right to know.”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied calmly. “Of course you did. But at first you were too young, and then, once your mother passed, there were other considerations. You’d already lost one parent, I didn’t want you to feel like you’d lost another.” He got up to arrange the cheese platter. “You were all that I had left in the world once your mother left us. What if knowing the truth made you want to leave? What if you wanted to go live with your grandparents?”

  “I barely knew them. The last time I saw them was at mom’s funeral. Why would I have wanted to go live with them?”

  He shook his head. “It was my biggest fear, losing you. I didn’t want to take any chances.”

  I sighed. “I forgive you. But it’s harder to forgive Mom. She lied to Charles and told him I was going to be aborted, and then she lied to you and to me, and then she killed herself, leaving all of us to clean up her mess. If she’d been honest from the start, Olivia wouldn’t have died trying to make right her wrong.”

  My dad was quiet for a long time. I’d gone through an angry period in my teens and after college and whenever we fought—about grades, boys, curfews, and later my drinking and spending habits—we’d always end up here: Me, furious with my mother, blaming her for everything; and my father, furious with me for invoking her name with such hostility and disrespect. After a while, we just stopped talking about her and everything wrong I was doing with my life.

  “I’m sure Charlotte had her reasons,” my father finally said. “We all do.”

  I’d hoped to find peace in the truth, but all I felt at that moment was the heaviness of my father’s sorrow and the same low-grade anxiety that had followed me my entire life. I beat my fist against the table in frustration, startling Milton. “Let’s just talk about it once and for all, Dad. Will you just put all the cards on the table? Why did Mom kill herself? Was it because of me? Did she regret having me? The life she had to choose for my benefit?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then was it you? Was she unhappy in your marriage? Did she hate you?”

  He jolted back, wounded.

  I should have apologized, but I didn’t want to.

  “What your mother wanted was a way out of her life,” Dad said. “Not the one she built with me, but the one she wanted me to save her from. If she were here today, I believe she would tell you that.”

  I regarded him with skepticism. “What did she need saving from? Boring cocktail parties, bossy housekeepers?”

  “Her family,” he said, his chin jutting out an inch. “They were not kind people.”

  I snorted, still skeptical. I don’t remember much about my grandparents other than what my father had told me about them over the years, which was never positive, and the few photos of them in one of our family albums. I didn’t even know if they were dead or alive. “That’s an awfully vague statement, Dad.”

  “Your grandfather wanted a divorce, but your grandmother wouldn’t give him one. They had a terrible marriage. Your grandmother became a very angry woman. She was abusive to your mother. Mostly verbal but there were a few physical incidents as well.”

  All this time I’d thought my mother was unhappy with her life with us, the smallness of it. I thought she’d killed herself because she couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Before your mother died, she was in therapy,” Dad continued. “Working through the past, coming to terms with what she had seen and survived. I thought she was making progress. So did the psychologist. We were going to try and have another child, a sibling for you. The doctor decided to adjust her medication, actually, to decrease it. But your mother did not respond well. The way she died, Clyde, that wasn’t Charlotte. She was a very private woman. She wouldn’t have done it like that, for everyone to see. That’s how I knew she wasn’t thinking straight.” His shoulders slumped. “She wanted to get better. And she loved you more than anything. She believed you saved her. Once you arrived, she had a reason to live.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me this about her?”

  “She made me promise not to. She didn’t want this to be your legacy.”

  “But she gave me her name. Why would she make me a Shaw if she didn’t want any part of her family?”

  “There was a gift.”

  “Financial?” I asked.

  He nodded. “They agreed to create a trust for your education. We didn’t want to deny you that opportunity. And, personally, I didn’t care what your last name was.”

  “If I’d been truly yours, would you have felt differently?”

  “You are mine.” He reached his hand across the table. “You have the right to be upset and confused by all of this. But if I had to do it all over again, I would.”

  I ended up needing that winter coat.

  I stayed with Dad for almost three months. I watched late fall turn to deep winter, filling my time reading novels, cuddling with Milton, and watching football with Dad. I shoveled snow, drank hot chocolate, and spent a lot of time doing the things I thought would make me feel better—journaling, meditating, and taking yoga classes. None of it really worked, but I got a hell of a lot stronger. My head healed. My hands, wrist, and ribs were as good as new. But I was never going to be normal again. For one, I was rich.

  Charles Kravis died in December, a month after I met with him, leaving me an obscene amount of money, about $250 million after taxes. The rest of his fortune was divided between his foundation, other charities, his wife, and Delphine’s two children. My money was in probate, and would be for a while, so I didn’t actually get to go crazy spending it on new stuff, but Dad and I talked a bit about how I was going to use it, and what I was going to do with my life now that I didn’t have to work.

  “Don’t let this define you,” Dad had said one night to me as we were sitting by the fire, reading the papers. It wasn’t clear what he’d meant by this—the money, my mother’s suic
ide, or the murders—but he was right.

  “I just don’t know what to do,” I said.

  “That’s the beauty of it. You can do anything.”

  I said nothing. I should have felt liberated, but the money made me uncomfortable. I hadn’t earned it; I’d barely known the man who’d given it to me. And I believed the real reason Charles had left it to me was because he felt guilty—not just about what had happened with Delphine, but for abandoning my mother in her time of need.

  My father got up to add a log to the fire. “It’s an incredible luxury to be able to think about what would make you most happy. If the money does anything for you, let it do that.”

  “That’s just it, Dad.” I tossed the magazine I’d been reading back on the coffee table. “I don’t know what makes me happy. Besides work.” I missed the camaraderie, the adrenaline, the race to find sources, the hunt for the truth.

  “Then go back to work.”

  He was right. Lying around was doing me no good. I couldn’t sleep at night, I was avoiding talking to my old friends and colleagues, and despite my hours on the yoga mat, I still felt unsettled. I may have finally found out the truth, but that didn’t mean I’d made my peace with it. “Do you think I should give the money away?”

  Dad considered my question. He’d already refused my offers to buy him a new house or a new truck. He wouldn’t even let me take him on an around-the-world vacation once I got my money. “I think you shouldn’t do anything until you’re sure about it,” he said.

  The next morning I opened my laptop and started dealing with everything I’d put on hold since I’d left Manhattan, namely my job situation. The incident had turned me into a minor celebrity and done more for my career than any of the awards or scoops I’d landed in my tenure at FirstNews. I’d fielded dozens of job offers, plus a couple of offers from major publishing houses to write a memoir about my ordeal. I’d turned the book deals down flat, but I hadn’t said no to some of the jobs, the most surprising of which came from GSBC News. Of all people, they wanted to team me up with Penny Harlich.

  The network president, a woman by the name of Janine Saltz, claimed it was all Penny’s idea, before admitting that within the network there were concerns Penny wasn’t being taken seriously enough by her audience. “We think you can help,” she said before offering me a 30 percent bump in salary, a sizable signing bonus, matching 401K plan, and all sorts of other benefits I’d only dreamed of in the past. I’d told Janine I needed a few weeks to think it over. Considering the circumstances, she said she was happy to give me time to mull over my response.

  Soon after that, Alex called. He was a star now—FirstNews’ biggest draw, second only to Georgia Jacobs, who had been pulling in record ratings every night since the Kravis scandal. Alex had offered to come to visit me in Hudson, but I had some things to do in the city anyway, and agreed to meet him for lunch at Michael’s.

  The restaurant was Alex’s choice, a favorite Midtown cantina of media-industry heavyweights. The fare was good, but the people-watching was unparalleled, particularly on that sunny day in late winter. Sarah Palin with her literary agent; Keith Richards with his. Michael, the restaurant’s namesake proprietor, greeted Alex by name at the door and personally escorted us to our table within spitting distance of George Stephanopoulos and the executive producer of Good Morning America. They nodded their hellos as we took our seats.

  Our waiter arrived tableside, unfurling one of the restaurant’s heavy, oversize white napkins in my lap. I ordered an iced tea and the burger, while Alex opted for the dayboat scallops and a Perrier.

  “So how have you been?” I asked after the waiter left.

  “Good.” He planted his elbows on the table. “The network green-lit my show.”

  I’d heard and I was genuinely happy for him. “Congratulations. You deserve it.”

  I raised my glass of iced tea and clinked it against his over the small floral centerpiece. “To your success.”

  He took a sip of his water and placed it back on the table. “When I signed the deal, I told Diskin I had two conditions. One, I wanted to move back to D.C. and two, I wanted you as my executive producer. I can’t do this show without you, Clyde.”

  I was speechless. I hadn’t been expecting this. Finally I said, “Washington, huh?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “You’re gonna love it there. Wait till you see what kind of apartment you can rent.”

  “How does Diskin feel about me coming back on board?”

  “He said you would have been his first choice.”

  I cocked my head. “C’mon. Tell me what he really said.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “I’m telling you, he’s all for it. The network is prepared to offer you a big package.”

  I smiled to myself. Little did Alex know that Georgia was also hounding me to come back to work for her. Not a day went by that I didn’t receive an email or voice-message from her. I missed her, but I couldn’t fathom going back to doing what I’d done before Olivia died.

  “It’s a tempting offer,” I acknowledged.

  Alex could read my ambivalence. “But?”

  “I’m still sorting some things out.”

  “Where are your things?”

  He’d misread my meaning, but I humored him anyway. “In a storage unit upstate.” My dad and I had driven down in a U-Haul one morning in early December, a few weeks after I realized it was going to take me more than a few days to be ready to face city life again. We salvaged what we could, put the rest in trash bags, and left my key with the super.

  “I won’t need you to start for another few weeks,” Alex said. “That’ll give you plenty of time to move.”

  I sat back in my chair, took another sip of the iced tea. “I’ve got other offers on the table.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice before adding, “Whatever they’re offering, we’ll give you more.”

  A server deposited our entrées. Alex picked up his knife and fork and sliced into one of his scallops. “Anything new from the Kravis case?”

  I shook my head. As grateful as I was to Alex for saving my life, the case was personal to me. I could no longer discuss it like it was just another news story. Besides, I didn’t want anyone finding out about my inheritance. Talking openly about the millions Charles had left for me would have invited more intrusive questions about my private life and past. I wanted to get back into the news business, but I was done being the day’s lead story.

  “Your turn,” I said, picking up my burger. “What’s new at the network?”

  He set down his utensils. “Well, Charles Kravis died, as you know. And the sale went through, as I’m sure you also know. FirstNews is now officially part of Maldone Enterprises. The stock is on the rise. Ratings are good. But they could be better, which is where I come in… and you. What’s holding you back, Shaw? I thought this is what you wanted.” His brown eyes regarded me intently.

  I balked. “You’re actually surprised I might be a bit hesitant to go back to work for the network that unceremoniously canned my ass not four months ago?”

  Alex picked up his silverware again. “Back to prickly so soon? You must be feeling better.”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “I am.”

  We glared at each other across the table.

  Finally Alex sighed. “Look, I invited you here to offer you a job. Say the word; you’re on the team. No, more than that. You’re the head of the team.”

  There was no question I’d be smart to take the executive-producer job. The network was fully invested in the success of his show, and Alex had the natural charisma and smarts it took to make it for the long haul. The money would be good, too, not that I needed to worry about my finances, but it was a measure of my value to the network, and I still wanted that, as well as the respect of my peers. With this job, I could finally get to call some shots, make great TV, and maybe get nominated for an Emmy. Truth be told, even moving to another city
appealed to me. I could use a fresh start, a real honest-to-goodness chance to start over.

  But then there was the fact that I was attracted to Alex, an attraction I was slowly and unhappily realizing had only intensified in the months we’d spent apart. He’d visited me in the hospital, sent flowers to me upstate. He’d said he wanted to see me again, as soon as possible, but before that week I hadn’t been ready. Every time I thought of him, my stomach felt like it was pulling taffy.

  I could close my eyes and imagine him standing next to me at his stove, the heat radiating from his body, his breath on my neck. I could picture his eyes, those warm brown eyes, as he promised not to let me go, my body dangling eleven stories above the sidewalk. And I could feel his lips against mine, soft and warm, the kiss that promised everything I yearned for—companionship, passion, love. Working with Alex in such close proximity would be torture. I had a million good reasons to want to be his executive producer and only one not to be. But that one was enough. I’d fallen for him—hard, which meant that taking a job with him wasn’t just a business decision. Not when my heart was involved.

  “How’s Sabine?” I asked, my posture stiffening.

  “She still feels terrible. She really had no idea Delphine was the killer.”

  He’d said it without saying it: They were still together. I’d had a feeling they were, but until that moment I’d allowed a part of myself to fantasize that Alex had realized how he felt about me and broken things off with her. But that hadn’t happened. In my confused and medicated state, had I read something in his kiss that wasn’t there?

  “I know she didn’t mean to put me in danger,” I said quietly. As envious as I was of Sabine, what happened wasn’t her fault, and I didn’t hold her accountable.

  Alex finished his scallops. “She’d love to apologize to you in person. And it would mean a lot to me, personally, if you would let her do that.”

  “I’ll call her,” I said, meaning it. I took the last sip of my iced tea. Beyond our table, a quartet of bone-thin socialites was being seated, all of them trying to catch Alex’s eye, all of them wearing door-knocker-size diamond rings. I crooked my thumb in their direction. “Your new fan club.”