When Day Breaks (23 page)

T
he owner of the Dropped Stitch Needlecraft Shop parked her Volvo in one of the spaces behind the store. She was surprised to see Ursula’s old car in the adjoining spot. Ursula wasn’t scheduled to give classes today. She soon discovered that the rear door of the shop was unlocked as well.

“Ursula?” she called as she entered. “Ursula, it’s me.”

The owner’s curiosity turned to concern when there was no response. She walked into the front room and spotted Ursula’s needlecraft bag sitting on the table. She looked through the picture window to the sidewalk out front, hoping that Ursula was tending to the pots of annuals she had planted a few days ago. But nobody was there, and the front door was still locked.

“Ursula?” she called out again.

Should she phone the police? she wondered. Would they think she was overreacting? There were several possible explanations as to where Ursula might be. She could have gone to get a cup of coffee or a newspaper. She might have run over to the bank. Maybe she had to drop something off at the dry cleaners.

The shop owner went about her business, unpacking a shipment of wool and arranging it on the shelves. She attended to the first customer of the morning, helping her pick out some sock-knitting yarn. Then another customer came in to match some wool for the background of a needlepoint canvas she was finishing. After the third customer had purchased several skeins for an afghan throw she was starting, the owner went to the back of the store, ready to call the police.

As she reached for the phone, she realized that the police would ask her if she’d checked everywhere. She hadn’t checked the cellar.

W
hen Eliza arrived at the Broadcast Center, she met up with Lauren Adams as they waited for the elevator. The two women walked together into the empty car.

“How’s it going?” asked Eliza.

“Well, for starters, I just fired Boyd Irons,” Lauren announced.

Eliza looked startled. “You’re kidding. Why? Just yesterday you were speaking up for him with our legal department.”

“No, I’m not kidding,” Lauren said vehemently. “There’s no way I want him to work for me anymore. I’d never be able to trust him. Did you see the show this morning?”

“Just a little bit,” Eliza answered, thinking the time had been better spent paying attention to her daughter.

“The interviews with Boyd and Jason Vaughan, the writer?”

Eliza shook her head. “No.”

“In a nutshell, Jason Vaughan pretty well told me that Boyd was the one who gave him the dirt on Constance. If he could do it to Constance, Boyd could do it to me.”

The elevator doors opened on Eliza’s floor. She pushed the button to stop them from closing again.

“You aren’t certain that Boyd was the one, Lauren.”

“Oh, yes I am,” said Lauren. “I confronted him, and he admitted it. I’m sorry now that I tried to help him. Maybe he did kill Constance and stole the unicorn from her. If he helped Jason Vaughan spread his invective, maybe he hated Constance enough to kill her. I’m washing my hands of him, and you should, too.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lauren.” Eliza let go of the button and started to exit the elevator.

“You might want to think about how trustworthy Paige is. You know, Eliza, in our positions we can’t be too careful,” Lauren said as the elevator doors slid closed again.

“Oh, wait a minute,” said Paige. “Eliza just walked in.” Putting the call on hold, she whispered to Eliza, “It’s Mack McBride.”

Eliza smiled. “It’s all right, Paige. You can say his name out loud.” She walked through the outer office. “I’ll take it in here.”

Closing the office door, Eliza went to her desk and picked up the receiver. “You made it in one piece,” she said brightly. “How was your flight?”

“The flight was okay, but every time I looked at that electronic map they keep flashing to show you where you are, I was bummed, because it reminded me I was getting farther and farther away from you.”

“I knew there was a reason they say you’re one of the best writers and correspondents at KEY News,” Eliza answered. “You have a way with words and know exactly what to say.”

“What do you mean
one
of the best writers and correspondents?”

“That’s all you’ll get from me,” said Eliza. “That ego of yours is big enough.”

They chatted for a while. Mack mentioned that he was leaving again in a few hours to do a story in Rome. The Vatican had issued a statement on the Middle East that was causing quite a stir in diplomatic circles. “I’m tired, though,” said Mack.

“Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you,” said Eliza. “I adore Rome.”

“Let’s meet there this weekend, then,” he said eagerly.

Eliza laughed. “Did you forget I have a six-year-old waiting for me at home?”

“Bring Janie with you,” said Mack. “We’ll show her how beautiful Rome is in the springtime.”

Did he have any idea how many points he scored with her by suggesting they include Janie in their time together? “Sorry, Mack. Janie has a sleepover at the Hvizdaks’ house this weekend. I’m afraid that trumps a trip to the Colosseum as far as she’s concerned.”

“All right,” said Mack. “But I don’t want to have to wait too long until I see you again.”

Eliza was about to talk to Mack about the Constance Young story when he was interrupted.

“I’m sorry, honey, but I’ve got to go now,” he said. “Call you tomorrow?”

“Even before that, if you want,” she said.

T
he Associated Press local wire broke the story first, and it quickly moved to the national wires. The body of Constance Young’s housekeeper had been found at a needlecraft shop in Bedford, New York. Police were not certain if Ursula Bales’s death was an accident or murder.

Eliza was reading the details of the account when Annabelle Murphy knocked on the door.

“You’ve seen it, huh?” Annabelle asked as she walked into the office.

Eliza nodded as she finished the article.

“It would seem to be a pretty strange coincidence that the housekeeper just happens to die in the middle of all this,” said Annabelle.

“Stranger things have happened,” observed Eliza, “but yes, I have a gut feeling that we’re not dealing with an accident here.”

“I’m having the tape pulled of the interview we did with Ursula Bales on Saturday after she came from Constance’s house,” said Annabelle. “God, she was nervous that day.”

“Good,” said Eliza. “We’ll be able to use excerpts of that interview in our piece tonight. Are you going up to Bedford to see what’s going on up there?”

“I’m on my way now, with B.J.,” said Annabelle. “Want to come?”

“I wish I could,” said Eliza, “but I have things to deal with here. You two go and be my eyes and ears.”

W
aiting in the lobby for B.J. to bring the car around, Annabelle spotted Boyd carrying a large cardboard box. He saw her, too, and walked over.

“I guess you’ve heard,” he said, resting the box on the floor.

“Yes, I did,” said Annabelle. “You know how word travels around this place. I’m so sorry, Boyd.”

“Yeah. It sucks,” said Boyd. “But when you play with fire, you’re gonna get burned. I was taking a big chance telling Jason Vaughan those things for his book. But when he called me, I was just so damned fed up with Constance that I let loose. I guess I don’t really blame Lauren for canning me. She wouldn’t be able to trust me.”

Annabelle saw the downcast expression on Boyd’s face. “You’ve had a rough few days, haven’t you, kiddo?”

“I’ve had better,” said Boyd.

“What’s going on with the legal stuff?”

“Thank God, they released me late yesterday, but there’s a court date next month,” said Boyd. “I don’t know how I’m going to get out of that. I was caught red-handed with the stolen unicorn. They even have it on tape, courtesy of several different media outlets. Unless the KEY attorney can convince a jury that the unicorn was planted on me, I’ll be screwed. I might be screwed already,” he reflected. “The KEY News attorney probably won’t even represent me anymore, since I’ll no longer be a KEY News employee.”

“I don’t think the KEY attorney was representing you because you were an employee as much as because Eliza personally asked him to get involved,” said Annabelle. “But even if he does dump you, there are lots of other good attorneys out there.”

“Try paying for them, “said Boyd.

“I hear you,” Annabelle commiserated. She glanced away for a moment to see if B.J. had pulled up yet.

“Where are you off to?” Boyd asked.

“Upstate,” said Annabelle. “Get this: Constance’s housekeeper is dead.”

“Ursula Bales?”

“You got it,” said Annabelle as she looked out the lobby window. “There’s B.J. now. I’ve got to run, but good luck, Boyd. Why don’t you go up and say good-bye to Eliza before you leave?”

Boyd picked up the cardboard box. “I don’t think so, Annabelle. I just want to get out of here.” He turned away and then turned back again as he remembered something. “Hey, Annabelle, I wanted to tell you. Constance Young listed you in her will.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” said Boyd. “You’re going to be hearing about it anyway from her probate lawyer now that she’s dead, so I’m not breaking any confidence. Constance left money for a college fund for your twins.”

The KEY News crew car traveled up the Hutchinson River Parkway.

“I’m stunned,” Annabelle said to her companion. “Absolutely stunned.”

“That’s pretty cool,” said B.J. “I guess it goes to show that everybody has at least some good in them.”

Annabelle wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye. B.J. pretended not to notice.

R
owena Quincy was on the phone in her office at the Cloisters, pleading with the law-enforcement official on the other end of the line.

“Look, the unicorn is our property,” she said firmly. “We want it returned. The exhibit opens tomorrow, and that unicorn is supposed to be at the center of it.”

“I understand, but the unicorn is evidence now, ma’am. We aren’t releasing it.”

“But we aren’t pressing charges for the theft,” said Rowena.

“The unicorn is potential evidence in a homicide, ma’am.”

“You don’t know where or when Constance Young last wore that unicorn,” said Rowena. “You don’t know that she had it with her when she died or that she was killed for it. Can’t you take a picture of it or something?” asked Rowena.

“It’s evidence, ma’am.”

“Never mind,” said Rowena angrily. “You will be hearing from our lawyers.”

T
here were no more loose ends.

Taking care of Ursula Bales meant that the eyewitness to Constance’s electrocution would never tell anyone what she’d seen.

Taking care of the guy in the animal shelter meant that no one would ever be able to trace the person who had adopted the Great Dane only to turn around and electrocute it.

A dog.

A television news anchorwoman.

An animal lover.

A housekeeper.

Four executions, one death sentence following another. The first two had been planned; the next two were necessary to stay safe. That, hopefully, should be it now. Murder wasn’t enjoyable. It was hard work, nerve-racking and exhausting.

It should be possible to go forward now with confidence. There were other problems that still needed to be addressed, but the murders were taken care of now, unless someone else got in the way.

Eliza Blake had to be watched—very carefully watched.

K
EY News wasn’t the first on the scene at the Dropped Stitch Needlecraft Shop. The police were wrapping up, having searched and dusted for fingerprints, questioned the owner, and canvassed the neighboring stores in hopes that someone had noticed something. Camera and audio crews, reporters and producers from CBS, NBC, ABC, and CNN were out in front of the shop, as well as crews from local stations and print-media reporters. Ursula’s body had already been taken away.

“Crap,” cursed B.J. “We missed the money shot.”

“I’ll check to see if a police spokesperson or the owner is going to come out and make a statement,” said Annabelle.

“You missed it,” said the cameraman from CBS. “The police chief spoke already, and the owner sent out word she wasn’t going to. Sorry, guys.”

While the crews from the other news organizations packed their gear and drove away, B.J. walked across the street to get a long shot of the store’s exterior. He muttered to himself as he crossed again and took a closer shot of the front door and the sign identifying the place.

“I’m just wondering,” said B.J. “Why did we get such a late start on this?”

“You win some, you lose some, Beej,” said Annabelle. “It would have been great to get here first, but we didn’t. Now we have to see what we can salvage.”

Annabelle approached the last police car remaining.

“Hi, Officer. My name is Annabelle Murphy. I’m a producer for KEY News. Would you be willing to answer a few questions for us?”

“On camera?”

“That would be great,” answered Annabelle.

The policeman shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. My boss already talked to the press, and I don’t think he’d appreciate me being on the news instead of him.”

“But we missed your boss,” Annabelle implored.

The officer shrugged. “Sorry.”

Annabelle walked back to B.J. as the police car drove away.

“That’s good, Annabelle. Real good. No sound bites for our piece tonight. Everybody else’s piece will have sound from a police spokesman, but not us.”

Annabelle ignored him. She walked up to the front door of the shop and tried to open it. The door was locked. She knocked, and no one answered.

“Let’s go around back,” she said.

A woman was sitting on the rear stoop, her arms wrapped around herself. Annabelle introduced herself and B.J.

“This is a terrible thing,” said Annabelle. “It truly is. We interviewed Ms. Bales this past weekend at Constance Young’s house.”

“She told me about it,” said the owner. “Poor Ursula. She was always so worried about any kind of attention from the police. Her sister was killed because she was an eyewitness to a crime. Ursula was paranoid it would happen to her one day.”

“Maybe it did happen to her,” said Annabelle. “Maybe Ursula was killed because she saw something that the killer didn’t want her to see.”

“The police said they aren’t sure that Ursula was killed or if she fell down the stairs accidentally,” said the owner.

“Well, let’s just assume that she was murdered,” said Annabelle gently. “We’d all want to do anything we could to catch her killer, wouldn’t we?”

“Of course,” said the owner.

“It could be beneficial to let us into the store and take video inside,” said Annabelle. “Quite honestly, the better the video we have, the more interesting the piece. And the more interesting the piece, the more people pay attention and talk about it afterward and, sometimes, come forward with information they have that could help.”

The owner considered the logic of Annabelle’s words.

“All right,” she said. “Come in.”

As fast as he could, lest the owner change her mind, B.J. recorded video of the back room, the door to the basement, and the steep stairs that Ursula had fallen down. There were chalk markings on the floor indicating where the body had been.

“Ursula gave a knitting lesson here last night?” asked Annabelle.

“Yes,” the owner answered. “Her classes were always full. Everybody loved her.” The owner led the way into the front room. “To think that Ursula was just going about her business, doing her job, not knowing that last night’s class would really be her last.” She caressed a canvas satchel sitting on the table. “This is Ursula’s needlecraft bag,” she said, her voice breaking.

B.J. aimed his camera at the bag. “Any chance we can shoot what’s in it?” he asked. “It would be a nice element for our piece—it would humanize Ursula for our audience.”

The owner opened the bag and took out a partially completed needlepoint canvas. “She had designed this. She was very excited about it. I never saw her work on another piece the way she did on this one. She wrote the poem as a tribute to Constance Young. Ursula worshipped that woman.”

B.J.’s camera took a full shot of the canvas, and then he panned from the top to the bottom of the piece. He held the camera steady for a long time at the two final lines, the words outlined in black wool.

 

Careful not to tell,

Yet I was there as well.

 

After they walked out of the shop, Annabelle turned to B.J.

“It seems to me that Ursula Bales was saying that she knew who killed Constance because she was there and saw it happen,” said Annabelle. “Are you getting that, too?”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” said B.J. “But can you believe how Constance had that woman so completely snowed? All the junk about ‘lady of allure’ and ‘lonely shining star’ at the start of the poem. Give me a break.”

“I couldn’t care less if Constance had Ursula Bales fooled, “said Annabelle. “We’re the only ones who have her poem. We’ll be exclusive tonight.” Annabelle pumped her fist in the air. “The early bird doesn’t always catch the worm, does it, B.J.?” she asked as they got into the car to drive back to Manhattan.