Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material (10 page)

L
inus Nazareth strode right past Paige’s desk without acknowledging her and giving her no time to warn Eliza that the executive producer was coming. He rapped on the door frame with his knuckle but didn’t wait to be asked to enter. Linus looked annoyed when he saw that Eliza was on the phone.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Eliza was saying. “Why don’t you call Shaw’s Books in Westwood and see what he has? If Janie is interested, I think we should encourage it.”

Eliza looked up and held up her index finger, signaling that Linus should wait. He took a seat, his bulging stomach spilling over his belt. He crossed his legs, and his foot began tapping up and down. Unable to ignore his impatience, Eliza wrapped up the call.

“I’ll be leaving in a little while, Mrs. Garcia,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

Before Eliza could put the receiver in the cradle, Linus began to speak.

“I want you to cover the Wheelock funeral.”

Eliza frowned. “I
am
going to the funeral, Linus,” she said. “But I’m going as a friend,
not
as a reporter.”

“You can attend the funeral and still cover it,” said Linus. “Slip out toward the end and shoot a stand-up when the mourners come streaming out of the church.”

“Uh-uh,” said Eliza, shaking her head.

“I really don’t see the problem,” said Linus. Color rose in his pock-marked cheeks.

“I’m sorry, but I do,” Eliza said firmly. “If you want a story done, this time somebody else is going to have to do it. I intend to concentrate on the funeral, and I don’t want to be distracted by the knowledge that I have a deadline to meet.”

Eliza looked evenly at him while Linus glared back until he stood up and stalked out of the office without saying another word.

S
tanding on her terrace in her cashmere robe, her short dark hair still disheveled, Susannah Lansing looked down at the cars coming in and going out the Pentimento driveway. She used her binoculars to get a clearer view of the faces of the people who got out of those cars, walked to the front door, and were admitted inside. She recognized most of them, and they would recognize her, too—though Susannah also knew from experience that they would act as if they didn’t. They were experts in looking straight ahead and pretending she didn’t exist.

Susannah hated to admit it to herself, but she envied them and had wanted so much to be one of them. She wished that she were down there right now, with all the others paying their respects to Valentina Wheelock. Not that Susannah was sad that Innis was dead, but because she yearned to be with the people whose acceptance she craved.

“Mrs. Lansing?”

Jumping at the sound of her housekeeper’s voice, Susannah was embarrassed to be caught monitoring what was going on at the Wheelock home. She turned from the railing and walked back into the master bedroom.

“Yes, Bonnie, what is it?” Her voice was husky.

“We need some things at the store, Mrs. Lansing. Paper towels, detergent, furniture polish. I’m going to go out and get them now, if that’s okay with you.”

“All right, thank you, Bonnie.”

“Is there anything else you would like me to get while I’m out?”

“Yes, if you think you can find someplace that sells peace of mind,” said Susannah.

The housekeeper looked at Susannah with concern.

“Don’t worry, Bonnie. I’m all right. Go ahead and go to the store.”

“Maybe we could go together?” Bonnie suggested. “Maybe go for a ride? It’s such a pretty day out.”

Susannah put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulder. “Why are you so good to me?” she asked. “It must be misery working here, week after week, while I drag around and feel sorry for myself.”

“No it isn’t, Mrs. Lansing,” Bonnie lied. “I just wish there was something I could do to make you feel better.”

Susannah took her arm away and sat on the king-size bed. She looked up and said, “You know, Bonnie, you’re the only friend I have anymore.”

“That’s not true, Mrs. Lansing. You have many friends.”

Susannah shook her head and studied her fingers. “No, I don’t. The people in the park have nothing to do with me, and my old friends don’t bother calling to make plans anymore. I can’t say I blame them. I wouldn’t want to spend time with me either. I’ve become such a downer.”

“Don’t say that, Mrs. Lansing,” Bonnie soothed. “You’re just having a bad day. Why don’t I run a hot bath for you? It will make you feel better. And I’ll bring up a nice cup of tea for you to drink while you soak.”

But Susannah wasn’t listening. She lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “Bonnie, did they have cliques when you were in high school?” she asked. “You know, ‘in’ crowds that excluded people because they weren’t cool enough or didn’t fit in with the others in the group for any reason at all?”

Bonnie considered the question before answering. “Well, there were the popular kids and the not-very-popular ones. The popular people hung out together. Everybody else kind of watched them and wished they were in that group, I guess.”

“You know, Bonnie, believe it or not, I used to be one of the popular ones,” said Susannah as she continued studying the ceiling. “When I think back at how I used to ignore some of the poor kids who my friends and I considered losers, I’m ashamed of myself, because now I know exactly how they must have felt. Do you think God is punishing me for what I did back then?” asked Susannah.

“No, Mrs. Lansing. When I look around at this house and all the gorgeous furnishings and see your beautiful child and your handsome husband, I wouldn’t ever think that God is punishing you. I think God has been very, very good to you. You have everything anyone could ever want.”

Susannah sat up and hugged her knees. “Then why can’t I feel satisfied, Bonnie? Why am I so obsessed with the fact that we weren’t admitted to the Black Tie Club? Why am I letting it get to me?”

Bonnie’s tone was apologetic. “I don’t know, Mrs. Lansing. I don’t understand it, because if somebody didn’t want me to be part of their club—please excuse me for saying this, Mrs. Lansing—I’d say to hell with them.”

A
s the hybrid sedan crossed over the George Washington Bridge, Eliza sat back and looked out the left-side passenger’s window. The conversation with Linus had left her rattled. She didn’t like to say no when he had an assignment for her. Eliza felt that she and her coworkers were all on the same team, and if Linus was the
KTA
coach, then she wanted to execute the plays he called. On the other hand, she expected him to be respectful and understanding when she expressed her reticence about a particular story. But Eliza knew there was no middle ground with Linus. You were either with him or against him. He got his way, or sooner or later there would be a price to be paid.

If Linus knew about those cell-phone pictures he would be livid. To Linus those pictures would be invaluable, exclusive images that KEY News could use again and again to illustrate the story, elements that the competing news organizations didn’t have. No matter how private or painful the pictures were. Eliza was relieved that she had shared them only with Annabelle and B.J. and was confident they would go no further.

But as she thought of the pictures of Innis Wheelock’s bloodstained body, Eliza remembered what Annabelle and B.J. had discovered. The numbers had very deliberately been painted on the pot that was positioned next to the spot where he lay—and it was Innis himself who had made certain of that.

Innis Wheelock was trying to tell them all something. But why not come right out and say whatever it was? Why take the chance of nobody’s noticing the pot or the numbers? Innis was known to be eccentric, but his dying actions had gone beyond merely strange to bizarre.

During their final conversation, Innis had told her that he knew she would do what needed to be done. Eliza wasn’t sure what that would be, but she did know that the first chance she got, she was going to check out that spot on West Lake Road.

P
eter was watching MSNBC on his office television set and thinking that they hadn’t called him in a while to be a guest on
Hardball
when his assistant’s voice came over the intercom.

“Valentina Wheelock is on the line.”

He quickly clicked off the TV and grabbed the phone.

“How are you, Valentina?” he asked. “Are you holding up all right? What can I do to help?”

“It’s good to hear your voice, Peter. No matter how many things went wrong over the years, you were always able to make me feel better.”

“You pay me a very great compliment, Valentina,” he said. “I would have called you, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”

“Nonsense,” said Valentina.

“You don’t know how much it means to me to hear that,” said Peter.

“I’m puzzled, though, Peter. I knew that things had been strained between Innis and you since we came back from Italy, but Innis wouldn’t tell me why. Do you know why, Peter?”

“I have some idea, Valentina,” said Peter, “but it really isn’t anything I want to talk about or anything that Innis would want you to be involved with. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

“All right,” said Valentina. “But it would make me very happy if you would serve as an honorary pallbearer at the funeral tomorrow. However things ended up, you and Innis still shared so many triumphs in the past. And when this is all over, I want you to talk to Rusty about his future. Impress on him that he has to fly right if he ever plans to be elected to anything. With Innis gone, I hope I can count on you to be a male influence for my son.”

“I’m flattered,” responded Peter. “And believe me, I’ll do all I can to make sure Rusty gets to where he should go.”

Valentina hung up the phone.

Something was wrong. Something was definitely very wrong.

Eunice would never have left Valentina alone to deal with the neighbors who were stopping by to pay their respects.

During a lull in the stream of visitors, Valentina had been able to make important phone calls, and the time had slipped by. She’d been preoccupied, but now a feeling of dread washed over her.

Valentina opened the door, switched on the light, and looked down the steps.

“Oh, my God, no!” she cried as she rushed down the staircase.

T
he walls of Zack Underwood’s office were decorated with old architectural renderings along with a diploma from Pratt, a Historic Preservation Prize, and a certificate citing Zack as a finalist for the Cooper-Hewitt Architecture Design Award. Zack knew he could find a position with just about any of the most prestigious architectural firms in Manhattan, but he preferred to work for himself. For the most part, he liked working
by
himself, too.

Standing at his large drafting table, Zack spread the plans for Pentimento before him. After the completion of every job, Zack made sure that pictures were taken of the finished product. The photos were carefully arranged in books that could be shown to future clients who would be interested in seeing samples of his work. Going to the case, Zack took down the bright turquoise album. The shade of blue reminded him of the waters of the Mediterranean, and that’s why he chose it for the photos of Pentimento. Zack began turning the pages.

The images of the expansive double parlor were particularly impressive. Zack managed a slight smile when he thought of how enthusiastic Innis had been when the special quarter-sawn Tuscan walnut had arrived from Italy to replace the old flooring that was too warped to be refinished. And when that same container had brought the carved blocks that Innis planned to have as part of the decoration on the fireplace, he’d been almost gleeful. Zack hadn’t had the heart to tell Innis that having “ROMA” inscribed on the mantelpiece did nothing at all for him.

Zack winced when he got to the pictures that had been shot at the greenhouse. Innis had taken such an interest in the place where he would grow his beloved orchids and other beautiful plants. Sighing deeply, Zack thought it a shame that such a delightful living space would be forever linked with death.

He was about to close the book when he noticed it. The terra-cotta pot with the numbers on the side was positioned on the floor near the potting table. Zack had never cared for that pot, feeling that the bold black numbers on the side were jarring, standing out too much and not in keeping with the soft hues throughout the rest of the space. He had moved the pot to a less conspicuous place, shoving it beneath one of the long benches covered with plants. Innis had been almost apoplectic when he came into the greenhouse and noticed that pot was gone and had insisted that it be repositioned right where it had been before. Zack had shrugged and accepted it as just another one of Innis’s peculiar preferences.

But now, as he took a magnifying glass out of his desk drawer to get a better look, Zack wondered if the pot and its black numbers could have some sort of significance.

R
eporters, producers, and camera crews were staked out in front of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, anticipating the arrival of the hearse carrying the mortal remains of Innis Wheelock. While waiting, they made sure that video was taken as the funeral attendees entered the church. Most of the faces were not immediately recognizable, but the current governors of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut arrived with their spouses. The mayor of New York City came, and a large Secret Service contingent escorted a former president of the United States and his First Lady.

The church was located in the village of Tuxedo, outside the gates of Tuxedo Park and open to the public. The local population, cordoned off by police, watched the activity from the other side of the road. Bill O’Shaughnessy stood behind a wooden barricade, aware his time was limited. He had to get back to the Black Tie Club, where he was scheduled to tend bar at the repast following the funeral.

Moira’s funeral had been in the same church just six months before. It was a much simpler funeral, but Bill had been touched by the people who’d attended. Most were friends that Moira and he had known for many years, people from the area but not from the park. Like Bill, many of them made their living working for the park’s residents, but at the end of the day they left the private enclave to eat and sleep in their more modest dwellings outside the gates. There was a decided divide and sometimes tension between the parkies and the townies.

Few members of the Black Tie Club, people he had served for years, had bothered attending Moira’s funeral. Bill hadn’t really been all that surprised, but he
had
been hurt. The hurt turned to anger and resentment when he let himself think about the request he’d made a few years before her death.

When Bill celebrated his twenty-fifth anniversary as a club employee, he was asked what he would like as a gift. He responded without hesitation. His wife had always wanted to come and take a tour of the club, have a cocktail on the stone terrace overlooking Tuxedo Lake, maybe have dinner in the dining room. That’s what he most wanted to mark his quarter-century of service.

The request was denied.