To Have and to Kill (12 page)
Read To Have and to Kill Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
W
hen she saw the security guards flagging people with knapsacks, large purses, and briefcases off the line, Martha was glad she had decided against bringing her camera gear. She only had a small, flat pouch slung over her shoulder. When she arrived at the long table that had been set up just inside the church doors to serve as a search station, the guard nodded and waved her on.
As she slowly walked up the long aisle through the nave of the cathedral, Martha’s head turned from side to side. Her photographer’s eye was bombarded with images of people who heroically devoted themselves to God. Now their accomplishments were celebrated in stained-glass windows, statues, and side altars.
There were colorful interpretations of Elizabeth, Queen of Hungary, bearing a basket of roses transformed from bread for the poor; St. John the Evangelist holding a chalice from which sprang a serpent; the archangel Gabriel announcing to the Virgin Mary that she would be the Mother of God; and dozens of other religious stories artfully depicted in glass. A shrine to Elizabeth Ann Seton, the first American-born saint—which featured panels including scenes of New York Harbor, since she had lived in New York City, and Emmitsburg, Maryland, where she founded the Sisters of Charity—was one among many that graced the walls. Martha’s favorite was the Altar of the Holy Face, where a mosaic image of Christ’s face on Veronica’s veil shone from the back wall.
She took a seat in the pew perpendicular to that altar and noticed that Christ’s eyes could appear opened or closed, depending on how she positioned herself. Could he really see into her heart and know how relieved she was?
The money the newspaper had paid her for Travis’s photos did not resolve her financial situation but had ameliorated it somewhat. It was wrong to be secretly happy when another person’s misfortune led to your own bonanza, but it was human, too.
H
eads turned as another limousine pulled up at the curb. Glenna Brooks alighted from the car, and the camera crews and photographers sprang into action. By the time her fiancé came around and joined her from the other side of the car, the paparazzi were jostling for advantage.
Glenna braced herself for the usual barrage of demands, but the cameramen were subdued, quietly calling out “Glenna” or “Ms. Brooks” to get her to turn her head.
Glenna and Casey made their way up the steps as a black hearse pulled to a stop in front of the bronze-door entrance. Men in black overcoats unloaded the casket, and bagpipers, dressed in plaid kilts, black berets, and spats, stood on the steps, welcoming the body of Travis York into the cathedral.
T
he priest stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the sanctuary, placing a teaspoon of incense over the hot coals. After a deep bow, he looked up to the crucifix while clanging the brass thurible three times against its chain. Following another bow, he slowly climbed the steps and walked around the altar, sending plumes of perfumed smoke into the air with each gentle swing.
Quent wasn’t paying attention to the religious aspects of what was happening in front of him. He squirmed in the pew, eager for the whole thing to be over. The incense was bothering his eyes, and beads of perspiration peppered his brow as he thought about all the things he had to do and how the funeral was cutting into his precious time.
There were the final scenes to shoot, the huge move to L.A. to contend with, and, right now, most urgent on his list was talking with the
ALRMF
press agent and making sure he was milking the tragedy for all the media attention it was worth. The overnights showed that ratings had skyrocketed. Quent wanted to keep the momentum going for as long as possible.
Access Hollywood
and
Inside Edition
had led with Travis’s death on Friday night and with the investigation last night. Quent thought it was a good bet that the entertainment shows would start off with the funeral tonight.
Audiences were fascinated by murder.
T
he casket was positioned just in front of a central bronze gate decorated with kneeling angels,
which divided the marble communion rail. In the sanctuary, on the other side of the saint-bedecked rail, steps draped with an antique Oriental carpet led to a white marble altar surrounded with banks of red poinsettias and six tall, shining candlesticks. On a massive column to the left, an imposing Saint Patrick stood guard over his cathedral, holding a sprig of shamrock.
At the deep end of the sanctuary, behind the front altar, was another, grander one, crowned with an intricate bronze baldachin full of symbolic decorations and figures of even more saints. The archbishops of New York were buried under the high altar, their wide-brimmed galeros with hanging tassels eerily suspended from the ceiling high above.
The red leather-padded kneelers were still a little hard on the knees, but it seemed an especially appropriate time to give thanks. The worst was over. The deed was done. There had been no negative repercussions. And, so far, it didn’t appear that the police had a clue who had killed Travis York.
Glory to God in the highest.
S
he tried not to look at the casket, tried not to think about Travis lying, cold and still, inside. As the priest blessed the casket with holy water, tears filled Peggy Gould’s eyes. Her faith was being tested.
As she ran her fingers through her short, white hair, Peggy knew that it wasn’t God who had poisoned Travis. It was a human being, with free will, who had taken his life. Yet she couldn’t understand why God allowed something like this to happen. It was so senseless and such a waste.
She took some consolation as she looked around. The turnout for Travis’s funeral would have made him proud. The pews were filled and people stood in the side aisles. Among the many Peggy didn’t recognize at all, there were some that she did. Including the person she should probably tell the police about.
She
had
remembered something.
Throughout the remainder of the service, Peggy wrestled mentally. What was the right thing to do? What if what she had seen as she rushed past the school ballroom on her way to deliver the clean dress to Glenna had no significance? What if she told the police about it and an innocent person became the chief suspect in a murder case? There would be headlines and media scrutiny and, even if it turned out there was nothing to what Peggy had seen, the suspect’s life would never be the same.
Thou shalt not bear false witness.
Peggy didn’t want to be responsible for ruining somebody’s life with a baseless accusation. On the other hand, she didn’t want a killer to go free.
T
he priest climbed the curved staircase that led to the octagon-shaped pulpit. Piper tried to make out which saints were carved on the marble sides, but she wasn’t close enough to see. It didn’t really matter. Unless their names were incised beneath, she doubted she’d be able to recognize them anyway.
Dressed in white vestments, the priest began his eulogy.
“Travis York was known to millions. And loved by them, too.”
Looking down at her lap, Piper fiddled with the fingers of her leather gloves. She remembered the first time she and Travis had had a scene together. She had been so nervous. Yet he had put her at ease almost instantly with his self-deprecating sense of humor.
“He had a boyish charm and a ready smile, both on and off the screen.”
What a loss of a good human being. What a waste of talent. What an outrage that someone would actually kill Travis York.
“But we are here this morning not just to remember what Travis said and did, but what the Lord said and did—for Travis, and for us.”
For Piper, God’s plan was hard to see in this. She wanted to hear the priest quote chapter and verse: “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” And if God didn’t want to do it directly, Piper wanted the NYPD or FBI or somebody to bring Travis York’s killer to justice.
She wished she could help.
A
fter the service was over, Piper stood in respect, remaining with the others in the church as the casket was rolled back down the main aisle. She knew that Travis was not going to be buried today. His body was being flown back to Scottsbluff, Nebraska, to be laid to rest in the town where he grew up.
While she waited, Piper spotted Peggy Gould on the other side of the church. Their eyes met, and Piper signaled that she would meet Peggy outside.
When they got together on the sidewalk, Piper could see that Peggy had been crying.
“Come on,” said Piper, putting her arm around Peggy’s shoulders. “Let’s go over to the Sea Grill. We’ll have something to eat and drink. That’ll make us feel better.”
“You go ahead. I’ll meet you there in a little bit,” said Peggy. “There’s somebody I want to talk with first. Wish me luck.”
“Why do you need luck?” asked Piper.
But Peggy didn’t hear. She had already turned and was walking back up the church steps.
M
ore than a thousand white candles sheltered in amber-tinted glass cups twinkled throughout the cathedral. Candle stands were located at the entrances, at the many side altars, and in various other places, making it easy to find a candle to light as a way to remember a loved one or pray for a special intention. Phillip wanted to light one before he left.
He held back from the other mourners streaming down the main aisle on their way out of the building. Instead, Phillip went toward the left, stopping at the Altar of the Holy Face. He stared at the dark statue perched at the side of the altar. Behind the communion rail stood St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Most of the candles in front of him were already lit.
Taking his wallet, Phillip pulled out a bill and stuffed it into the donation slot. He picked up a long, thin wooden stick from the front of the stand, lit it from the flame of an already-burning candle, and transferred the flame to an unlit votive in the middle of the bottom row. Then he stood before the statue and bowed his head.
Phillip knew that many desperate people made promises that if the saint helped when called upon, a note of thanks would be published in the newspaper. He had seen the listings in the personal ads.
Thank you, St. Jude
or
St. Jude, I thank you for your intercession in response to my prayers.
Each notice represented a prayer that had been answered.
While he was in prison, Phillip had scoffed at his cell-mate’s repeated prayers to St. Jude. It hadn’t helped the guy any, as far as Phillip could see. Phillip hadn’t bothered to pray back then. He had to do his time and there would be no miraculous intervention. The federal prison system would see to that. Phillip had been resigned to his fate.
But now Phillip knew the true meaning of desperation. He was in despair at the thought that his Glenna was marrying someone else only ten days from now. As each day brought the wedding closer, Phillip was growing more hopeless. And full of rage. Glenna was his and she shouldn’t be with another man.
Things had spiraled downward and his feelings scared him. It had been a mistake to go to the studio yesterday and confront Glenna, but he hadn’t been able to help it. He couldn’t control himself.
When all other hope was gone, St. Jude was said to be the one to call upon, though his help often came at the very last moment. Phillip prayed that St. Jude would come to his aid before Glenna’s Christmas Eve wedding.
But in case the whole St. Jude thing was a bunch of bull, Phillip was going to take action of his own.
I
t took her breath away.
Every year, for as long as she could remember, Piper had come to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Every time it left her breathless. Even though the tree made traffic a nightmare, it had the ability to turn crowded midtown Manhattan into a fantasy land.
Piper stood at the top of the promenade that led from Fifth Avenue down to the outdoor skating rink, the fountain, and the colossal golden statue of Prometheus. The fantastic Christmas tree presided over all of it. The promenade was lined by fine stores and featured gardens down the middle, providing greenery and benches for rest. At the sides of the gardens, angels made from white wire and little white lights faced each other. They held up their brass horns, heralding the season and the ninety-foot Norway spruce. Two dozen electricians had spent two weeks attaching thirty thousand colored lights to the branches of the most famous tree in America.
Beneath the limestone skyscrapers, there was an underground city. It was an imposing network of walkways that led to the subway and to every building in Rockefeller Center. The vast labyrinth was lined with stores and places to eat.
Piper spotted the heavy glass-and-metal doors in the middle of the Promenade. As she entered the building, she was met by a doorman.
“Hi, I’m going to the Sea Grill,” she said.
“Of course,” he said, nodding in the direction of the stairway that led down beneath the ground.
