Private Scandals Read online

  As Finn walked out of the office, through the reception area and to the bank of elevators, he wondered if Marshall Pike was the type who could calmly blow a woman’s face off and walk away. There was cold blood there. That much he was sure of.

  Smarm under the polish, Finn mused. It could have been pure animal reaction, he supposed, a territorial instinct. No, Finn concluded, that unease came from the reporter in him. The man was hiding something, and it was up to him to ferret it out.

  It wouldn’t hurt to take a run by the hotel and see if anyone had spotted Marshall in the area on the night of Angela’s death.

  In his office, Marshall sat behind his desk. He waited, and waited until he heard the faint rumble of the elevator. And he waited again until he heard nothing at all. Snatching up the phone, he punched in numbers, wiped his damp palm over his face.

  He heard Finn’s voice relay the information he already knew: Deanna wasn’t there. Marshall slammed down the phone and buried his head in his hands.

  Goddamn Finn Riley. Goddamn Angela. And goddamn Deanna. He had to see her. And he had to see her now.

  “You shouldn’t have come back yet.” Jeff stood in Deanna’s office, his pleasant, homely face set in stubborn lines of worry. The smell of paint was still fresh.

  They both knew why the walls had been painted, the rug replaced. There were long, jagged scratch marks marring the surface of Deanna’s desk. The police had unsealed the room only forty-eight hours before and there hadn’t been time to repair or replace everything.

  “I was hoping you’d be glad to see me.”

  “I am glad to see you, but not here.” Since it was just past eight in the morning, they were alone. Jeff felt obligated to convince her to give herself more time. When the rest of the staff arrived, he had no doubt they would add their weight. But now it was up to him to watch out for her. “You’ve been through a nightmare, Dee, and it hasn’t even been a week.”

  Yes it had, she thought. One week tonight. But she didn’t correct him. “Jeff, I’ve already been through this with Finn—”

  “He shouldn’t have let you come in.”

  Her hackles rose, but she bit back the first furious retort. Perhaps her nerves were still raw, she decided, if she was ready to snarl at poor Jeff. “Finn doesn’t let me anything. If it makes you feel better, he agrees with you completely about my taking more time. I don’t.” She eased a hip down on the wide sill of the plate-glass window. Behind her, wet snow fell in thick, listless sheets. “I need to work, Jeff. Angela’s death was horrible, but hiding my head under the covers isn’t going to make it, or my part in it, go away. And I need my pals.” She held out a hand. “I really do.”

  She heard him sigh, but he crossed to her and took her hand. “We wanted to be there for you, Dee. All of us.”

  “I know you did.” She squeezed his hand, urging him down on the sill with her. “I guess this hasn’t been easy on anyone. Did you have to talk to the police?”

  “Yeah.” He grimaced, shoving at his glasses. “That Detective Jenner. ‘Where were you on the night in question?’ ” Jeff demanded in such a perfect mimic of Jenner that Deanna laughed. “We all got the treatment. Simon was sweating bullets. You know how he is under pressure. Wringing his hands, gulping audibly. He got so worked up that Fran made him lie down, then tore into the cop for harassment.”

  “Sorry I missed it.” She leaned her head against Jeff’s shoulder, content to be back with friends. “What else did I miss?” She could feel his body tense and she squeezed his hand in reassurance. “I’d feel better if I knew, Jeff. I’ve only gotten some sketchy details about how the office was torn up. I miss our Christmas tree.” Her smile was brief and sad. “Silly, isn’t it? When you think of everything that was destroyed in here, I miss that stupid tree.”

  “I’ll get you another one. Just as ugly.”

  “Impossible.” But she let it go. “Tell me.”

  He hesitated a moment. “The office was pretty messed up, Dee. But it was mostly cosmetic damage. Once the cops let us in, Loren had it cleaned out, repainted, recarpeted. He was royally pissed. Not at you,” he said quickly. “It was the whole deal, you know. The fact that somebody got in and . . . did what they did.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Deanna . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m so damn sorry you had to go through all that. I wish I could say I’m sorry about Angela, but I’m not.”

  “Jeff—”

  “I’m not,” he repeated, and tightened his grip on her hand. “She wanted to hurt you. She did everything she could to ruin your career. Using Lew, making up lies, dragging that whole business with that creep football player into the public. I can’t be sorry she won’t be around to try something else.” He let out a long breath. “I guess that makes me pretty cold.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Angela didn’t inspire great love and devotion.”

  “You do.”

  She lifted her head and turned to smile at him, when a sound in the doorway made them both jump.

  “Oh, God.” Cassie stood, a paperweight in one hand, a brass sculpture in the other. “I thought someone had broken in again.” She pressed the hefty glass paperweight to her heart.

  On watery legs, Deanna managed the two steps to a chair. “I came in early,” she said, trying desperately to sound calm and in control. “I thought I might start catching up.”

  “I guess that makes three of us.” With her eyes on Deanna, Cassie set the sculpture and paperweight aside. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “No.” Deanna closed her eyes for a moment. “But I need to be here.”

  Perhaps her nerves were raw and her temper short, but by midmorning Deanna found some comfort in the basic office routine. Bookings had to be rearranged and rescheduled, others fell through completely due to the time lapse. New story ideas were devised and discussed. Once word spread that Deanna was back in harness, the phones began to shrill. People from the newsroom popped upstairs, out of both genuine concern and pure curiosity.

  “Benny’s hoping you’ll do an interview,” Roger told her. “An exclusive for old times’ sake.”

  Deanna passed him half the sandwich she was nibbling at her now overburdened desk. “Benny thinks a lot of old times’ sake.”

  “It’s news, Dee. And pretty hot when you consider it happened right here at CBC and involved two major stars.”

  A major star, she thought. What was the difference between a major star and a minor one? She knew what Loren would have said: A minor star sought airtime. A major star sold it.

  “Give me some time, will you?” She rubbed at the tension in the back of her neck. “Tell him I’m thinking about it.”

  “Sure.” His gaze wandered from hers to his own hands. “I’d appreciate it, if you decide to do it, if you let me do the interview.” His eyes cut back to her, then away again. “I could use the boost. There are rumors of cutbacks in the newsroom again.”

  “There are always rumors of cutbacks in the newsroom.” She resented the favor he was asking, and wished she didn’t. “All right, Roger, for old times’ sake. Just give me a couple of days.”

  “You’re a peach, Dee.” And he felt like sludge. “I’d better get down. I’ve got some bumpers to tape.” He rose, leaving the sandwich untouched. “It’s good to have you back. You know if you need a friendly ear, I’ve got two.”

  “Off the record?”

  He had the grace to flush. “Sure. Off the record.”

  She held up both hands as if to gesture the words back. “Sorry. I’m touchy, I guess. I’ll have Cassie set up an interview in a day or two, all right?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.” He walked to the door. “This really sucks,” he murmured as he shut the door behind him.

  “You bet.” Deanna leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes, letting herself hear only the impersonal murmur of the television across the room. Angela was dead, she thought, and that made her a hotter news item than she had ever been
when she was alive.

  The really horrid bottom line, Deanna knew, was that she was now hot news as well. And hot news made for hot ratings. Since the murder, Deanna’s Hour—reruns of Deanna’s Hour, she corrected—had spurted up in points, pummeling the competition. No game show or daytime drama could hope to withstand the mighty weight of murder and scandal.

  Angela had given her greatest rival the success she’d hoped to take away. She’d only had to die to do it.

  “Deanna?”

  Her heart flew to her throat, her eyes sprang open. On the other side of her desk, Simon jumped as violently as she. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I guess you didn’t hear me knock.”

  “That’s okay.” Disgusted with her reaction, she chuckled weakly. “My nerves don’t seem to be as strong as I thought. You look exhausted.”

  He tried to smile, but couldn’t bring it off. “Having trouble sleeping.” He fumbled out a cigarette.

  “I thought you’d quit.”

  “Me too.” Embarrassed, he moved his shoulders. “I know you said you wanted to start taping on Monday.”

  “That’s right. Is there a problem?”

  “It’s just that . . .” He trailed off, puffing hard on the cigarette. “I thought, under the circumstances—but maybe it doesn’t matter to you. It just seemed to me . . .”

  Deanna wondered if she grabbed onto his tongue and pulled, if the words would spill out. “What?”

  “The set,” he blurted out, and passed a nervous hand over his thinning hair. “I thought you might want to change the set. The chairs . . . you know.”

  “Oh God.” She pressed a fist to her mouth as the vision of Angela, sitting cozily, sitting dead in the spacious white chair, flashed into her mind. “Oh God, I haven’t thought.”

  “I’m sorry, Deanna.” For lack of something better he patted her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m an idiot.”

  “No. No. Thank God you did. I don’t think I could have handled . . .” She imagined herself striding out on the set, then freezing in shock and horror. Would she have run screaming, as she had done before? “Oh, Simon. Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  “Dee.” Helplessly he patted her shoulder again. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I think you just saved my sanity. Put the set decorator on it, Simon, please? Have him change everything. The color scheme, the chairs, tables, the plants. Everything. Tell him—”

  Simon had already taken out a notebook to scribble down her instructions. The simple, habitual gesture somehow cheered Deanna.

  “Thanks, Simon.”

  “I’m the detail man, remember?” He tapped out the half-smoked cigarette. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll have a whole new look.”

  “But keep it comfortable. And why don’t you knock off early? Go get yourself a massage.”

  “I’d rather work.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “I didn’t know it would affect me like this.” He tucked the pad away. “I worked with her for years. I can’t say I liked her much, but I knew her. I stood right here, in this spot, when she was sitting there.” He glanced up again, meeting Deanna’s eyes. “Now, she’s dead. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Whoever did it was in here, too.” Warily, he scanned the room, as if he expected someone to lunge out of a corner wielding a gun. “Jesus, I’m sorry. All I’m doing is scaring the shit out of both of us. I guess it’s eating on me because her memorial service is tonight.”

  “Tonight? In New York?”

  “No, here. I guess she wanted to be buried in Chicago, where she got her big break. There’s not going to be a viewing or anything, because . . .” He remembered why and swallowed hard. “Well, there’s just going to be a service at the funeral parlor. I think I should go.”

  “Give the details to Cassie, will you? I think I should go, too.”

  “This isn’t just stupid,” Finn said with barely controlled fury. “It’s insane.”

  Deanna watched the windshield wipers sweep at the ugly, icy sleet. The snow that had fallen throughout the day had turned to oily gray slop against the curbs. The sleet that replaced it battered down, cold and mean.

  It was a good night for a funeral.

  Her chin came up and her jaw tightened. “I told you that you didn’t have to come with me.”

  “Yeah, right.” He spotted the crowd of reporters huddled outside the funeral parlor and drove straight down the block. “Goddamn press.”

  She nearly smiled at that, felt a giddy urge to laugh out loud. But she was afraid it would sound hysterical. “I won’t mention anything about pots and kettles.”

  “I’m going to park down the block,” he said between his teeth. “We’ll see if we can find a side or a back entrance.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated when he’d parked. “Sorry to have dragged you out to this tonight.” She had a headache she didn’t dare mention. And a raw sick feeling in her stomach that promised to worsen.

  “I don’t recall being dragged.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me come alone. So it amounts to the same thing. I can’t even explain to myself why I feel I have to do this. But I have to do it.”

  Suddenly, she twisted toward him, gripping his hand hard. “Whoever killed her could be in there. I keep wondering if I’ll know him. If I look him in the face, if I’ll know. I’m terrified I will.”

  “But you still want to go inside.”

  “I have to.”

  The sleet helped, she thought. Not only was it cold, but it demanded the use of long, disguising coats and shielding umbrellas. They walked in silence, against the wind. She caught sight of the CBC van before Finn ducked around the side of the building. He hustled her inside, drenching them both as he snapped the umbrella closed.

  “I hate goddamned funerals.”

  Surprised, she studied his face as she tugged off her gloves, shed her coat. She could see it now. More than annoyance with her for insisting on attending, more than concern or even fear, there was dread in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “I haven’t been to one since . . . in years. What’s the point? Dead’s dead. Flowers and organ music don’t change it.”

  “It’s supposed to comfort the living.”

  “Not so I’ve noticed.”

  “We won’t stay long.” She took his hand, surprised that it would be he rather than she who needed comfort.

  He seemed to shudder, once. “Let’s get it over with.”

  They walked out of the alcove. They could already hear the murmur of voices, the muted notes of a dirge. Not organ music, he realized, horribly relieved, but piano and cello in somber duet. The air smelled of lemon oil, perfume, flowers. He would have sworn he smelled whiskey as well, sharp as a blade cutting through the overly sweetened air.

  The thick carpet was a riot of deep red roses and muffled their footsteps as they walked down a wide hall. On both sides heavy oak doors were discreetly shut. At the end they were flung open. Cigarette smoke added to the miasma of scent.

  When he felt her tremble, Finn tucked his arm more firmly around her waist. “We can turn around and leave, Deanna. There’s no shame in it.”

  She only shook her head. Then she saw the first video camera. The press, it seemed, wasn’t merely huddled outside. Several had been allowed in, complete with camera crews, microphones and lights. Cables were strewn over the garden of carpet in the main viewing room.

  In silence, they slipped inside.

  The cathedral ceiling with its painted mural of cherubim and seraphim tossed the murmuring voices and chinking glasses everywhere.

  The room was crowded with people. As Deanna looked from face to face, she wondered if she would see grief or fear or simply resignation. Would Angela feel she was being mourned properly? And would her killer be here, to observe?

  No one wept, Finn noted. He did see shock and sober eyes. Voices were muted respectfully. And the
cameras recorded it all. Would they, he wondered, inadvertently record one face, one that couldn’t quite hide the knowledge, and the triumph? He kept Deanna close to his side, knowing that the murderer could be in the room, watching.

  There was a photograph of Angela in a gold frame. The flattering publicity shot sat atop a gleaming mahogany coffin.

  It reminded Finn, much too vividly, of what lay inside the discreetly closed lid. Feeling Deanna shudder beside him, he instinctively drew her closer.