40. The Dreadful News
Sharese sat alone in the dining area of Patricia’s apartment. Everything was almost unbearably intense – the morning sunlight streaming in through the glass wall, the white surfaces of the ceiling and counters, the beige colored floor and the glass tabletop. In all its glaring whiteness, this place could be mistaken for the anteroom to heaven, but it was far from heavenly.
Patricia had just left the shower and was back in the bedroom getting dressed now. Soon she would come out here for breakfast. What then?
Sharese sipped her coffee and munched toast, still unable to get a firm grip on last night’s events. How could she have so quickly come under Patricia’s erotic spell? One moment she was determined to confront her about some plot against Laila, the next she was hurtling down a path she’d never imagined taking. The power of the Armstrong clan was scary, overwhelming.
Well, too late to cry over spilt milk, or any other stray fluids. Only one thing was certain – she had to put a stop to this. She needed to get out of here, the sooner the better!
Then again, it would be nice to look upon Patricia once more, just for a minute, of course ... have another coffee, and maybe one of those joints ...
She heard the ring of Patricia’s phone coming from the bedroom. Moments latter, a piercing scream shattered the morning. Sharese sprang out of her chair.
“What happened?” she called.
Patricia came running, half dressed, out of the bedroom. An expression of wild grief contorted her face.
“It’s father!” she cried. “He’s dead!”
“Ohhh...” Sharese moaned.
“She killed him!” Patricia shrieked. “I know it, that bitch killed him!”
She burst into hysterical sobs.
Sharese looked on with horror. She wanted to offer comfort, but what could she do? And Patricia’s accusation had shocked her to the core.
Laila!
Pausing only long enough to seize her handbag reposing by the blood red pillow, Sharese made for the door, then out to the elevator. Thank God no card was required for it on this floor. She stabbed the button and zoomed down to the lobby.
A new guard was on duty at the security station, and a new doorman let her out to the street. They both gave her admiring looks, but she paid no attention.
$$$
Henry and Debbie Armstrong sat at their breakfast table, numbed and distraught. The whole world seemed to have become unhinged in a moment. Henry lifted his coffee cup with a trembling hand. Debbie reached across the table and gripped her husband’s other hand which lay there cold as ice.
“Oh, my God ....” Henry said. “I thought he’d live forever.”
The children had not yet heard the news about their grandfather’s death and were playing with their usual raucousness in the older boy’s room. Their mother rose stiffly from her chair and went to tell them.
$$$
Carlita Blade sat before her pink IBM Selectric, utterly devoid of ideas. Vapid music played over the radio, increasing the sense of time passing uselessly. She disliked the sound of it but lacked the energy to get up and change the station. She felt alone and deserted in the midst of her writer’s block.
I must be too old for this game any longer, she thought morosely.
She’d already realized her fondest dream when The Quandt Street Assassin hit the best-seller lists a decade ago. Maybe she should just get out of the way and let younger writers take over the romance / homicide genre.
She was badly bogged down in the Lawn of Death script. After the torrid opening scene, she’d drifted off into dull background information about the wealthy and remote Lord Albert and his ravishing young wife. She’d tried to set the stage for the murder plot between the wife and the handsome young landscaper, but it wasn’t working.
It was all boring, Carlita knew. And if it bored her, what on earth would the readers think? She looked idly out the window toward the bird feeder.
She’d refilled it this morning and had scattered seed other places as well. Little heaps reposed on the driveway pavement and atop the cover of a disused barbeque grill. The bounty had attracted numerous sparrows and a pair of cardinals who watched the feeding frenzy from atop the garage – a subdued, greenish female and a bright red male.
A large blue jay appeared among the lesser birds on the drive, intent on eating its fill.
Suddenly, the male cardinal swooped down from the garage and attacked the blue jay. They battled furiously along the pavement. The jay was much the larger of the two birds, but he was soon defeated and driven off. The cardinal resumed his perch alongside his lady atop the garage.
Carlita sipped her tea and observed the route with keen interest. There seemed to be some sort of message here – what was it, though? Soon the blue jay returned, attempting his luck on the grill top this time. Again the male cardinal attacked and drove him away.
“Bravo, my fine feathered friend,” Carlita said.
She felt uplifted by the scene, but that did not translate into writing inspiration. The typewriter still glared back at her with the blank sheet of paper on its platen, its motor humming expectantly. The music coming from the radio became unbearable.
“Enough of that damned noise, already,” she muttered in an ill-tempered voice.
She left her chair and headed for the radio blaring from the bookshelf. But before she could get there, the news report came on:
“Noted venture capitalist and real estate developer, Frank Armstrong, died suddenly at his home this morning from an apparent heart attack. He was pronounced dead at ...”
“Oh!”
Carlita halted in her tracks, eyes wide. Then a huge smile exploded across her face.
“I’ve got it!”
She sprang back to work with fiery inspiration; the house reverberated with the Selectric’s pounding rhythm. Carlita’s faith and confidence had been restored.
$$$
High above the world of ordinary men, taking a short break amid the clutter of his trade, Gus the Roofer heard the same radio broadcast.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said.