I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [115]
Ted had managed to beg off from seeing her again on Friday night on the basis of his ongoing flu-like symptoms. At Rita’s loyal insistence, he had called Melissa after her announcement to the media and groveled his gratitude to her.
Now, clenching his teeth, his voice robotic, he said, “Beautiful lady, I predict that a year from now, you’ll be the number one star on this planet, maybe in the universe.”
“You’re sweet.” Melissa laughed. “I think so, too. Oh, good news. Jaime-boy had a fight with his publicist again. Isn’t that a riot? The big all-is-forgiven scene lasted only twenty-four hours. He wants to meet you.”
Ted was standing in the living room of his handsomely furnished duplex apartment in the Meatpacking district, the apartment where he had lived for eight years. It had been his crowning achievement when he had been established enough to buy and furnish it. Bartley Longe and Zan Moreland, his assistant, had done the interior decorating. That was how he had met Zan.
That was running through his head as he reminded himself that he could not afford to offend Melissa. “When does Jaime-boy want to meet me?” he asked.
“Monday, I guess.”
“That would be great.” Ted’s reaction was genuinely enthusiastic. He was not up to meeting Jaime-boy today. And Melissa was flying to London to attend a celebrity birthday party. He knew that, concerned as she was with catching a flu bug, she still did not want to go unescorted to the party.
He felt an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Wouldn’t it be perfect if someone did somehow find Matthew, and Melissa had to shell out five million dollars?
“Ted, if you start feeling better, hop a plane to London, or else I’ll find someone else at the party. British guys are soooooooooooo attractive.”
“Don’t you dare.” His slightly stern voice, his “Daddy knows best,” was a good sign-off. Finally he was able to get off the phone. He opened the door of the terrace and went outside. The cold air snapped at him. He looked down.
Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be good to jump and be done with it, he thought.
78
When Willy got back from his daily walk in Central Park, he realized that he was hungry. The problem was that he and Alvirah often liked to have lunch out on Saturdays, then drop in on a museum or go to a movie.
He tried to call her cell phone, but she didn’t answer. I should think that whatever that Tiffany Shields kid has to say, it would be said by now, he thought, but maybe Alvirah stopped to do a little shopping.
I won’t spoil my appetite, he decided when she still hadn’t returned. But fifteen minutes later, he was wavering. And then the phone rang.
“Willy, you just won’t begin to guess what I’m going to tell you,” Alvirah began. “I’m so excited, I can hardly stand it. But listen, I just left Detective Collins and Detective Dean at the Central Park Precinct. Let’s meet at the Russian Tea Room for lunch.”
“I’m on my way,” Willy promised. He knew that if he began to ask Alvirah questions, she would spill the beans immediately about what was exciting her and he’d rather hear it over the lunch table.
“See you there,” Alvirah confirmed.
Willy replaced the receiver and headed for the closet in the foyer. He pulled out his jacket and gloves. As he was opening the front door of their apartment, the phone rang. He waited in case it was Alvirah calling back. Instead, when he did not pick up, he heard the beginning of a message. “Alvirah, this is Penny Hammel. I tried you on your cell phone but you’re not answering. You won’t believe what I’m going to tell you, Alvirah,” she began. “I swear I think I’m right. This morning—”
Willy let the door close behind him on Penny’s message. Later, Penny, he thought as he rang for the elevator.
The message he did not wait to hear was Penny telling Alvirah that she was willing to bet that Matthew Carpenter was the child Gloria Evans was hiding in the farmhouse.
“What should I do?” Penny asked the answering machine. “Call the cops now? But I guess it would be better to hear from you because I have absolutely no proof. Alvirah,