Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material (8 page)

N
obody locks their doors in this park. Anybody could just walk into a place like Pentimento. Later, when it was done, anyone could be suspect.

This morning is as good a day as any to deal with the nosy maid.

She can’t be allowed to reveal what she heard.

T
he cab dropped Annabelle off in front of the Broadcast Center. She pushed through the heavy revolving door to the lobby and looked up at the big clock on the wall. It was 2:15
A.M.
Annabelle scanned her identification card over the security turnstile.

“Hi, Herman,” she said to the guard as she pushed through. “How’s it going tonight?”

“Fine, ma’am, fine.”

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, you know.”

The guard smiled broadly.

“The sooner the better,” added Annabelle. “I’m crazy about you, Herman, but this is my last overnight, I hope, for a very long time.”

“Good for you, ma’am. Have a nice night, then.”

“I’ll try, Herman. I’ll try.”

How does Herman manage to be so unfailingly pleasant at these god-forsaken hours?
Annabelle had all she could do to keep from tearing somebody’s throat out.

She dropped off her jacket and tote bag in the newsroom and checked her computer to see what she was scheduled to do. There was nothing that couldn’t wait for the next fifteen minutes. Annabelle walked to the elevator and took it down to the editing floor.

B.J. was in the same place he had been the last time she saw him. Now his feet were up on the desk and he was leaning back doing a sudoku puzzle.

“Do you ever work?” she asked.

“Not if I can help it.” He held up the newspaper, preening. “I finished this in under three minutes.”

“I’ve figured out something much bigger,” said Annabelle with a smirk.

“Yeah? What?”

“The numbers on the pot near Innis Wheelock’s body. Look.” She handed him the magazine opened to the picture of Angelina Jolie.

“She’s hot, all right,” said B.J.

“Look at her arm, Beej. Look at her arm.”

“Thin, toned, tattooed.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Annabelle said with urgency. “Look at the tattoos.”

She watched as B.J. studied the picture and then read the caption.

“Get it? The tattoos are the map coordinates of where each of her kids was born,” said Annabelle with enthusiasm. “The numbers on the greenhouse pot could be longitude and latitude numbers.”

“Let’s see,” said B.J., sitting forward. He brought up on the monitor the picture Eliza had taken, zooming in on the grainy photo, and the numbers painted on the terra-cotta pot appeared on the screen. “They look like 41-11 8-3508 and 74-13 9-0552,” he said. “I don’t know much, but that isn’t how longitude and latitude coordinates look.”

“Well, let’s see if we can get some help on the Web.”

Together they turned to a computer terminal and quickly discovered that the terra-cotta pot that lay next to Innis Wheelock’s body pointed the way to a spot on West Lake Road in Tuxedo Park.

T
he clock screeched, rousing Eliza from a deep sleep. She groaned as she reached out and turned off the alarm. Then she rolled over and pulled the down blanket close around her, trying to get herself psyched to get out of bed.

Four-thirty. Who was up at four-thirty? Nurses, police, firefighters, bakers, waitresses who made their living in all-night diners, and others staffing the places that were open twenty-four hours a day. The news business was operating all the time as well, and this was the career she’d chosen.

She had no right to resent these miserable hours. After all, she’d asked to host the morning program again. And she was being paid
far
more than anyone else she could think of who worked while it was still dark outside.

When the phone rang, she dived for it before it could sound a second time. She knew who was going to be on the other end.

“Good morning,” she said sleepily.

“Hello, honey,” said Mack. “How are you this morning?”

“Better, now that I hear your voice,” said Eliza.

“I wish I were there with you.”

“I wish you were, too,” she said, rolling onto her side and fluffing her pillow. “I so wish you were here. How’s everything going over there in jolly old England?”

“The rumor is that the president is making some real progress with these guys,” said Mack. “In fact, I’m in the middle of writing a piece about it for your show.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” said Eliza.

“Anything for you. And while we’re on the subject of what I can do for you, how about if I fly home this weekend and we can come up with a list of other things you need doing.”

Eliza smiled in the dark as she thought about the prospect. If Janie was going away with the Cohens for the weekend, she and Mack could drive up to Tuxedo Park and have the carriage house all to themselves.

“I could definitely go for that,” she said. “And I’ll start making that list.”

Her hair was still damp from the shower when the car left Eliza off in front of the Broadcast Center. She walked briskly through the lobby, the guard pushing a button so she didn’t have to show her identification card to get past the security post. She strode directly to the makeup room.

Ruthie Pointer was waiting to blow out Eliza’s shoulder-length hair before it dried completely. Eliza put a nylon robe on over her clothes and climbed into the elevated chair. While Ruthie worked on her brunette locks, Eliza read through the notes for the broadcast.

When Eliza’s hair was styled, Doris Brice took over with her makeup kit. Wearing a zebra-striped jumpsuit and Chanel sneakers, Doris applied foundation, blush, and powder. She gave special attention to the eyes, choosing the shade of shadow that she knew from long experience would make Eliza’s blue eyes pop on the screen. To make Eliza’s eyes seem larger and more open, Doris used white powder to highlight the skin beneath her eyebrows.

“What do you think?” asked Doris as she stood back and surveyed her artistry.

Eliza looked up from her reading material and regarded herself in the mirror.

“I look tired,” she said. “But I’ll make up for it over the weekend.”

Doris was unconvinced. “That doesn’t work,” she said. “Once you’ve lost sleep, you’ve lost it. And that’s not good for your skin. It’s not good for you, period.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Eliza. “I promise. I’ll try to do better.”

“See that you do,” answered Doris with mock severity, wagging her finger up and down.

Eliza noticed the
Daily News
on the counter. She leaned forward and picked it up. The paper was still headlining the Wheelock story.

“‘Suicide by Stigmata.’”

“Creeps me out,” said Doris. “I always think that if I ever want to commit suicide, I’m going with the car-exhaust-in-a-closed-garage plan. The carbon monoxide leaves your skin all pink and glowing.”

Annabelle and B.J. were waiting for Eliza when she arrived at the
KTA
studio.

“We’ve got something to show you,” said B.J. “Can you come downstairs for a minute?”

Eliza looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes till airtime.

“All right, but let’s make it fast.”

As they rode down in the elevator, Annabelle explained about the numbers on the side of the terra-cotta pot in the greenhouse.

“I didn’t even notice those,” said Eliza.

“Why would you?” asked Annabelle. “With a dead body and five stab wounds oozing blood staring you in the face, who would notice some numbers on a flowerpot?”

“Obviously you two did,” said Eliza.

“Actually, believe it or not, it was B.J. who noticed them,” said Annabelle, feigning disbelief. “He enlarged the picture to see them better.”

“And it was Annabelle who figured out what the numbers meant,” said B.J. “Her obsession with those gossip magazines finally paid off.”

In the editing room, Eliza looked at the photo enlargement.

“All right, I give up,” she said. “What do the numbers mean?” B.J. handed her the computer printout. “Those are the latitude and longitude coordinates for a spot on West Lake Road in Tuxedo Park.”

Eliza shrugged. “I guess that makes sense,” said Eliza. “The Wheelocks’ house is on West Lake Road.”

B.J. shook his head. “Look at this map, Eliza. You can see an aerial shot of all the houses on West Lake Road.” He pointed to one of the larger roofs. “That one is the Wheelock house. But see that X way down at the end of the road, the deserted section at the bottom of the lake, where there are no houses around?”

Eliza nodded.

“That’s the spot the numbers indicate,” said B.J.

“That’s weird, isn’t it?” asked Annabelle. “Maybe we should add something about it in our piece.”

“Let’s hold off,” said Eliza, “until we know if it’s even pertinent to the story.”

E
unice showered and dressed in her basement apartment before going upstairs to the kitchen. She walked to the front of the house, opened the always unlocked front door, went out to the driveway, and picked up the
New York Times
. Going back inside, she took the newspaper from its blue plastic wrapping, spread it out on the kitchen table, and began perusing the front page. The Wheelock story was there again, but below the fold today.

She wondered if anything was going to happen to her job. Would Mrs. Wheelock continue living at Pentimento? Would she find it too hard? Eunice hoped not. Mrs. Wheelock was nice to work for, and Eunice really needed the job, sending money back to Trinidad every month to help support her family there.

Turning to the task at hand, Eunice took the bag of coffee from the cupboard and scooped the appropriate amount into the grinder. While the machine pulverized the beans, she took butter from the refrigerator and left it on the counter to soften.

Mrs. Wheelock had barely swallowed a morsel since everything had happened Sunday night. Eunice planned to prepare a nice breakfast for her and was determined to make sure she actually ate it. She set the coffee brewing and sliced an orange in half. She was twisting it on the juicer when she suddenly sensed that she was not alone.

Her body swung around. When she saw who it was, she held her hand to her chest.

“You scared me,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s just that it’s so early, and I wasn’t expecting anyone,” said Eunice. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“A cup of coffee would be nice.”

Eunice set the sugar bowl and creamer on the table. Her hand trembled as she poured a cupful of the black, steaming liquid.

“There you go,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Eunice answered. She waited tensely to see if there was something else required of her.

“Go ahead and do what you were doing, Eunice. Don’t mind me. We can talk while you work.”

The woman nodded and turned to the refrigerator, taking out eggs, ham, onions, and peppers.

“What are you making?”

“A frittata,” she said.

“Sounds good.”

Eunice smiled weakly.

“You know, Eunice, we have to talk about it.”

Eunice shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do. I know that you were standing outside the door, listening to my conversation with Innis. Please don’t bother denying it.”

Eunice answered with silence.

“So you heard everything. You know what I’ve done. The question is, are you going to tell anyone about it?”

The woman hesitated. She averted her eyes as she answered softly, “No, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“How do I know that you’re telling the truth? How do I know that you’ll keep your word?”

“Because it’s a sin to tell a lie?” Eunice asked uncertainly.

“Not as big a sin as what I’ve done, Eunice. Right?”

Eunice didn’t respond.

“Answer me, Eunice. What I’ve done is terrible, isn’t it?”

Eunice nodded.

“And you are a very religious person, aren’t you, Eunice? You go church and pray all the time.”

“Yes,” said Eunice. “I do the best I can.”

“So how does a religious person, a person who believes in God, keep quiet about something like you know about me? How, in good conscience, can you not go to the police?”

She cast her eyes downward.

“That’s what I thought, Eunice. You aren’t going to be able to keep my secret.”

Eunice began backing away, terrified by the piercing eyes that bored into hers. Then she turned to run. As she got to the doorway that led down to her rooms, she felt the hands push against her back.

She tumbled down the stairs, eyes shut tight, feeling her body banging against the wooden steps, over and over, coming to rest at the bottom on the hard, cold cement floor. As she lay there, stunned and already in sharp pain, she could hear the heavy footsteps descending toward her.

There was no place to hide, not enough time to get up and scramble away. Eunice kept her eyes shut, certain that her only chance was to act as if she were already dead. She willed herself to keep still, tried to calm her breathing.

“Nice try, Eunice. But not good enough.”

Eunice opened her eyes and began to pray as a pillow from her own bed pressed over her face.