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

  "And whose idea was it to promote Cassy to president of the network?"

  "Langley's. Of course, we made her executive producer of both the newscast and Jessica's show."

  "And whose idea was that?"

  "Langley's." He thinks a moment, eyes twinkling. "No, it could have been Alexandra's. Originally. And I'll tell you why."

  And then he explains that at the time, Alexandra wanted to go on the air earlier than DBS had planned, to take advantage of the reruns on the other networks. Alexandra knew she needed to have Jessica Wright as a follow-up to the news, which meant DBS could offer at least two hours of prime-time programming to the affiliates. They also pooled some of the production crews—to cut costs—so it made sense for Cassy to oversee it all."

  "What did the unions say?"

  "Until we had, uh, I think it was eighteen hours of program­ming a week, we technically weren't a network yet, and so we were exempt for a while on some regulations. For a while, any­way, we certainly aren't now." He squints at me. "You haven't talked to Lang yet, I guess."

  "Oh, but I have," I tell him.

  "Well, he should be the one to tell you all this stuff."

  "Who's to say he hasn't? I just like to hear your opinion." I glance down at my notes. "So, Mr. Darenbrook—"

  "Jackson, please."

  "Jackson. How did this office romance start? I mean, how did you get from being co-workers to lovers?"

  He bursts out laughing. "You've got to be kidding! What kind of question is that?"

  "Well, if you met Cassy at work, and then you married her, certainly there had to have been a moment of transition, when you realized that what you wished to pursue with her was not business."

  "Gad, but you're a pain in the ass," he says congenially, ris­ing to walk over to the bar. "You want some 7-Up or some­thing?"

  "No thanks."

  He's clinking some ice into his glass and then uses a bar­tender hose to squirt soda over it. "When she cried."

  "Pardon me?"

  "When Cassy cried. Here, in my office. She said I was driving her crazy and I realized I was falling in love with her." He walks back over to the table and sits down. "It was right after she threw a section of the New York Times at me and screamed that I was driving her crazy. And then she burst into tears and I knew that was it. I was falling for her."

  "When was this?"

  "The Friday before we went on the air."

  I make a note. "And were your feelings reciprocated?"

  He shrugs. "I have no idea. Actually, I've never asked her. Because nothing happened that day—except that I knew. I'm not sure I wanted to know—it was kind of like someone throw­ing the lever that makes the drawbridge come crashing down over the moat, you know?" He thinks for a moment. "I think I was just a lot nicer to her after that. I stopped trying to make her so crazy, anyway."

  This is very good. It will be interesting to read some of this back to Cassy for her reaction. "And when," I ask, "did you know that Cassy had feelings for you?"

  His smile broadens and those eyes twinkle again. "I think you should ask Cassy that. After all, a gentleman always defers to the lady's version of events."

  I have to skip lunch to make my two o'clock with Glenn Mor­timer, the political analyst, who was also fired from DBS news. He is now the weekend co-anchor of the morning show of a ri­val network. His office is near Lincoln Center and I am shown right in.

  We shake hands and he tells me I can set up my tape recorder right there on his desk. As I set up, we chat and I sneak looks at him. He must get his hair done. I mean really done. Poofed, practically. But he seems nice enough.

  "So you're doing a story on Cassy," he says, sitting back in a chair and bouncing his fingertips off one another. "I'm rather surprised. She usually ducks that sort of thing and pushes it on one of us on-air types."

  "You're not the first to say that," I comment.

  "What's she pushing?"

  "Some new programming, I think."

  "That's the only reason she'd ever do it," he says. "And if I know Cassy, it's probably connected to feeding children or bandaging wounded animals."

  "Why is that?"

  He shrugs. "That's the way she is. Looks like a goddess, but acts like Mother Earth. That's her thing, taking care of people, places and things. The more control she has, the happier she is."

  Not a bad quote, I think.

  He smiles, lofting an eyebrow. "Some might consider it a problem."

  "Consider what a problem?"

  "Being a control freak, you know."

  "Do you consider it a problem?"

  "Me? No. I like Cassy. I wouldn't call her a control freak. But I would say she has a strong desire to control everything she can."

  Oh, brother, people with this kind of double-talk drive me nuts. No wonder he likes politics.

  We move on to his role at DBS as their political commentator. He worked there two years and then his contract was not re­newed.

  "Who broke the news to you?" I ask.

  "My agent."

  "Ouch," I say.

  "Ouch is right."

  "Why didn't Cassy tell you?"

  "Oh, she did, in every way she was allowed to. But, you know—" he shrugs"—none of the brass are ever allowed to tell talent anything. It's all really supposed to go through your agent. When the time for renewal was coming up, I tried to talk to Alexandra about the changes I thought we needed to make to my segment, but she wasn't really listening, I could tell. But I didn't think I was getting fired, I just thought Alexandra wasn't very interested in changing the format. That's what she's like. If she agrees with you, it's like the Fourth of July, everything all exploding in beautiful colors, but if Alexandra doesn't agree with you, she just gets very quiet and polite and you feel like she's merely tolerating you—you, way out there in Siberia."

  "And what about Cassy?"

  "Oh, Cassy was great. She sat me down about a month before contract negotiations and, thinking back—" he stretches and yawns before continuing "—I realize now she was trying to forewarn me of what was coming."

  "Why, what did she say?"

  "Just that political coverage was changing drastically at the other networks, that the general feeling was that our segment was a bit static and needed more pizzazz."

  "How did you react to that?"

  "I thought it was showbiz and told her so. That they hired me—make that, Alexandra hired me—because she wanted more of an intellectual angle on politics. More like Bill Buckley and less redneck screaming and yelling like my successor does now over there."

  I must say, the DBS political commentator surprises me, too. While the rest of the news hour is known for its integrity and fairness, the guy they have now is better known for his border­line insanity on the topic of red tape in Washington than for anything he actually says.

  "How much did Cassy have to do with you while you were at DBS?"

  "Oh, I saw her all the time. She's a hands-on kind of person. Of course, she's been in news since forever, so she loves being around the newsroom and the studio. We used to think we would always be her favorite part of the network... "

  "But?"

  "She loves the news division, but keeps it at arm's length be­cause of Alexandra. It's Alexandra's domain. Now there's the control freak, Alexandra—and you can quote me on that."

  "Unfortunately I'm not doing a piece on Alexandra, “I say, making a note and then looking up. "I'm doing it on Cassy."

  "You can't write about one without mentioning the other," he says. "Certainly Cassy is a good executive on her own mer­its, but everybody knows part of her success comes from suc­cessfully handling Alexandra and all of her problems."

  "And what kind of problems might those be?"

  "Well, her control problems, like I said before. She drives any normal person up the wall."

  "It's my understanding that her crew has been with her quite awhile."

  "You mean Will Rafferty," he says, practically snee
ring. "Yeah, well, look who he's married to—Alexandra's best friend. She's even got that under control."

  "I see," I say, nodding, writing. "What other problems does she have?"

  "Well she's gay, let's start with that."

  "Do you want to be quoted on that?"

  "Go ahead and see if Expectations prints it. They won't. I don't know what it is in this town—everybody knows it but nobody wants to say it."

  "I think the tabloids do." I recross my legs and try again. "Let's get back to Cassy, though. How do you think she 'suc­cessfully handles' Alexandra?"

  "If I knew that, I'd still be there."

  "So your ax to grind is with Alexandra, not Cassy."

  "I don't have an ax to grind!" he says.

  "I see." I take a breath, glancing at the wall of awards behind him. "Is that why you agreed to talk to me?" I'm trying to keep my voice light. "To talk about Alexandra?"

  Suddenly he's pissed. "No. You called me, remember? What do you want to know about Cassy? She's frankly not very inter­esting—that is, beyond her looks." He considers this. "Well, I suppose it's kind of interesting. She's still a looker." He shrugs again. "I suppose it is kind of interesting that she ended up with the biggest playboy in the Western Hemisphere."

  "Yes, that is pretty interesting."

  "Jackson's nuts, you know," he confides. "At least the other husband drank and got nuts. This one's just nuts."

  "Nuts?" I repeat, giving him a chance to retract this com­ment.

  "All right, eccentric," he says.

  I look up. "Why do you think Cassy married him?"

  He looks at me as if I've got three eyes. "You're asking why the president of the network married the guy who owns it?"

  "Yes."

  He decides not to call me stupid. Instead he says, "Security."

  I nod. "Don't you think she might have sought such security with a man with a little better track record? Someone who was not, as you said, 'the biggest playboy in the Western Hemi­sphere'?"

  "Compared to her first husband, Jackson's a dreamboat. Mi­chael humiliated her time and again. Besides, Jackson's got a couple hundred million in the bank, so why not take a chance?"

  When I do not say anything, he adds, "Think about it. She's married for years to a jerk who drank and screwed around on her, left and right, and stands by him. So then he straightens himself out, right? And what does he do? He starts fucking around on her again and leaves her. Talk about Beauty and the Beast with a twist! So, you tell me... The creep finally takes off, you've been humiliated in the industry for years, so what are you going to do if Jackson Darenbrook starts making eyes at you?"

  I only smile. He's giving me good stuff. The only problem is, I think I hate him.

  "Did you know Michael Cochran?"

  "Yeah, I knew Mike. I worked for him." He nods. "That's right. At WWKK here in New York."

  "How long did you work with him?"

  "A year."

  "And what was it like?"

  "Geez, he was such a drunk. Smart guy, but what a drunk." He rolls his eyes. "I mean the first time you went out with him, it was okay, but then it was like every night he wanted to go out and then he'd get blind drunk and fall down and pass out. It was awful." He chuckles. "That's how I met Cassy the first time. She had to come down to a bar one night to get him before they called the police. I helped her take him home. He threw up out the window of the cab. Yeah, great night. And the next day, I swear to God, he didn't have a clue about what happened, no memory at all. And then I knew that's how he kept doing it, he never remembered what he did. So why not? Particularly if you've got a wife who'll bail you out all the time?"

  "Did you ever meet the Cochrans' son?"

  "Harry?"

  "Henry."

  "Henry! Yeah, that's right, Henry. He was a good kid. He came to the office once in a while. He was a lot more like Cassy—lucky for him. But not a pretty boy, if you know what I mean, which is good because Michael always had to be the big man on campus. So the kid had to be submissive but not a fairy, you know? He knew how to handle his dad, too, which was more than I can say for Cassy."

  We talk on in this vein and I am amazed Glenn Mortimer isn't more guarded about his language. He's supposed to be the wholesome friendly face in the morning, not the foul-mouthed, angry man he is. I also have the impression that he was offered a wonderful opportunity at DBS but didn't cut the mustard.

  He has given me a lot of interesting things to think about, cer­tainly.

  I take a cab back to the hotel and stop at the desk to cash a check. I am going through cash in this city like water. I go up­stairs, order a sandwich and large bottle of water and set to work while today's interviews are fresh in my mind.

  It feels great to work.

  30

  Spencer has to work until nine, so at eight I knock off and soak in the tub. About eight-thirty, as I am finishing the Times cross­word puzzle, the phone rings. Now that I am a woman of the world who is used to such convenience, I am annoyed when I realize I can't reach the phone from the tub. I'm going to have to get out.

  "Sally," Doug's voice says.

  I am caught by surprise. "Doug, hi."

  "I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time. Your mother gave me your number."

  "I'm in the tub, actually."

  Pause. "So how's it going?"

  "Very well. I had some good interviews today." Normally I would share something about them with Doug but now I only feel resistance.

  There is an awkward silence. "I just wanted to see how you're doing."

  "I know," I murmur. "I've been wondering about you, too."

  "Have you?" He sounds hopeful and that hurts.

  "I'll always care about you, Doug," I say carefully. "It feels strange for us to be like this. And yet it never works. Does it?"

  He sighs heavily. "I don't know what's left to try, Sal."

  "I know."

  "Can I see you? This weekend?"

  "Sure," I say. "Let me call you when I know what's what, okay?"

  "Okay." He sounds relieved.

  "I'll call you when I come home," I promise. I dry off and start putting on body lotion. The phone rings again and apprehensively I pick it up.

  "Red rover, red rover," Spencer says, "will Sally come over?"

  "You bet," I laugh.

  When I get off the elevator in Spencer's building, I find his cat, Seela, wandering around. I shift my bag over my shoulder and pick her up. I hear Spencer say hi and I look down the hall to see him coming to meet me. "Seela never lets anyone pick her up but me," he says. "So what is she doing in your arms?"

  "I don't know," I murmur, lightly kissing the top of the cat's head.

  "We're all falling in love with you," he sighs, kissing me on the cheek and sliding my bag off my shoulder to carry it for me. "It feels so normal now for you to be here," he says, closing the door behind us. "It felt strange to come home and not find you here."

  He's tired. He's been running around with an author who's starting his promotional tour. He opens a can of vegetable soup and makes a salad and some toast and serves us both at the ta­ble I've set, and he tells me about his day. Then he asks me about mine. I mumble something about the interviews going well, I think I'm starting to get a picture of what Cassy is really like.

  Spencer clears the dishes and asks me if I'd like some herbal tea.

  I look at him. Herbal tea. This is one of those moments where no matter how much we pretend to know each other it is bla­tantly evident that we don't. "No, I'm fine, thanks." While he is putting the kettle on the stove, I hear the faint sound of my cell phone ringing.

  I excuse myself and run into the bedroom where I retrieve it from my bag. "Hello?"

  "Still in New York?" Buddy D'Amico says.

  "Yeah." I look at the clock. It's almost ten-thirty.

  "You got a fax machine around?"

  "I think so, hang on." I run out to ask Spencer and he gives me the fax number of the front desk downst
airs. I give it to Buddy.

  "Are you still at the office?" I ask, amazed.

  "Yeah. Okay, so look, Sally, I'm sending you that member­ship list of the Masons. Don't say I've never done anything for you."

  "Well, thank you." I am baffled. "Um, am I allowed to ask what I've done to deserve this?"

  "Oh, I'm just in a good mood," Buddy says. "Because I've just caught Tony Meyers's killer, and I'm going to put him away."

  "You're kidding! Who is it?"

  "No one you know," he says cheerfully. "See you back in town!"

  I try to raise Joe Bix on the telephone, but he doesn't seem to be around. So I call into the city desk and give them the news so they can sneak an item into the morning paper.

  When I come back into the living room, I find Spencer stretched out across the love seat, his feet on the coffee table, watching the news. "Do you mind?" he asks.

  Now we're getting to know each other. When the guy starts turning on the TV instead of fooling around, I know we are.

  Eyes on the TV screen, Spencer holds an arm out, indicating the spot where I am to sit. "The doorman will bring up your fax."

  "Oh, great," I say, sitting down next to him.

  In a couple of minutes the doorman rings the doorbell and I get the fax from him. While Spencer watches the news, I look it over.

  For a town like Castleford, which has a diverse, heavily Catholic population, I see few ethnic names on the Mason’s list. As a matter of fact, this looks like a phone book for the United Kingdom during the reign of Henry VIII. Adams through Young. I recognize almost everyone.

  If I were Crazy Pete Sabatino, I'd think there was a conspir­acy to be feared with the Masons, too.

  An awful lot of these people, though, I notice, have either moved away from Castleford or have passed away. Certainly most of the children and grandchildren of these guys—my con­temporaries—are no longer around.

  The next pages cover the more recent membership roster, and although it is dramatically shorter, it at least resembles something from the twentieth century. Interesting. One Black man. One Hispanic. And the Masons are obviously a Christian thing.

  Well, whatever this Masonic Lodge was that Dad belonged to, it's either losing its appeal in Castleford, or it appeals to a group that no longer thrives in Castleford. Or in the area, either. The second list is annotated to say that the lodges of the four surrounding towns have, in recent years, been folded into the Castleford Lodge.