I'll Walk Alone Read online

  “Zan, it’s nearly six o’clock.” Shore’s voice was soothing. “We’ll talk to Mrs. Aldrich tomorrow. It would be better if you stayed here, I promise you.”

  “It would be so much better if you stayed, Zan,” Josh told her soothingly.

  “No. No. I’ll be all right.” Zan felt her head clearing. She had to get out of here. “I’m going home,” she said. “But first, I promised Alvirah I would have dinner with her and Willy tonight. I want to go there now.” Alvirah will help me, she thought. She’ll help me prove that I am not the woman in those photos.

  Things were coming back to her. “I fainted, didn’t I?” she asked. “And then I was in an ambulance?”

  “That’s right.” Josh covered her hand with his.

  “Wait a minute. Am I wrong, or were people crowding around me? Were reporters there when they took me out to the ambulance?”

  “Yes, Zan,” Josh admitted.

  “I had another blackout.” Zan pulled herself up, then realized a hospital gown was hanging loosely from her shoulders. She folded her arms, hugging herself. “I’ll be okay. If you two will just wait outside, I’ll get dressed.”

  “Of course.” Charles Shore and Josh rose quickly but were stopped by her sudden, anxious question.

  “What is Ted saying about all this? Obviously, he’s seen the photos himself by now.”

  “Zan, get dressed,” Shore told her. “We’ll talk on the way to Alvirah and Willy’s place.”

  As they left the emergency room, Zan realized, in a moment of absolute clarity, that neither Josh nor Charley Shore had responded to her insistence that Nina Aldrich would verify the fact that she had been with her when Matthew disappeared.

  29

  On Wednesday afternoon, Penny Hammel phoned her friend Rebecca Schwartz and invited her to come over for dinner. “I cooked a nice pot roast for Bernie because the poor guy’s been on the road for two weeks and it’s his favorite meal,” she explained. “He was supposed to be home by four o’clock but wouldn’t you know it, his darn truck started having problems in Pennsylvania. He’s got to stay in King of Prussia overnight while they figure out what’s wrong. Anyhow, I pulled out all the stops for the dinner and I’m not going to eat it alone.”

  “I’ll be there with bells on,” Rebecca assured her. “I don’t have anything in the house for dinner, as it happens. I was going to get takeout from Sun Yuan, but honest to God, I do that so often I feel as if I’ll turn into a fortune cookie.”

  At 6:15 the two friends were sipping Manhattans in Penny’s combined kitchen-family room. The mouthwatering aromas emanating from the stove combined with the warmth of the fireplace filled both women with the sense of well-being.

  “Oh, have I got a story to tell you about the new tenant in Sy’s farmhouse,” Penny began.

  Rebecca’s expression changed. “Penny, that woman made it clear that she was holing up there to finish her book. You didn’t go over, did you?”

  Even as she asked the question, Rebecca knew the answer. She should have guessed that Penny would want to get a look at the new tenant.

  “I had no intention of paying a visit,” Penny said defensively. “I brought over six of my blueberry muffins just to be neighborly, but that woman was downright rude. I mean I started by saying that I didn’t want to interrupt her but thought she might enjoy the muffins, and I’d put my phone number on a Post-it on the bottom of the plate. If I were the one moving into a strange neighborhood, I’d like to know that there was someone to call if an emergency came up.”

  “That was real nice of you,” Rebecca conceded. “You’re the kind of friend everyone should have. But I wouldn’t go there again. She’s a loner, that one.”

  Penny laughed. “For two cents I would have asked her for my muffins back. And anyhow, when you think about it, she has a sister she can call if she needs help.”

  Rebecca drained the last of her Manhattan. “A sister? How do you know she has a sister?”

  “Oh, I saw a toy truck on the floor in the hall behind her and I told her that I’m a good babysitter. She told me that the truck belonged to her sister’s kid. Her sister helped her move in and had left it.”

  “That’s funny,” Rebecca said slowly. “When I gave her the key, she said she had a meeting with her editor and would be arriving late at night. I drove by early the next morning and saw her car in the breezeway. There wasn’t another car there. So I guess her sister and her kid came later.”

  “Maybe there is no sister and she likes to play with toy trucks herself,” Penny laughed. “I can tell you, with a nasty attitude like hers, I bet she doesn’t have many friends.”

  She got up, reached for the cocktail shaker, and split the last of the Manhattans between them. “Dinner’s about ready to be put on the table. Why don’t we sit down and get started? But I do want to catch the 6:30 news. I’d love to know if they arrested that crazy woman who kidnapped her own child. I can’t believe that she’s still running around loose.”

  “Neither can I,” Rebecca agreed.

  As they had expected, the photos taken in Central Park allegedly showing Alexandra Moreland lifting her son Matthew out of the stroller were the lead story on the evening news. “I wonder what she did with him, poor kid?” Penny sighed as she swallowed a succulent bite of pot roast.

  “Moreland wouldn’t be the first mother to kill her own child,” Rebecca said soberly. “Do you think she was nuts enough to do that?”

  Penny did not answer. Something about those photos was bothering her. What is it? she asked herself. But then the segment about the missing child ended and she clicked the television off with a shrug. “Who needs three minutes of sales pitches about sex pills and nose sprays?” she asked Rebecca. “Then you hear all the problems that stuff can give you, like heart attacks and ulcers and strokes, and you wonder who would be dopey enough to buy them.”

  For the rest of the meal the two good friends gossiped about their mutual friends in town, and whatever it was about the photographs that had disturbed Penny retreated into her subconscious.

  30

  The meeting Bartley Longe had been conducting in his office when Toby Grissom stopped in to inquire about his missing daughter lasted all morning. Then, contrary to his usual pattern, instead of going out, Bartley ordered a lunch delivered from a nearby restaurant.

  As was their habit, his secretary, Elaine, and the receptionist, Phyllis, shared their diet-conscious salads in the kitchenette down the hall from the reception room. A weary-looking Elaine confided that Bartley was in as terrible a mood as she’d ever seen him and that was saying a lot. He had bitten off poor Scott’s head when Scott suggested not putting valances in the smaller bedrooms of the Rush-more job, and he tore Bonnie apart over the fabric designs she chose for him to approve. Both of them were almost in tears. “He’s treating them the way he treated Zan,” she said.

  “Scott and Bonnie are not going to last any longer than all the other assistants he’s had since Zan,” Phyllis said vehemently. “But I’ve been looking at those photos in the newspapers. He’s right about one thing. There’s no question but that Zan stole her own child. I only hope she left him with someone she can trust.”

  “I blame Bartley for causing her to have a breakdown,” Elaine said sadly. “And you know what’s crazy? In the midst of all that was going on with Scott and Bonnie, he kept the television on the whole morning. It was on mute, so there was no sound, but he kept an eye on it and the minute those photos of Zan taking Matthew were shown, he was all attention.”

  “Is that what has him all fired up today?” Phyllis asked. “I thought he would be thrilled to see that Zan was lying about Matthew.”

  “You wouldn’t believe how much he hates Zan, and how he loves to see her twisting in the wind. And actually it was when Scott suggested that those photos might have been staged that Bartley lost it. Don’t forget Zan just bid against him for that job with Kevin Wilson. If Zan could somehow prove those photos are phonies and she gets that
job, it will be a horrible blow for Bartley. There’s no question about that. There are at least four younger designers besides Zan who have been cutting into his business.”

  Phyllis glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to the desk. I swear he begrudges me breaking for lunch, even though if anyone rings the doorbell, I can buzz it open in about ten seconds. But first, do you remember someone named Brittany La Monte?”

  Elaine sipped the last of her diet soda. “Brittany La Monte? Oh sure I do. She started out doing makeup for the models or would-be actresses that Bartley hired to serve cocktails and hors d’oeuvres when he was showing off those model apartments a couple of years ago. Just between us, I think Bartley took a big shine to Brittany. He told her he thought she was prettier than the girls she was making up and gave her a job passing out Champagne. I always thought he was seeing her on the side. We haven’t done one of those apartments in at least a year, and he’s never brought her to any of his other events. I guess he dumped her the way he dumps all of them.”

  “Brittany’s father, Toby Grissom, was in this morning looking for her,” Phyllis explained. “The poor old guy’s worried. The last postcard he got from her was six months ago, from Manhattan. He’s sure she’s in trouble. I told him I’d talk to you because you would remember her if she worked on any of those jobs. He’s coming back after three. I figured Bartley would be on his way to Litchfield by then. What can I tell Grissom?”

  “Only that she did some freelance work for us a few years ago and that we have no idea where she might be working or living now,” Elaine said. “That’s the truth.”

  “But if you think Bartley might have had a thing going with Brittany, could you ask him if he’s been in touch with her? The father said that he’s had some bad news about his health, and I can tell he’s desperate to see her.”

  “I’ll ask Bartley,” Elaine agreed nervously. “But if there was any romance going on between them, he won’t like to have her name brought up. He’s still steaming about that model who sued him for sexual harassment. He settled big on that one and might be afraid that this will develop into that kind of problem. Was there a postmark on the card Brittany sent her father?”

  “Yes, New York. That’s why he’s here. But Mr. Grissom did say that just about two years ago, Brittany told him that she had some kind of job and wouldn’t be in touch with him often.”

  “Oh, brother,” Elaine sighed. “I wonder if Bartley got her pregnant? What time did you say Brittany’s father is coming in?”

  “Anytime after three o’clock.”

  “Then let’s just hope that Bartley takes off for Litchfield, and I can talk to the father quietly.”

  But at three o’clock when Toby Grissom timidly rang the bell and Phyllis released the lock, Bartley Longe was still incommunicado in his office. Grissom’s sneakers were squishing and Phyllis looked with horror as they deposited muddy soil on the Aubusson carpet.

  “Oh, Mr. Grissom,” she said, “I wonder if you’d mind wiping your feet on that mat.” She tried to soften the request by adding, “The weather certainly is miserable today, isn’t it?”

  Like an obedient child, Grissom walked back to the mat and rubbed the soles of his sneakers on it. Seemingly oblivious to the stain on the carpet, he said, “I’ve spent the day chasing down the girls my daughter lived with while she was in New York. I want to see Bartley Longe now.”

  “Mr. Longe is tied up in a meeting,” Phyllis said, “but his secretary, Elaine Ryan, will be happy to speak to you.”

  “I didn’t ask to speak to Longe’s secretary. I’ll sit in this fancy waiting room no matter how long it takes until I see that Bartley Longe fellow,” Grissom said, his manner unquestionably determined.

  Phyllis could see the weariness in his eyes. His jacket and jeans looked soaked through to the skin. I don’t know what else is wrong with him, but he’s lucky if he doesn’t catch pneumonia, she thought. She picked up the phone. “Mr. Grissom is here,” she told Elaine. “I explained Mr. Longe is in a meeting, but Mr. Grissom plans to wait until he’s free.”

  Elaine caught the cautionary note in the receptionist’s voice. Brittany La Monte’s father was going to wait Bartley out. “I’ll see what I can do,” she told Phyllis. She replaced the phone in the cradle, and deliberated. I have to tell our fearless leader about this guy, she thought. I’ve got to warn him. The light on the phone panel showed that Bartley had made an outside call himself. When the light went out, she got up and knocked on Bartley’s door. Without waiting for a response she went into his private office.

  The television was still on, muted. Bartley’s lunch tray was pushed to one side of his massive desk. The norm would have been for Bartley to call for someone to take out the tray when he had finished eating. Now he looked at Elaine, his expression both surprised and angry. “I wasn’t aware I sent for you.”

  It had been a long day. “Nobody sends for me, including you, Mr. Longe,” Elaine said, crisply. Fire me if you don’t like that, she thought. I’m sick of the sight of you. She did not wait for Longe to react before continuing. “There is a man out here who insists on seeing you. I gather he’ll wait in the reception room until the cows come home, so unless you want to sneak out the back door, you’d better meet with him. His name is Toby Grissom and he’s Brittany La Monte’s father. I’m sure you’ll remember her name. She freelanced for you about two years ago when we were showing the Waverly apartments.”

  Bartley Longe leaned back in his chair, a puzzled expression on his face, as if trying to remember Brittany La Monte. He knows perfectly well who I’m talking about, Elaine thought, as she noticed the way he clasped his hands tightly together.

  “Of course I remember that young woman,” he said. “She was trying to be an actress and I even introduced her to some people who might have helped her. But as I recall, the last time we had one of those situations where we used the models, she wasn’t available.”

  Neither Elaine nor Bartley Longe had heard Toby Grissom come through Elaine’s office and stand at the partially opened door. “Don’t give me that stuff, Mr. Longe,” Grissom said, his voice rising in fury. “You gave Brittany a line about making her a star. You had her up to your fancy place in Litchfield plenty of weekends. Where is she now? What did you do to my little girl? I want the truth and unless I get it, I’m going straight to the cops.”

  31

  It was 7:30 P.M. by the time Zan, against all medical advice, was in a cab on her way to Alvirah and Willy’s apartment with Charley Shore. She had insisted Josh go home after flatly refusing his offer to sleep on the couch of her apartment. If there’s anything I need now, she thought, it’s to be alone later on and gather my wits about me.

  “Shouldn’t you be on your way home, too?” she asked Shore as the cab inched its way along York Avenue.

  Charley Shore decided not to tell Zan that he and his wife had theatre tickets for a play they both wanted to see and that he had phoned his wife to tell her to leave his ticket at the box office, that he’d be there when he could make it. Once again he thanked heaven for the fact that Lynn was always understanding when a situation like this came up. “I don’t think I’ll be terribly late,” he had told her. “Zan Moreland is in no condition to have a long discussion with me tonight.”

  That opinion was more than reinforced by the deadly paleness of Zan’s complexion and the way she was shivering inside the fake-fur vest she was wearing. I’m glad she’s going to be with Alvirah and Willy, Charley thought. She trusts them. Maybe she’ll even tell them where her son is.

  When Alvirah had called him earlier this afternoon about Alexandra Moreland, she had been direct with him. “Charley, this is someone you’ve got to help. I thought a tree had fallen on me when I saw those photographs. I don’t see how they can be fake. But there’s nothing fake about the way she’s been suffering and trying to find Matthew. If she took him, she doesn’t remember it. Don’t people go into zombielike states when they’ve had breakdowns?”


  “Yes, it’s not frequent, but sometimes they do,” he told her.

  Now in the cab, Charley wondered if Alvirah had not diagnosed Moreland’s condition with deadly accuracy. When he got to the hospital earlier, she had still been out of it, but was mumbling her son’s name over and over again. “I want Matthew … I want Matthew …”

  The words had torn his heart. When he was ten years old, his two-year-old sister had died and he could still vividly remember that terrible day at the grave, and his mother’s plaintive wail. “I want my baby. I want my baby.”

  He looked at Zan. The cab was dark, but from the headlights of other cars and the brightly lit signs on stores along the way, he could clearly see her face. I am going to help you, he vowed. I’ve been in the business forty years and I’m going to give you the best defense that I possibly can. You’re not faking this memory loss. I’ll bet my life on it.

  He had expected to go up with her to the Meehans’ apartment and stay for a while, but as the cab approached Central Park South, he changed his mind. Alexandra Moreland obviously trusted Alvirah and Willy. She’d be better off alone with them this evening. Certainly it was no time to start to question her about details.

  The cab stopped in the semicircular driveway, and he told the cabbie to wait for him. Despite Zan’s insistence that he didn’t need to get out, he escorted her up in the elevator. The doorman had announced them and Alvirah was waiting in the hall when they got off on the sixteenth floor. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around Zan and looked at Charley. “You go ahead, Charley,” she directed. “What Zan needs is to relax now.”

  “I couldn’t agree more and I know you’ll take good care of her,” Charley said with a smile, as he stepped back into the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby. The cab got him to the theatre in time for the curtain, but even though the show was lighthearted and amusing, and he had been looking forward to it, he still could not settle down and enjoy it.