8

The next morning she bumped into John Applebaum in the lobby of her office. She looked curiously at the two men and two women gathered near the reception counter, and then did a double take when she recognized him from the Paris trip. For an instant she didn’t know which way to go. Just get on the elevator and act surprised when he dropped into her office? Or cross the lobby and reintroduce herself? He solved her dilemma by looking up and catching her eye just as the elevator arrived.

“Mr. Applebaum,” she said with more delight than she felt, “I thought I recognized you.”

He met her halfway. “Good to see you, Jane. We’re here to begin looking at our new acquisition. Maybe you can show us around.”

She loaded them onto the elevator and took them up to the publisher’s office, located in the plusher area at the front of the floor. As soon as Jane introduced the guests, the secretary went to pieces trying to announce them and get their coffee orders at the same time. As soon as the publisher appeared, Jane took her leave, walked calmly to the door to the editorial area, and then ran frantically to Roscoe’s office.

“Our new boss is here! John Applebaum! He’s got his staffers with him to look us over.”

Roscoe wasn’t concerned. “Probably a bunch of bean counters here to check the books. They won’t be interested in the editorial operation.”

“He said he’d be in to see us,” Jane warned.

He shrugged. “Oh, he’ll look around and make a little speech about Editorial being the heart and soul of a newspaper. But believe me, it’s the business department he’s interested in. If he spends any time back here, it will be to count the paper clips.”

He had barely finished when John Applebaum appeared in his doorway, dark jacket over dark open-collared shirt, which seemed to be the corporate uniform. For a moment Jane fantasized that the outfits might be rented by the week from a career clothes company.

“Roscoe Taylor?” he asked, looking past Jane.

Taylor ambled to his feet. “John Applebaum! Jane was just telling me that you might stop by.”

“Stop by?” He seemed offended. “You’re the people I want to meet. Editorial is the heart and soul of this business.”

Roscoe glanced at Jane. She labored to suppress her smile. Then she excused herself and left the men to their discussion. There was a lot of laughter between them, so she figured that Applebaum hadn’t brought dire news. She heard them ending their meeting with Applebaum complimenting Taylor on running a tight ship. Then, when she looked up, the new top gun in the chain was leaning into her office.

“Good to see you again, Jane.”

She got up to clear her guest chair.

“No, don’t bother,” Applebaum told her. “I don’t have even a minute. But I did want to tell you what a fine job you did on your interview piece. We all thought you got us just about right. Bill was particularly pleased.”

She blushed suitably and mumbled appreciative sounds.

“He had to rush off to Mexico City,” he went on, “but he asked me to tell you how impressed he was. He’ll call you first chance he gets.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she answered.

Applebaum chuckled. “No, and it probably won’t happen. Bill’s schedule doesn’t give him any ‘first chance.’ But you should know he thought you did a great job, under difficult circumstances.”

“Oh, the trip to Paris wasn’t that difficult—”

He cut her off. “I think he was referring to the difficulty of writing an objective, in-your-face article about your boss. He encourages initiative and respects courage.” And then, his message delivered, he hurried back down the aisle to the business office.

Roscoe replaced him the doorway. “Did he deliver the mantra?”

“What mantra?” she asked.

“That Bill Andrews ‘encourages initiative and respects courage.’ We’re supposed to recite it five times a day while lying prostrate and facing Wall Street.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought it was a personal compliment.”

“No,” Roscoe answered. “It was a crock!”

She laughed. “You don’t like him.”

“Oh, I like him. He did his homework. He seems to know every place I ever worked and every story I ever wrote. He said that when they were evaluating the property, they all agreed that I was a key asset.”

“That certainly was flattering.”

“Flattering indeed,” Roscoe admitted. “But then in the next breath he wondered if we really needed to pay for three wire services. He was thinking of cutting the whole chain back to two.”

“And you said …”

“I said I’d probably stick with three even if the other editors thought they could get by on two. That was when he stopped telling jokes and taught me the corporate mantra.”

Jane had to wonder. Was John Applebaum simply on a goodwill mission, bringing words of cheer to the whole organization? Had William Andrews really praised her story, or was that just part of Applebaum’s spiel? Roscoe seemed cynical, but all good reporters were cynical. So why did she believe that Andrews had taken the time to read her story? Or that he had promised to call her? Maybe it was all part of John Applebaum’s goodwill tour.

Art was waiting for her in the apartment. His washing machine was leaking, and he had stopped by to run a few things through hers. Jane made a mental note to change the locks. If she didn’t, she would see more of her ex-husband than she had before he was ex.

“I brought dinner,” he said. There were two containers of Chinese on the kitchen counter. “And there’s a pretty decent Chablis in your freezer. At least as decent as a four-dollar Chablis gets to be.” She took down plates and spooned out the chicken with pea pods and the shrimp rice. He attacked the wine and was disappointed to find that it had a screw-on cap.

“Art, do you remember the Andrews murder?” she asked, introducing a topic that was worrying her. “He and his wife were shot by a burglar, or something. It must have been seven or eight years ago.”

He ran through his memory bank. “Yeah. Some nut broke in to their house and shot up the place. She was a big society lady, and he was the new kid on the block.” Then he wondered, “Did they ever get the guy? I forget what happened, but I don’t remember there being a trial or anything.”

Jane didn’t think there had been. The intruder had escaped. The problem was that some people suspected that there had never been an intruder. There had been conjecture of a suicide, or some sort of dark secret that Andrews had covered up. She repeated her conversation with Jack Dollinger, but then added that people like to think the worst about the rich and famous.

She went to her computer and began researching the news coverage of the crime while Art sat on the floor and sorted his laundry. They were separately involved when the phone rang. Jane took off an earring and answered. “Hello.”

“J. J. Warren?”

“Yeah …” She recognized the voice. “Yes it is.”

“This is Bill Andrews. Am I interrupting anything?”

She glanced at Art, who was rolling his socks. “No. Not at all.”

“I just wanted to tell you that I liked your story. It was a terrific piece of business reporting, informative and well balanced.”

“I appreciate that. Thank you very much.” Art glanced up. He could tell by her tone that the call wasn’t as casual as she was pretending. He gave her his full attention.

“You made me look a bit power-hungry and very aloof. I don’t see myself that way, but you may just be right. I’ll have to watch myself more carefully.”

“Oh no, certainly not aloof,” she insisted. “Just… distracted.”

There was an awkward pause. From his place on the floor, Art mouthed, “William Andrews,” with a wide-eyed look that made it a question. Jane responded with an excited nod while she tried to think of something to say. “I heard you were in Mexico City.” “I am. Just got back to my hotel room with half a dozen financial reports that I have to wade through. But before I got… distracted … I wanted to let you know that I read your piece and thought it was terrific.”

“Well, I appreciate your taking the time to call. It really wasn’t necessary.”

Art was standing, leaning in to hear the conversation. Jane swiveled in her chair to get away from him and waved him back toward his laundry. There was another break in the conversation. This time Andrews filled the void.

“I think I’m going to try to change my image. I don’t like being ruthless and aloof.”

“You’re not! At least, you weren’t. That’s just the way you come across.”

“That’s not the way I want to come across. I’d like to be more laid-back. Someone who has a full life in spite of being a workaholic. And I want you to help me.”

She was stunned. “You want me to work for you?”

Art reacted with mock applause.

“No!” Andrews snapped. “I want you to have dinner with me. I’ll be back in New York tomorrow. Can we have dinner tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow? Dinner? Why, yes, of course.”

Andrews went on quickly, like a boy who is asking for his first date and is afraid to stop talking for fear he’ll never be able to start again. “I’ll land in Bridgeport. I’ll call you when we’re on the ground so you’ll know when to expect me.”

“Okay,” Jane agreed, trying desperately not to sound too eager. “Do you need directions?”

“No, I have your address. I’ll get directions off the Internet. And could you wear that black dress you picked up in Paris?”

“Sure. I like that one, too, Mr. Andrews,” she said.

“Bill,” he told her. “Mr. Andrews sounds too … aloof.”

“Okay. But then you’ll have to call me Jane.”

“See you tomorrow, Jane.” The line went silent. It was a good five seconds before she hung up.

“ ‘Call me Jane,’” Art mocked. Then he said in disbelief, “You just asked William Andrews to call you Jane?”

“Yes, but only after he insisted that I call him Bill.”

“Wow!” Art applauded. “And all from one interview. You sure you had your clothes on the whole time?”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said, and then she remembered the details of their very first meeting. But she wouldn’t go into that with Art.

He was tossing his underwear into his laundry basket. “Are you meeting him in Manhattan?”

“No, he’s picking me up here.”

“Here? William Andrews is coming to the Shoreline Apartments? The rental agent will go crazy. She’ll want full press coverage.”

“Art, I swear, if you breathe a word about this to anyone …”

He raised his hands defensively. “No fear! But is it okay if I hang around? I’d like to meet the guy.”

“Art!”

“Okay. But I would like the big tycoon to know that I had you first.”