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

  "You sound as though you have been a victim of her writ­ers."

  He cocks his head, shrugging slightly. "Yeah. Twice I got slammed in pieces about other people. And I figure I'm really going to get it in this one. I really gave Cassy a hard time and everybody knows it."

  The waiter comes with menus and asks if we wish to have anything to drink. I order a seltzer with lime and much to my surprise, I hear Michael order a glass of white wine.

  So he's drinking again. That's news. I know Cassy doesn't know, nor does Henry. They both made the point, several times, that Michael had stopped completely after his rehab stay and so all the nightmares were in the past, too.

  We talk a little about Henry and the other people I've talked to. When I mention Jackson Darenbrook, Michael murmurs, "Yes, the new husband," and I realize he is upset by it. But is this because Michael is drinking, which no doubt signals that he is not in a very good place in his life, or simply because he re­grets having left her?

  "Okay, so what do you want to know?" he asks after the wine arrives and he takes a large sip. “I was a lousy husband and a pretty good father. A so-so provider. Did I love Cassy? I loved that woman like no other, past, present or future. It's all right, you can put that in. My present wife knows. Everyone knows."

  This is when I realize that he's had some drinks before arriv­ing at the restaurant.

  When he looks at me I see an old sadness in his eyes and I don't know what it is or where it comes from. I know that old Mrs. Potts, who lived near us in Castleford, had that same sad­ness in her eyes, and that she died a few years ago of liver fail­ure. She was always so nice, but her eyes were always so sad, even when she was smiling.

  When the waiter comes back, Michael orders a carafe of white wine and a chef's salad for lunch. I also order the salad. He tells the waiter to bring another wineglass and I know I am being instructed to join him. I don't have another interview un­til five and I think, okay, a glass or two.

  It is around eight o'clock now and I am bombed, sitting at the downstairs bar of the “21 Club" with Michael Cochran. We are on our fourth tape. I have learned more about Cassy's past than I will ever get from her, that's for sure, but it is a dark, almost frightening version as Michael tells it.

  He has told me about her deep insecurities, of her feeling un­worthy, her terror of being alone. In detail he described how Catherine Littlefield was one of the most fiendish monsters who ever lived—a woman who constantly screamed at Cassy about the day she would lose her looks and have nothing, just like her. She told her daughter over and over that her beauty was a sentence to unhappiness.

  Michael used to periodically find Cassy sobbing, as if she had only just found out her father was dead. He says she misses him every day of her life. (I identify with that.) And yet, according to him, her father never accomplished anything in his life except breaking the heart of the little girl who adored him.

  " And thanks to Monster Mom," he adds, "she's got a really fucked-up relationship with women."

  "Really? How's that?"

  "She has no friends—women friends, you know—never has."

  "But what about, um, Alexandra Waring and Jessica—"

  "She works with them, that's different," he insists. "She doesn't have any friends-friends, never has. Well, there's Sam Wyatt, I guess, but he's a guy." He takes a sip of his drink and makes a face like he's drinking battery acid. "She doesn't trust women."

  From what I've seen, nothing could be further from the truth. But then, that's why you talk to different people who have known the subject in different ways for different periods of time; it allows you to see where great changes may have oc­curred in the subject's life. These changes, in turn, tell you where to dig, where to find the catalyst that caused each change. It almost always turns up an interesting angle.

  I am making notes, but I doubt I will be able to read them later. I seem to have lost control of my pen a bit.

  "She's been seeing a shrink, a therapist, for years, you know," Michael says, sounding much like a tattling brother. "She was fucking terrified she’d screw up Henry, hand down her neurosis. I was scared she was going to make him a wuss." He smiles suddenly, suppressing a burp. "But Henry's a great guy. And weller than well." He frowns. "It's not normal to be so content in life, is it? Is it?" he demands, leaning near me. He throws an arm out. "How can that kid be so happy?"

  I tell him I don't know and try to steer him back to why Cassy went to a therapist.

  "Oh, she just had all these things. She needed somebody to re­late to, who could communicate. I told her she needed to learn how to relax, to let things go. But she's a control freak. She's got all this pent-up emotion inside—'cause you know how she's al­ways really calm on the outside? Well, she's not. She's—she's teeming inside. There's all this anger and fear and all kinds of stuff in there, and she thinks the way to keep it all under control is to literally control every physical thing around her. It's enough to drive you nuts. One magazine out of place and she feels like the whole universe is going to blow apart."

  "She's very neat?"

  "Oh, God. Batten down the hatches, babe. She tries to orga­nize everything around her, batten down everything, so that, see, it will batten down the chaos inside her." He leans forward, hitting his chest. "And that's where the chaos is," he whispers, "deep down in her soul."

  He straightens up slightly. "You can't be married to someone so long and not know them. Because I'd get glimpses of the passion, Sally—a ferocity in that woman. Every once in a while I'd feel it when we had sex. And so it be­came a goal—could I coax it out of her? But then it would go away, sometimes for years. And then you know how she's al­ways so calm and cool about everything? Well, all someone had to do was threaten one hair on Henry's head and you have never seen such rage. Absolute rage that would scare the shit out of Attila the Hun."

  While he has been telling me all this, I have been trying to imagine what handling this six-foot-three alcoholic must have been like, and I'm also wondering if he ever hit Cassy or Henry. I'm pretty sure it must have happened. In what alcoholic home has it not?

  Suddenly he's back rambling about his hour of glory when he brought Alexandra Waring to New York and she rose to the top of the local ratings. "And they fired me! Can you believe it? Because the fucking station manager wanted all the credit. I got Alexandra started! And look how well she's done! And who is responsible for that? Who started it all?"

  (I refrain from saying “Alexandra.")

  When he starts droning on about how grateful Alexandra is to him, I feel myself starting to nod off. It's versions of the same stuff we talked about at lunch, over and over, only now punc­tuated with more anger and profanity. I am feeling headachy and drunk and vaguely nauseous. I slip away to the ladies' room and call Spencer's apartment. Where on earth have I been? he wants to know.

  On an interview, I tell him. 21 Club. Would he like to come to my hotel? In a half hour?

  "I've got to get going," I tell Michael when I return.

  "Ah, come on," he says from his stool, throwing an arm around me and trying to pull me between his legs.

  Uh-oh. Knowing what I know about him, I should have ex­pected this. "I'm sorry," I say, resisting, "but I have to meet my husband."

  "Your husband?" He frowns. "Why don't you wear a ring?"

  "Why don't you?" I counter.

  "Ahhh," he says, reaching for me again, "I knew I liked you."

  Oh, God, this is awful. And I have encouraged it, paying for the ten million drinks we've consumed all afternoon and eve­ning.

  "Listen," he whispers, nearly pulling me into his lap. People are looking at us. "We can slip over to the Hilton and have one good, quick fuck. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  I try to pull away, but he yanks me close. "I've got one for you that's a block long. Ask Cassy. I've got the biggest one you've ever seen."

  I get away by literally shoving off him like a boat stuck on a beach. "Sorry, but I don't have time." I sc
oot around the other side of my stool to use it as a barrier. I hurl a wad of bills on the bar, grab my stuff and hold out my hand to him. "Thank you very much for the interview."

  He's mad now. "You fucking bitch!" he snarls. "Who do you think you are? You're nothing, hear me?" He waves me away. "Get the fuck out of here! You're a whore. You're a dog."

  So much for my gracious debut as a high-profile journalist at the 21 Club. I carefully pick my way out of the restaurant and the doorman helps me into the cab.

  Spencer's eyes grow large when he sees me slightly zagging across the hotel lobby toward him. "Are you okay?" he whis­pers, taking my arm.

  "Do you mean am I drunk? Yes," I laugh, leading him to the elevator. I drop my bag and tapes go flying. "Oh, my inter­view."

  "This is from one interview?" he asks, bending to pick up the cassettes and stuff them back into my bag.

  "Great interview!" I declare, placing a hand on Spencer's shoulder to keep my balance. We go upstairs and Spencer suggests I take a shower while he orders some room service since I haven't eaten.

  "I ate," I protest as he unzips the back of my dress.

  "Yeah? When?"

  I let my dress drop on the floor and I turn around to kiss him. Spencer frowns slightly, bending to pick up my dress before go­ing to the closet to hang it up. "I ate lunch."

  "It's almost midnight, Sally."

  "Midnight! It can't be midnight! It was just eight o'clock."

  "Shower," he says, taking me by the shoulders to the bath­room. It helps. When I come out, wrapped in the terry-cloth robe, I'm rubbing my wet hair with a towel.

  "Who were you with?" he asks me.

  "Obviously an alcoholic lunch date," I say, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  "So which one of you is the alcoholic?" he asks.

  "Not me!" I protest. He's just looking at me and I panic, because I can see he is up­set. "Oh, Spencer, I'm not—" I say, going over to him. "I mean, I'm drunk, yes! I know all alcoholics say they're not alcoholics, but I'm not. You didn't make a mistake, I'm not like that!"

  He smiles slightly, pulling me into his lap. "I know," he mur­murs.

  "But you're upset."

  "Not about this," he says. "Truly." He combs my hair back with his fingers off my face. "Not tonight. We'll talk about it an­other time."

  "Is it bad?"

  "Sally," he whispers, pulling my face down to kiss it, "not now. Don't worry."

  "Okay," I decide.

  Room service arrives. Spencer has ordered me French onion soup, a baked potato and a salad. He has a cheeseburger. "Eat," he says. I do.

  Suddenly I am very, very tired. I know I should go and brush my teeth, but I can't seem to move. Spencer's helping me into bed.

  And that's the last I remember.

  32

  The telephone is ringing. I pick it up, thinking I must have the flu. But then I remember what happened the night before and I thank the heavens that I packed Alka-Seltzer because I am go­ing to need it.

  "Hello?" I whisper.

  "Sally?" a voice says. "I just got back, so if you'd like to come over and talk for a while, you can."

  "Great," I say, trying to sound enthusiastic and sit up at the same time. "Who is this?"

  There is a pause. "Cassy Cochran. Ever heard of me?"

  "I'm sorry, Cassy," I say, "I just woke up."

  She is laughing. "If you'd like, I can also get a good friend of mine to stop by. He's a neighbor as well. Sam Wyatt."

  "Great," I say, wondering where the Alka-Seltzer is.

  "I hear Mike was in town," she says then. "And Chi Chi set you guys up."

  "Yes, she did." I sit up, clearing my throat. "Um, Cassy, I wanted to talk to you about that. Off the record."

  "Oh, no," she groans, "what did he say?"

  "It's not that," I say quickly. "It's just that—well, he's drink­ing again. And I know Henry has no idea he is, so I figured I'd better pass word on to you."

  "Oh, God, no." She says this in such a quiet voice I'm not quite sure I hear it. "No, no," she says softly. Another sigh. "Well, I suppose that's his business. But it will hurt Henry ter­ribly." Pause. "You were right to tell me, thank you."

  I'm not going to tell her I went on a bender with him.

  "Good Lord, it must have been some interview then," she says. "Was he slightly buzzed and charming, or did he break the fur­niture and call you names?"

  "Oh, he was all right," I say. "It was just very sad. He's not a happy man right now. He has a lot of regrets."

  "Poor Lil," she sighs. Lil's the new wife, some eighteen years younger than Cassy.

  We make our arrangements and I decide I'll check out of the hotel and drive the Jeep over to West End. I also decide I must find that Alka-Seltzer. My head's not that bad, thank heavens; it's really just my stomach. I wander off to the bathroom and that's where I find the note. On the sink.

  Sally, my love, I got up early and skedaddled home before going to work. Call me when you get up. I really, really would like to see you before you go back out to Castleford. S.

  How can you not love a man who is so cool he can say ske­daddle?

  When I call Spencer's office, I'm told he's in an editorial meet­ing. I smile, because I remember him saying that holding the meeting on Friday was his idea. If editors are going to fudge a day around a weekend, he prefers it to be Mondays. He has a theory that Mondays have hit-or-miss productivity because it takes people a while to switch over from their weekend mode.

  I leave a message that I called, drink my Alka-Seltzer, hit the shower and get dressed. Just before I am to leave for West End, Spencer calls back.

  "I owe you an apology. I was in no shape to see anyone last night, much less you."

  "I wanted to talk to you last night about something," he says. "But it obviously wasn't the appropriate time."

  Something's wrong. Something's off. I take a deep breath. "Spencer, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing's really wrong," he says. "It's just that we need to talk about some stuff." He offers a little laugh, but it is not con­vincing. "You know, things are getting pretty serious."

  I feel a pang of dread. I can't imagine what it is he has to talk to me about. But he did say we have to talk because things are getting serious, so it's not that he's changed his mind.

  We decide I should call him as soon as I'm through at West End. Spencer tries to sound cheery at the end of our conversa­tion, but I know something not terribly good is on his mind.

  When I see Cassy sitting in her office at West End I am amazed at the rush of protection I feel toward her. After listen­ing to both Michael Cochran and Cassy's mother, Mrs. Little­field, I am in awe of how she has become the person she is, when any lesser soul would be angry and bitter and, well, hard. But there does not seem to be a hard side to Cassy Cochran. There is a tough side, but that's vastly different.

  She is on the phone and I take a seat. When she gets off she smiles. "Well, well, well, you've been giving everyone the third degree, I hear."

  "It hasn't been that bad," I assure her.

  "Yes, but now," she says, rising from her seat to come around her desk, "I hear you want to talk to Rosanne."

  "I sure do."

  Cassy sits down in the chair next to me and leans forward slightly. "If I have any hesitation at all, it is in how you would portray Rosanne herself."

  "I'm only interested in her in terms of her relationship with you."

  "That's what I mean. There have been some things in her life that are no one else's business. And I have been involved with some of them. So, what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to ask you to strike anything that pertains to her child. Because, you see, Rosanne doesn't understand the media. She'll like you, Sally, and she'll know that I wanted her to talk to you, so she'll be very eager to please and will probably tell you everything she can think of. And I don't want to see her portrayed in any other light than the true one—which is far different from a ner­vous woman doing her first interview wit
h the press."

  "No, I get it, Cassy," I say, nodding my head.

  "I don't want you to take advantage of her naiveté," she says seriously, looking me directly in the eye.

  "I won't. I give you my word."

  She looks at me a moment longer and then looks at her watch. "What do you say we go to the cafeteria? No offense, but you look like you could use some juice or something." When I look at her, she shrugs, rising from her chair. "You've been out with Michael, what can I say? Except that everybody looks like you after having 'a drink' with Mike."

  We go into the cafeteria and sit at a table by the glass wall that looks out over the park. This is a wonderful room, large and airy, with a fantastic selection of food and beverages. The em­ployees who have stopped in here look like central casting, they are so diverse in dress, in manner and, according to Cassy, in skills. Everyone from news anchors to cleaning staff to com­puter technicians to gardeners share this room.

  I have a bowl of soup and some coffee. Cassy drinks water and talks freely to the tape recorder about everything from hob­bies ("sleep”) to sports ("tennis, skiing, skating, in-line skating, swimming, a little sailing, a little horse-back riding”) to religion ("Freelance Protestant, I guess. In New York we attend a Pres­byterian church, in Connecticut, a Congregational church, and in Georgia, the Methodist church of my husband's child­hood.”).

  At close to one-thirty, a tall, graying, distinguished-looking Black executive approaches our table. He has a security pass on like mine that reads Sam Wyatt.

  I shake hands with him, trying to cover my surprise. It never occurred to me Cassy's longtime friend would be Black. (Strange how subtle our biases are.)

  Sam was, Cassy explains, a division marketing director of Electronika International but has recently been promoted into the corporate suite as vice presi­dent, public affairs for the whole conglomerate.

  Cassy excuses herself.

  “Is it okay to talk here?” Mr. Wyatt asks me. "Sometimes re­porters don't like the background noise.”