Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5) Read online

  Oh, it's good. So good. So very, very good.

  I can't move. But I have to because Spencer is laughing qui­etly, saying something about the fact his legs are either broken or asleep, and so I have to move and I finally just fall back on the carpet and say, "Ah!"

  Scotty comes over to sniff around a little.

  Suddenly he barks and charges for the front door.

  "Oh, my God!" I whisper, sitting up. Someone's driven up. Scotty is barking his head off, jumping up on the window to look outside. I leap up and scurry to the window, wearing only my top. "Oh, my God—it's Doug! Get into the bedroom!"

  "I can't walk!" Spencer gasps, trying to stand. "I told you, my legs are asleep."

  "Go into the bathroom!"

  He staggers over and crashes against the wall. I grab his shorts and my underpants and throw them into the bedroom, where Spencer is trying to stagger. I push him into the bedroom and tell him to turn on the shower.

  Doug, thank God, knocks on the front door instead of just coming in like he usually does. But then I hear the living room door open. "Hey, Scotty boy," I hear him say.

  I have grabbed a blue-jeans skirt and slipped it on. I poke my head out the bedroom door. "Doug? Can you take Scotty out? I just got back and he needs to go out!"

  "We'll be outside!" Doug calls.

  I wonder, panicked, if Doug got far enough into the living room to smell the sex in the air. Good grief, semen is running down my leg as I'm standing here. I go into the bathroom, where Spencer is standing near the shower. "It can't be your boyfriend," he whispers.

  "Oh, yes it can," I say, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it and proceeding to pull up my skirt to wipe myself off. So lady­like. Right. I rinse it out and then do my legs.

  "Someday this will be funny," he says, kissing me on the cheek and climbing into the shower.

  There is nothing funny about this, I think, yanking a brush through my hair. I drink some Listerine and then swallow it by mistake; I'm such a wreck. I put on some mascara and dash out and through the kitchen out the back door. "Doug?" I call, com­ing down the steps.

  "Hi," he says, coming around the house. "Who's here?"

  "A friend from Kent," I say. "He went hiking on the farm and he's taking a shower." The Listerine is burning down into my stomach.

  Doug stops walking and gets this horrible stricken look on his face. "It's him, isn't it?"

  "Who?"

  "Whoever you met in New York. He's here, isn't he?" He lurches off around the house and I go after him. Doug is stand­ing at the front corner of the house, resting his hand on the stone, looking at the ground as though he is about to be sick. "I can't believe you'd do this to me. I thought we were going to talk things out." He hits the stone, saying, "Goddamn it!" and strides to his car.

  "Doug," I say, "he just stopped in on his way back to New York. It's not like he was staying here or anything."

  "Staying here?" He clutches his head and takes two steps be­fore wheeling round. "Just what have you done with this guy?"

  "He just stopped in; I didn't know you were coming over."

  "Does he even know I exist?" he yells at the house. "Does he know you were about to get engaged to me?"

  "Yes."

  "Is he sleeping with you already?" he yells. "Goddamn it, Sally!" he cries, and he smashes the hood of the Volvo with his fists, leaving a dent. Then he yanks the door open, gets in and starts the car. I want to say something, but I don't know what. He guns the motor and lays a patch, backing up. He doesn't even look at me as he floors it, dirt and gravel flying as the Volvo swerves out.

  When the car disappears around the bend, Spencer opens the front door. He is wearing his shorts and T-shirt and sneakers and comes down the stairs. "I can go after him and explain."

  I am crying. "Explain what?"

  "Whatever you want me to," Spencer says. "If you want him back, Sally, I'll tell him nothing happened. I'll tell him whatever you want me to say."

  I look at him, sniffing, wiping my eyes.

  "But I hope you don't want him back. That you'll let him go."

  I hold my face in my hands, trying to think.

  "Give us a try. Sally, please. Trust me. I know there is some­thing quite wonderful here, something between us that I have every reason to believe is different from anything you and I have ever experienced."

  My head still down, I turn to Spencer and he puts his arms around me. I hide my face in his shoulder. He kisses the side of my head.

  26

  Spencer stayed the night.

  Considering all that had transpired, I slept amazingly well. So did he. I am up early, just after six, to fix him a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee before he drives into the city. He is at the front door, saying goodbye, when he looks at his watch, shakes his head and says, "Can't we sit and talk a while? You could show me something—like a photo album or an old report card or something. Or we could go outside and take pictures of Scotty, or go for a walk and pick flowers, or sing songs or some­thing. We could go over to the gas station and sing hymns with Bernice!"

  I laugh, shaking my head. "Darling, you have to go."

  Five days and I'm calling him darling.

  Reluctantly, he agrees and I wave goodbye as he pulls out.

  Scotty and I go for a run in the fields. It is a beautiful morn­ing.

  I feel badly for Doug, but I also can't help but feel that in a way it was good the way things transpired. If nothing else, it bore no resemblance to how we've broken up before. And dif­ferent is better, isn't it?

  Of course I'm the one who feels that way because I have met someone wonderful.

  Chi Chi calls, promising a major interview for me today, al­though she says I may live to regret it. It is with Cassy's mother, Catherine Littlefield, age seventy-one. Chi Chi says Catherine would die before seeing me in person. So we're doing a phoner.

  Mrs. Littlefield answers the phone in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and already I think she sounds like a bitch. Truly. There is something in the pitch of her voice that feels, well, hateful. Spiteful? Well, unhappy for sure. Or maybe she's just irritable, I think, trying desperately to cut the lady some slack; it could be she is nervous or hates talking on the telephone.

  I introduce myself and thank her for making time to speak to me. "I'll give you some time—I told that Spanish woman. I'm very busy."

  "Yes, I understand that and I appreciate your cooperation."

  "That woman said you wanted to fly out here," she says. "Told her no! Waste of time, waste of money, the phone is the lesser of two evils, I suppose. Why on earth are you writing about Catherine? Because of the rich second husband, I sup­pose."

  If I play my cards right, I suspect Mrs. Littlefield can conduct both sides of the interview by herself. Interesting that she calls Cassy Catherine. And it's almost even morbidly fascinating that she named her only child after herself.

  "I'm writing about your daughter's incredible success," I say. "Things have changed a great deal in recent decades, but Mrs. Littlefield, your daughter is one of the few women who has genuinely reached the top of their profession."

  "I've never read your magazine" is her response. "I don't waste my time."

  I start to explain my status, that I'm a freelancer on leave from a local paper, but I sense there is little use—I'd be wasting her time!

  "Well, let's begin, shall we? I should tell you, Mrs. Littlefield, that I am going to record this conversation, on a tape recorder, so that I can make sure any quotes I might use are absolutely correct."

  She snorts.

  I've got to win her over on something. "Mrs. Littlefield, Cassy has told me what an enormous influence you have been on her life. She's told me about how you supported the whole family, how you raised her, helped her get to college—“

  "Did she tell you her father was a drunken bum? And that the first thing Catherine did after leaving home was to go and find another one?"

  "Uh, not in those exact words," I say.

  To
my surprise, Mrs. Littlefield cracks up. She sounds like a witch. "No, I'm sure she didn't!" she cackles. "Catherine's al­ways had a soft touch when it comes to making excuses for the men in her life."

  That's actually not a bad line and I make a note of it on my pad.

  I ask her to tell me about Cassy as a child and when she does, it is painful to listen to. What I hear is a woman who is obvi­ously proud of her daughter, but who also harbors bitter jeal­ousy over the attention her daughter always drew. I can easily see how this woman browbeat her only child, how she con­stantly belittled Cassy in an attempt to neutralize the attention Cassy got for being so beautiful, so smart and, evidently, so good. (If this woman, Mrs. Littlefield, had been my mother, I would have killed myself.)

  The most interesting thing about this interview, I find, is what Mrs. Littlefield doesn't tell me, things that Chi Chi men­tioned this morning—that Mrs. Littlefield has always refused to come East, even for a visit, and that Cassy has always gone there to see her; that Cassy built her a house; that Cassy has been sending her money ever since she got her first big pro­motion twenty years ago. Mrs. Littlefield also does not mention that she was arrested two years ago for trying to run down her neighbor with her car.

  But there is one fact Mrs. Littlefield does see fit to mention to the national press. "I don't suppose Catherine told you I was carrying her before I was married."

  Oh, boy. Poor Cassy. "Uh, no," I say.

  She sighs. "He got me liquored up at a church dance, don't you know. Next thing I knew... So there I am with a baby I didn't want and a drunk for a husband I certainly did not want."

  "But you stuck it out," I venture to say.

  "We took sacred vows." She tells me how hard she worked, how hard it was to save face with the husband she had, how hard it was to bring up Cassy and "watch her like a hawk, so she wouldn't take the path of her father."

  Or her mother, I think.

  This is the worst interview I have ever sat through. I hate this woman; I don't want to listen to her; I certainly don't want to quote her. But this is my job, right? To gather as much infor­mation as I can to develop a profile of Cassy Cochran? And, I suppose, to that end, this interview is extremely help­ful. If I don't start yelling at this bitch.

  "Make them use a picture of me when I was young," she sud­denly says. "Catherine knows which one. If you don't, I'll sue, I swear I will. You can't run pictures of me without my permis­sion."

  She's wrong, but I let it go. "You certainly are a very beautiful woman, Mrs. Littlefield."

  She makes a choking noise. "Oh, but you should have seen me in the day. I was the most beautiful girl in the county, everybody said so. I had gentlemen callers lined up all the way down the block and around the comer."

  "I'm not surprised."

  "It could have gone to my head, you know," she confides. "I was very lucky to have the mother I did. I didn't have airs, not like some people."

  "Do you think your daughter has airs?" I can't resist asking.

  "Catherine? She has the airs of a cat burglar, always sneaking around, poking her nose into everything."

  I introduce the subject of her grandson, Henry. "She named him after her father, can you believe it? We're lucky he wasn't born with a pint bottle in his mouth. Honestly, have you ever?"

  I can't take it. We talk a little bit more and then I thank her profusely.

  "Remember, Catherine knows the picture you can use!"

  I hang up the phone. "Oh, my," I say to Scotty.

  I pack my bags for New York and Mother calls to say she has found another last-minute deal for me through her cheapo­-hotel line. "Am I forgiven for Sunday?" she asks me.

  "Yes, of course," I respond, wondering what she would think of Sunday afternoon's little scene with Spencer and Doug. Then I am distracted by the telltale beep of my fax ma­chine and move over to see what's coming through. It's from Buddy D'Amico. I tell Mother I'll be dropping Scotty by and hang up.

  Sally, Scan this and call me, okay? Buddy

  I pick up the next sheet. It is a scratchy copy of a Castleford police report, dated the night of my father's death. The few lines of information are handwritten on the form.

  Responded 9:02 p.m. North wall Castleford High gym col­lapsed in floodwater. Found Dodge Harrington's body un­der debris. Confirmed dead. Officers Smith, Calve joined us. Sanderson's ambulance took body. Came back to sta­tion to tell chief. He went to tell family. Back on patrol 12:17 a.m. Flood continues.

  The next sheet is a coroner's report.

  Wilbur Kennett Harring­ton died from head wounds sustained in a building cave-in.

  I call Buddy and he immediately comes on the line. "Thanks," I tell him. "But it's not much, is it?"

  "No, it's not," he agrees. "I took a walk over to City Hall and they don't have much, either. One of the guys is going to look around for me. He said so many buildings came down and there was so much damage in the flood that no one had much time for paperwork."

  "Yeah. Well, thank you."

  "I'll let you know if we find anything else."

  "Thanks, Bud."

  I stick the papers in my briefcase to take with me to New York. I don't know why, but I want them with me.

  Strange.

  Well, it was my father and I frankly haven't had the courage to ask much about his death before.

  I drive over to Mother's and unload Scotty's stuff in the kitchen. I fill Scotty's water bowl and put it beside Abigail's on the floor. "Mother, why didn't you sue the city when Daddy died?"

  She looks utterly perplexed and puts the bottle of Windex that's in her hand down on the counter. "What an extraordi­nary thing to say, Sally."

  I shrug. "I don't think so."

  "But why on earth would I sue the city?"

  "Because a city building fell down on Daddy and killed him!"

  "Your father designed it," she says softly, pulling off her rubber gloves.

  "Are you saying the building fell down because Daddy de­signed it?"

  "Certainly not! But the city wasn't responsible for the flood­—it was an act of God. Why would I sue the city for something that was no fault of theirs?"

  The conversation has ended as far as Mother is concerned, but all I think of is how much easier our lives would have been had Mother gotten some money after Daddy's accident.

  I wonder if Mother is thinking back to when she took Rob and me into the gym after it was rebuilt? Every trace of any­thing that had killed Daddy was long gone, but she knew that every time we went into that gym, we would look at that wall, at that place where our father drew his last breath. So she took us, by the hand, to get us through it the first time.

  Poor Mother. I can see by her eyes this is painful to her. "I suppose you're right," I sigh, walking over to her. "Thanks for taking Scotty. And getting me the hotel room."

  She gives me a hug. "I love you," she says.

  "I love you, too."

  She holds me by the hands and looks at me. Then she shakes her head a little, laughs and releases me. "Go on. Go see your new beau." I start to protest but she waves me away. "Don't even try, baby. I know you too well. Go on. Have fun. Good luck." As I'm getting into the Jeep, Mother opens the front door. "And try to do some work!"

  My new last-minute hotel is a lovely one on Columbus Cir­cle, the Wyndham. I unpack my stuff and call Spencer's office. He is, his assistant tells me, tied up in a meeting. "Please leave me your number so he can call you," she says. "I know he wants to talk to you."

  I leave my number and proceed to organize my notes and materials for tomorrow's interviews. Spencer calls about an hour later and we agree on where to meet at seven for dinner. Now I'm humming, enjoying myself. At six-thirty I put on a lit­tle makeup, run a brush through my hair and go downstairs to walk up Broadway, through Lincoln Center and over to Co­lumbus Avenue to a little Italian place. I stand just inside the door and read a giveaway paper until Spencer arrives.

  "I brought you a present," he says, handi
ng me a two-foot ­long, strangely flexible, gift-wrapped package. "It's very ro­mantic," he adds as we are seated. "Go on, open it."

  "I can't imagine... " I say, tearing the paper. Then I laugh. It is a thickly braided pull rope to play tug-of-war with Scotty. I look at him and think, Am I lucky or what? "Thank you," I murmur, leaning over to kiss him. "We'll love it."

  We have a delicious dinner and Spencer tells me a little about his frustrating day. "We've got a writer who hates to write and an editor who doesn't know how to edit, so we've got a five­hundred-thousand-dollar book that reads like—I swear—the first draft of a high-school history paper."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "The only thing I can do—I've sent it to a professor friend at Columbia who is going to do a quick read and laundry list for me. You know, what's messed up factually, flag the footnotes that I swear make no sense, stuff like that, and then I'll sit down and go through the manuscript and write a long editorial letter to the author, telling him exactly what needs to be done."

  "If the editor's already released the money for a satisfactory manuscript," I say, "does the author have to do the work?"

  "Legally, no. Therein lay the problem. He thinks it's a mas­terpiece the way it is." He shakes his head, sighing, but then suddenly brightens. "My dad called today. I told him all about you."

  I smile.

  "He wants to meet you." Then he cocks his head slightly. "Have I explained to you about my mother? I mean, that she's my long-term stepmother, not my biological mother?"

  I shake my head. "No." "I didn't think so. Well, she is. See, my real mom died when I was twelve, of cancer."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Hmm, yes, thanks. Well, it was very sad. But my dad re­married the next year—I guess he felt like he had to, with my little sisters and all. Anyway, he married Trudy and I've called her 'Mom' ever since. She's been wonderful. And my little brother I've told you about, Sam, he's really my stepbrother."

  As Spencer continues talking about his family, our over­whelming pull toward each other is starting to make more sense to me. It's a difficult thing to explain to people who did not lose a parent when they were little. To put it simply, a sense of loss becomes a defining factor in your character. I learned early that the storybooks lied, the world offers no protection; one day I had my big strong dad, who took care of me, and the next day I didn't. He was gone forever. It's not as dramatic as all that, except that I have become increasingly aware—certainly of late—of how the absence of my father has quietly dictated a great deal in my life.