drinks.”
“Oh, Dan…”
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “By the way, the kids are at Christy’s.”
“How’re you doing, handsome?” Adele called from the rear of her Audi, where she was pulling Catheryn’s luggage from the trunk.
“Getting by, Adele. Thanks for giving Kate a ride. Sorry, but I’m late for work and don’t have time to chat. See you later. ’Bye, Kate.”
“You haven’t forgotten the Christmas Mercado at the Music Center tonight?” asked Catheryn, clearly bewildered by my frosty attitude.
“I’ll be there. I’ll pick up a tux and change in town. See you at the fundraiser.”
“All right,” said Catheryn uncertainly. “I… I’ll look for you there.”
39
Catheryn chatted briefly with Adele for several minutes, trying to hide her hurt at her husband’s puzzling reception. Then, after Adele left, she carried her bags into the house.
A note lay on her pillow. Catheryn read it with a heavy heart, struck by the impersonal tone of the message. Feeling as if she’d been slapped, she crumpled the note. Things hadn’t been on an even keel when she’d left, but this was more than that.
With a sigh, she busied herself unpacking, sorting her clothes into two piles: those that needed washing and those that could be rehung. As she worked, she noticed one of her husband’s shirts topping a stack of laundry in a hamper by the closet. After she had divided her wash items into darks and lights, she carried the hamper to the bed, intending to add its contents to her piles. Absently, she picked up her husband’s soiled shirt and raised it to her face.
It smelled of sweat, deodorant, and something else. A faint floral scent clung to the fabric, a distinctive fragrance as memorable as the odor of newly mown lawn. White Linen. Although Catheryn had a small bottle of the perfume on her dresser, she rarely used it, considering it too elegant for casual wear.
All at once things made sense.
Stunned, Catheryn sank to the bed, the soiled shirt still clutched in her hands. She lowered her head in shock and disbelief, wondering how things could have gone so wrong, wondering how her life could have come unraveled with such abysmal, unforeseeable hurt. And as she sat, a profound emptiness welled up inside, drowning her in a flood of loneliness and loss. And for the first time since Tommy’s death, alone on the bed upon which for years she and her husband had shared their love, she cried.
Lauren glared at the jangling phone, thinking that if interruptions kept popping up, she would never finish her news piece on time. It was already two o’clock, with a three-thirty deadline fast approaching. Damn!
Sighing, she saved the work on her computer screen and glanced around the hectic newsroom. A recording studio for the CBS National Radio Network before the days of television, the windowless chamber still exhibited holdovers from its previous incarnation, including an elevated glass control booth at one end that had been converted to the news director’s office.
Maybe I can get some help from one of the Newspath guys, she thought, spotting a friend standing near the assignment desk. Manuel doesn’t seem too busy.
Still ringing.
Finally she lifted the receiver. “Van Owen.”
“Lobby, Ms. Van Owen. Someone’s here for you. She doesn’t have an appointment, but she says you’ll want to see her.”
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“She’s extremely insistent.”
“Who is it?”
“Catheryn Kane.”
Lauren swallowed, finding herself at a loss for words. A premonition of disaster settled like a weight in her stomach. “Shit,” she said, irritated that the hackneyed expletive was the best she could do. “Tell her… tell her I’ll be right there.”
The reception lobby on the ground floor of Columbia Square, the Hollywood headquarters of KCBS-TV, contained a couch, three chairs, photo blowups of the building’s inauguration in 1938, a security station, and twin television monitors mounted high on the wall-both permanently tuned to Channel Two. In addition to a guard, a pair of card-operated turnstiles prevented unauthorized entry deeper into the building. The tall, hauntingly beautiful woman whom Lauren found waiting on the other side of the barrier was not what she had expected.
Aren’t musicians supposed to have horn-rimmed glasses and wear their hair up in buns? Lauren thought distractedly. This woman obviously hasn’t received the word. “Mrs. Kane?” she said, endeavoring to appear unruffled.
“Call me Catheryn,” the woman replied, her tone calm and reserved. “This will be difficult enough without standing on formality. After all, we do have quite a bit in common.”
“I, uh…”
“I didn’t come here to make a scene. I just want to talk. Is there someplace we can go?”
Lauren glanced at her watch, her mind racing. Not the newsroom. Too busy. Same with the broadcast studios. The editing bays are all full, too. The Newspath office? Too dismal. Jesus, what’s she doing here? “There… there’s a patio we can use,” she stammered.
“Fine.”
Lauren motioned to the guard at the desk. The guard touched a switch, and a low gate bypassing the turnstiles clicked open. Swinging it aside, Lauren ushered Catheryn in. Proceeding in silence down a wide corridor, the two women passed the brightly lit newsroom on the left. Farther on they took a curving passage displaying full-color headshots of Channel Two news anchors, past and present. Lauren’s was one of the most recent.
Shortly afterward they reached a door leading to a deserted patio. The massive, U-shaped body of the CBS building encompassed three sides; a ten-foot-high wrought-iron fence and a hedge of ficus sealed the fourth, separating the space from passing traffic on Sunset Boulevard.
“I eat lunch here occasionally, but hardly anyone else ever comes out,” Lauren said self-consciously. Christ, get ahold of yourself, she thought. “We can sit over there, if you want,” she added, indicating one of the white- canopied tables scattered around the terrace.
Catheryn followed her to the table, on the way inspecting the vertical rows of windows staring down on the courtyard. “A little like being in a fishbowl,” she remarked.
“It is, isn’t it?” agreed Lauren, taking a seat.
Catheryn sat across from her.
An uncomfortable silence descended. Finally Lauren spoke. “How did you…?”
“Find out? It wasn’t hard. All it took was a couple of phone calls-one to Dan’s ex-partner, another to a restaurant parking attendant. When you’re married to a detective, you learn a few things.”
“I suppose you would.”
“Dan doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Has he said anything?”
“No,” Catheryn answered bitterly. “Although I just arrived home today. Perhaps he’s waiting for the perfect time to tell me. Christmas, maybe.”
“Excuse me for asking, Mrs. Kane… Catheryn, but why are you here?”
Catheryn gazed levelly across the table. “I’m not certain. I guess I wanted to see who you were, find out what you were like.”
“Confront the hussy who stole your man?” said Lauren, meeting Catheryn’s gaze.
“Something like that.”
“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you expect. If Dan were getting what he needed from you, he
