Private Scandals

  Simon’s got a good idea. How many couples do you figure break up sometime between the Will you and the I do?”

  “Plenty,” Simon said with relish. “Take my niece—” He ignored the paper airplane Margaret sailed in his direction. “Really, they’d booked the church, the hall, found the caterer. All this time, according to my sister, they fought like tigers. The big blowup came over the bridesmaids’ dresses. They couldn’t agree on the color.”

  “They called off the wedding because of the bridesmaids’ dresses?” Deanna narrowed her eyes. “You’re making this up.”

  “Swear to God.” To prove it, Simon placed a hand on his heart. “She wanted seafoam, he wanted lavender. Of course, the flowers were a contributing cause. If you can’t agree on that, how can you agree on where to send your kids to college? Hey.” He brightened. “Maybe we can get them.”

  “We’ll keep it in mind.” Deanna jotted down notes. Among them was a warning to be flexible over colors. “I think the point here is that wedding preparations are stressful, and there are ways of lessening the tension. We’ll want an expert. Not a psychologist,” she said quickly, thinking of Marshall.

  “A wedding coordinator,” Jeff suggested, watching Deanna’s face for signs of approval or dismissal. “Somebody who orchestrates the whole business professionally. It is like a business,” he said, glancing around for confirmation. “Marriage.”

  “You betcha.” Fran tapped the rattle against the table. “A coordinator’s good. We could talk about staying within your means and expectations. How not to let your fantasies about perfection cloud the real issue.”

  “Cheap shot,” Deanna tossed back. “We could use the mother and father of the bride. Traditionally they’re in charge of the checkbook. What kind of strain is it personally and financially? And how do we decide, reasonably and happily, on invitations, the reception, the music, the flowers, the photographer? Do we have a buffet or a sit-down meal? What about centerpieces? The wedding party, decorations, the guest list?” The faintest hint of desperation crept into her voice. “Where the hell do you put out-of-town guests, and how is anyone supposed to put all this together in five months?”

  She lowered her head on her arms. “I think,” she said slowly, “we should elope.”

  “Hey, that’s good,” Simon piped up. “Alternatives to wedding stress. I had this cousin . . .”

  This time Margaret’s airplane hit him right between the eyes.

  Within weeks, Deanna’s organized desk was jumbled with sketches of bridal gowns, from the elaborately traditional to the funkily futuristic.

  Behind her, the same homely plastic tree Jeff had hauled into her office that first Christmas leaned precariously to starboard, overweighted by balls and garlands.

  Someone—Cassie, she assumed—had spritzed some pine-scented air freshener around. The cheery aroma made the fading dyed plastic boughs even more pathetic. And Deanna loved it.

  It was a tradition now, a superstition. She wouldn’t have replaced the ugly tree with the richest blue spruce in the city.

  “I can’t quite see saying ‘I do’ in something like this.” She held up a sketch for Fran’s perusal. The short, skinny dress was topped with a headpiece that resembled helicopter blades.

  “Well, after, Finn could give you a spin and the two of you could glide down the aisle. Now this one’s hot.” She held up a drawing; the elongated model was spread-legged in a bare-midriff mini with spike-heeled boots.

  “Only if I carry a whip instead of a bouquet.”

  “You’d get great press.” She tossed it aside. “You don’t have a lot of time to decide before April comes busting out all over.”

  “Don’t remind me.” She shuffled another sketch on top, her twin-diamond engagement ring flashing. A diamond for each year it had taken him to wear her down, he’d told her as he’d slipped it on her finger. “This one’s nice.”

  Fran peeked over her shoulder. “That one’s gorgeous.” She oohed a bit over the billowing skirts and full sleeves. The bodice was snug, trimmed in pearls and lace with the design repeating on the flowing train. The headpiece was a simple circlet from which the frothy veil flowed.

  “It’s really stunning. Almost medieval. A real once-in-a-lifetime dress.”

  “You think so?”

  Recognizing her interest, Fran narrowed her eyes. “You’ve already decided on it.”

  “I want a completely unbiased opinion. And yes,” she admitted with a laugh. “I knew the minute I saw it.” She tidied the pile, laying her choice on top. “I wish the rest of it were so simple. The photographer—”

  “I’m in charge of that.”

  “The caterer.”

  “Cassie’s department.”

  “Music, napkins, flowers, invitations,” she said before Fran could interrupt her again. “Let me at least pretend this is driving me crazy.”

  “Tough, when you’ve never looked happier in your life.”

  “I really have you to thank for it. You gave me the kick in the butt I needed.”

  “Glad to oblige. Now, we’re going to get out of here while you’ve got a free evening and go down to Michigan Avenue for some trousseau shopping. With Finn on a shoot across town, this is the only chance I’ve got. There’s not a minute to waste.”

  “I’m ready.” She grabbed her purse as the phone rang. “Almost.” Because Cassie was already gone for the day, Deanna answered herself. “Reynolds,” she said out of habit, and her brilliant smile withered. “Angela.” She glanced up and caught the interest in Fran’s eye. “That’s very nice of you. I’m sure Finn and I will be very happy.”

  “Of course you are,” Angela cooed into the receiver as she continued to slice through a cover photo of Finn and Deanna with a letter opener. “You always were the confident one, Deanna.”

  To keep herself calm, Deanna shifted to study the teetering Christmas tree. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No, not at all. There’s something I want to do for you, dear. Let’s call it an engagement gift. A little tidbit of information you might be interested in, about your fiancé.”

  “There’s nothing you can tell me about Finn I’d be interested in, Angela. I appreciate your best wishes, and now I’m afraid I’m just on my way out.”

  “Don’t be in such a rush. I recall your having a healthy sense of curiosity. I doubt you’ve changed so much. It really would be very wise, for you and for Finn, if you listened to what I have to say.”

  “All right.” Setting her teeth, Deanna sat down again. “I’m listening.”

  “Oh, no, dear, not over the phone. It so happens I’m in Chicago. A little business, a little pleasure.”

  “Yes, your luncheon with the League of Women Voters tomorrow. I read about it.”

  “There’s that, and another little matter. But I’ll be free for a chat, say, at midnight.”

  “The witching hour? Angela, that’s so obvious, even for you.”

  “Watch your tone, or I won’t give you the opportunity of hearing what I have to say before I go to the press. You can consider my generosity a combination engagement and Christmas gift, darling. Midnight,” she repeated. “At the studio. My old studio.”

  “I don’t—damn it.” Echoing Angela’s response, Deanna slammed down the phone.

  “What’s she up to?”

  “I’m not sure.” With her celebratory mood in tatters, Deanna stared into space. “She wants to meet with me. Claims she has some information I need to hear.”

  “She only wants to cause trouble, Dee.” The worry was in Fran’s voice, in her eyes. “She’s in trouble. In the past six months, her show’s gone dramatically downhill with rumors about her drinking, about her staging shows, bribing guests. It’s hardly a surprise that she’d want to fly out on her broomstick and hand you a poisoned apple.”

  “I’m not worried about it.” Deanna shook off the mood and rose again. “I’m not. It’s time the two of us had it out once and for all. In private. Ther
e’s nothing she can say or do that can hurt me.”

  PART THREE

  “All power of fancy over reason is a degree of insanity.”

  Samuel Johnson

  Chapter Twenty-three

  But someone had hurt Angela. Someone had killed her.

  Deanna continued to scream, high, piercing cries that burned her throat like acid. Even when her vision grayed, Deanna couldn’t take her eyes off the horror beside her. And she could smell the blood, hot and coppery and thick.

  She had to escape before Angela reached out with that delicate, dead hand and squeezed it around her throat.

  With little mewling sounds of panic, she crawled out of the chair, afraid to move too fast, afraid to take her eyes off of what had been Angela Perkins. Every move, every sound was echoed by the monitor while the camera objectively recorded, its round, dark eye staring. Something tugged her back. On a soundless gasping scream, Deanna lifted her hands to fight what she couldn’t see, and tangled her fingers in the wires of a lapel mike.

  “Oh God. Oh God.” She tore herself free, hurling the mike aside and fleeing the set in a blind panic.

  She stumbled, caught a horrified glimpse of herself in the wide wall mirror. A hot laugh bubbled in her throat. She looked insane, she thought wildly. And she bit down on her hysteria, afraid it would slide from her throat in a mad chuckle. She nearly fell, tripping over her own feet as she ran down the dark corridor. Someone was breathing down her neck. She could feel it, she knew it, hot, greedy breath whispering behind her.

  Sobbing, she hurtled into her dressing room, slammed the door, threw the lock, then stood in the dark with her heart pounding like a rabbit’s.

  She fumbled for the light, then screamed again when her own reflection jumped at her. A glittery gold garland ringed the mirror. Like a noose, she thought. Like a spangled noose. Boneless with terror, she slid down against the door. Everything was spinning, spinning, and her stomach heaved in response. Clammy with nausea, she crawled to the phone. The sound of her own whimpering iced her skin as she punched the number for emergency.

  “Please, please help.” Dizzy and sick, she lay on the floor, cradling the receiver. “Her face is gone. I need help. The CBC Building, Studio B. Please hurry,” she said, and let the darkness swallow her.

  It was just past one A.M. when Finn arrived home. His first thoughts were for a hot shower and a warm brandy. He expected Deanna home within the hour, after whatever emergency meeting she had. She’d been vague about the details when she’d caught him between shoots, and he hadn’t had the time or the inclination to press. They’d both been in the business too long to question midnight meetings.

  He sent his driver off and started up the walk, both amused and embarrassed that the dog was setting up a din that would wake the neighbors for blocks.

  “Okay, okay, Cronkite. Try for a little dignity.” He reached for his keys as he climbed onto the porch, wondering why Deanna had forgotten to leave on the porch light. Little details like that never escaped her.

  Wedding plans were rattling her brain, he thought, pleased at the idea.

  Something crunched under his foot. He glanced down and saw the faint glitter of broken glass. His initial puzzlement turned to fury when he saw the jagged shards of the beveled glass panels beside the door.

  Then his mouth went dry. What if her meeting had been canceled? What if she’d come home? He burst through the door in thoughtless fear, shouting her name.

  Something crashed at the back of the house, and the dog’s frantic barking turned into a desperate howl. Thinking only of Deanna, Finn hit the lights before he sprinted toward the source of the crash.

  He found nothing but destruction, a mindless and brutal attack on their possessions. Lamps and tables were overturned, glassware shattered. When he reached the kitchen, his mind was cold as ice. He thought he saw a form running across the lawn. Even as he tore aside the shattered door to give chase, the dog howled again, scratching pitifully against the locked utility room door.

  He wanted to give chase. It burned in him to hunt down whoever had done this and throttle him. But the possibility that Deanna was somewhere in the house, hurt, stopped him.

  “Okay, Cronkite.” He unlocked the door and staggered back as the dog leaped joyously at him. His thick body was shivering. “Scared you, did he? Me too. Let’s find Deanna.”

  He searched every room, growing colder with every moment. The devastation was as total as tornado damage, both the priceless and the trivial capriciously destroyed.

  But the worst, the most terrifying, was the message scrawled in Deanna’s lipstick on the wall above the bed they shared.

  I loved you

  I killed for you

  I hate you

  “Thank God she wasn’t here. Thank God.” Grimly he picked up the phone and called the police.

  “Take it easy.” Lieutenant Jenner helped Deanna steady a glass of water.

  “I’m all right now.” But her teeth chattered on the rim of the glass. “I’m sorry. I know I was incoherent before.”

  “Understandable.” He’d had a good long look at Angela Perkins’s body and found Deanna’s condition understandable indeed. He didn’t blame her for huddling inside the locked room, needing to be gently persuaded to open the door to admit him. “You’re going to want to have a doctor take a look at you.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  Shock, he imagined. It was nature’s way of closing down the system and offering the illusion of comfort. But her eyes were still glassy, and even though he’d thrown his overcoat over her shoulders, she was shivering.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I found her. I came in and found her.”

  “What were you doing at the studio after midnight?”

  “She asked me to meet her. She called—she . . .” She sipped again. “She called.”

  “So you arranged to meet her here.”

  “She wanted to—to talk to me. She said she had information about . . .” Defenses clicked in. “About something I needed to know. I wasn’t going to come, then I thought it might be best if we had it out.”

  “What time did you get here?”

  “It was midnight. I looked at my watch in the parking lot.” The colored lights in the distance, the haze of Christmas cheer. “It was midnight. I thought maybe she hadn’t arrived yet, but she could have had her driver drop her off. So I let myself into the studio. And it was dark, so I thought she wasn’t here, and that was good. I wanted to be first. Then, when I started to turn on the lights, something hit me. When I woke up I was on the set, and I couldn’t think. The camera was on. Oh, God, the camera was on, and I saw, in the monitor, I saw her.” She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back the whimpers.

  “Take a minute.” Jenner leaned back.

  “I don’t know anything else. I ran in here and locked the door. I called the police, and I passed out.”

  “Did you see anybody on your way to the studio?”

  “No. No one. The cleaning crews would have gone by now. There would be a few people in the newsroom, manning the desk overnight, but after the last broadcast, the building clears out.”

  “You need a card to get into the building, don’t you?”

  “Yes. They put in a new security system about a year ago.”

  “Is this your purse, Miss Reynolds?” He held out a generous shoulder bag in smooth black leather.

  “Yes, that’s mine. I must have dropped it when I—when I came in.”

  “And this card.” He held up a clear plastic bag. Inside was a slim, laminated card with her initials in the corner.

  “Yes, that’s mine.”

  He set the bag aside and continued to take notes. “What time did Miss Perkins contact you about this meeting?”

  “About five. She called my office.”