Kindle Notes & Highlights
"Hiding. But he's not talking. We swept the house but haven't found anything. No fingerprints, nothing. I asked him what he thought someone might want in his house and he looked at me like I was crazy. Then I asked him if he had any idea who might have broken in, and he said—"
"You mean how complicated it is, Spencer," Kate Weston stresses, patting his back before hitting the elevator button again. "If you're going to change your life, you have to start by changing your language, which will change your thinking and your behavior, right?'" She grins at me. "We're working on a self-help book that has some catchy stuff in it."
It is clear that Spencer is well liked. We stop in offices and in alcoves all over the floor, meeting everyone from a senior editor to an art director to a man in a closet who is in charge of supplies. The latter likes me because he's handicapping his bets in the back pages of the New York Post and I know how to do this because Mr. Quimby has taught me. We talk ponies a bit and I invite him to come up to Connecticut sometime to go to Mohegan Sun or Foxwoods.
"It's very nice to meet you. You're the reporter, aren't you? The one writing for Expectations?"
I am surprised. "Really? Why?" "Well... " He sighs. "Her infidelity, for one." "Her infidelity with you," I clarify. "With me," he confirms. "Particularly because of Corbie Junior." He lowers his voice. "Kate and her husband have been having trouble getting pregnant, so I think she's particularly hypersensitive on the topic of motherhood."
"Jessica Wright? The talk-show lady? What the hell was she doing there?"
Now I take a step back to screech, "I can't believe you! Who haven’t you slept with?"
I'm smiling and shaking my head, no doubt thinking the same thing, Men are weird.
I had simply written Spencer. "I'm here about you setting me up to hurt Jackson Darenbrook— by sandbagging Cassy." "What are you talking about?" she says irritably. "You're writing about her life. The truth about her life. What's the problem?" She narrows her eyes.
Verity swallows. "I cannot publish some cream-puff piece in Expectations," she says, braving it out in a slightly nasal tone of voice. "I know you think you're the greatest thing since Nellie Bly, Sally, but frankly, we don't." Oh, shove it, Verity! I want to say. But I'm the new and improved adult version of Sally Harrington, so for Mother's sake I won't. "I was going to suggest you just run a photo essay," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "I'll send you material you can pull captions from."
"And you're going to get the Pulitzer Prize." I walk over to the table. "Here's a check made out to Expectations for five thousand dollars," I say, tossing my personal check on the table. "Here is your credit card." I drop the six pieces I had cut the card into. "And here is another check for the two thousand-four hundred and eleven dollars of expenses I've charged on it to date."
"You little country tramp," she whispers, her lip starting to curl. "So you have been fucking him." With that, Verity throws her head back and laughs. "Oh, my dear, really," she says, suddenly fleeing to the door, "you can have him."
"Spencer—I know she did. And she won't be messing with me anymore, because you're going out there, right now, and call her and tell her what's happened. Tell her I already gave what she wanted back to Cassy, and that her thug screwed up and will be in the Castleford jail, and if she thought I was angry before, she should see me now. And then I want you to come back in here and tell me what she says."
"He wanted to check things out for himself," Buddy says carefully. "Because he was having a hard time believing that what Phillip O'Hearn said was happening to the building, was really happening?"
"We know now, Mrs. Harrington, that several years ago Phillip O'Hearn set Tony Meyers up in the hazardous-waste disposal business in Long Island. And we know that Tony called his brother, Johnny Boy, in Florida about a month ago to say he was in trouble. The books on his operation in Long Island were a mess and he said he was worried that something might happen to him. He said he wanted to send Johnny Boy a key to a storage unit in Wethersfield. The next thing Johnny knew, he heard Tony had been shot dead here in Castleford, and so he played it safe, sent his family away and went off the
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"And admit up front," Buddy nearly growls from the door, "that we have nothing to compare it to, even to confirm that it was a part of the gym?"
"Well you certainly can't go public," I say. "You're not supposed to even exist."
"What do you think?" Scotty has pushed his way between us to press the wet tennis ball against Spencer's thigh as a small hint. "You're such a rascal, aren't you?" I ask Scotty, bending slightly. "No, don't jump up. That's a good boy." I straighten up and toss the ball.” "If anyone can do something, DBS News can."
"Well, sitting down around some barrel," he says. "One guy was talking and I swear, I could have been right back in Maine. The accent was absolutely on target—aye-yup."
He is so excited that I think, gosh, maybe he would like living out here. At least part of the time. I wonder if maybe...
She comes around the car and starts pointing at me again. "I've known you since the day you were born, Sally. How dare you implicate my husband in the misfortune your family suffered—"
Tonight DBS News Magazine is running a story called "Murder in Castleford." Will Rafferty produced the story and Alexandra is the reporter. I must say, even though I thought I knew everything in the case, I am fascinated by how they unfold it. They have covered all angles: the police, the FBI, Johnny Boy, Mother, me and Rob, the fire chief, the coroner, the whole nine yards for over twenty-one years.
The next day was Pete Sabatino's once-a-week meeting at the Herald-American with reporter Sally Harrington, the daughter of the man killed twenty-one years ago. It was during that meeting Pete first blurted out to Sally he thought maybe somebody might have killed her father.
She looks at him then, as much as to say, Did he by chance do a little demolition work just before Mr. Harrington died? but she doesn't have to voice the question.
Rob elbows me like he used to when we were kids. "You is bad, girl," he whispers. At this point, the attention moves to the man in prison awaiting trial for the murder of Tony Meyers. His story, as given to us by a Russian translator, is that Tony Meyers was messing around with his wife and that's why he tracked him down and killed him. The only problem is, as DBS News Magazine has learned, the suspect's wife is still in Moscow. Clearly, this is a put-up job.
He nods. "Uh-huh. And Dad told me to get you up there before I blow it. He saw the DBS News Magazine piece and thinks you're hot stuff."
Dear Mrs. Harrington, After a brief discussion at our executive committee meeting this week, we have unanimously voted to make a contribution to the Wilbur Kennett Harrington scholarship fund that has been in existence in Castleford since 1980.
Please find the enclosed check for $50,000 and a matching donation from my husband, Jackson Darenbrook, for the same amount. It is our greatest wish that the memory of your husband may further serve to inspire young people. I know, firsthand, of the numerous good qualities you and your husband have inspired in your daughter, Sally. We are, in fact, hopeful we may entice your daughter to join our staff at our affiliate station in New Haven, WSCT- TV. In that regard, Sally may expect to hear from us directly. On behalf of all of us at DBS, I send our sincerest best wishes. Cassy Cochran,
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"Really?" Cassy says. I can see that she is pleased. She's right, working on this piece has been good for her. A month ago she would have been trying to crawl under the car to hide from this.
Can still write for Herald-American or other periodicals. In good faith I approve this offer in principle and hereby extend it to Sally Harrington There was a line, under which said Alexandra Waring. And on the next line, it said, In good faith I accept this offer in principle to DBS News, Inc., a space and her name printed out by hand, Sally Harrington.
Thank heavens she doesn't know what I've been making at the Herald-American.
The dogs are dragging branches and they're looking at me and Cassy in hopeful collusion.
Another good point. I know I can do better than most of the station's on-air talent.
