Chapter 7

SINCE THE DAY’S taping was on track, I went to the hospital to check on Cybelle and Damon.

I met one of Cybelle’s nurses in the corridor outside her room.

“That little short man, Mr. Isaac, he’s been with her since last night,” she said. “He slept next to her bed, on a cot he had us bring in for him.”

The “nice me” was pleased Cybelle had such a devoted agent, but my cynical “evil twin” pegged Johnny Isaac’s behavior as dangerously obsessive. It’s a long and respected tradition in daytime drama that “evil twins” are smarter than their “nice” counterparts. Otherwise, why do so many of the “good” characters spend weeks, sometimes months, locked up in hidden basement cells while their evil look-alikes assume their identities, and even sleep with their unsuspecting lovers?

Hoping the nurse would tell me “no,” I asked, “Can Mr. Radford have visitors?”

“A policeman’s in there now,” she said. “And there’s a bunch of unhappy-looking people in the lounge waiting their turn.”

“You should get one of those ‘take a number’ machines.”

She shrugged. “You all are on your own. My shift is over.” And she left.

I went down the hall and into the waiting room. The nurse was right. Damon’s would-be visitors looked unhappy, in the manner that Tolstoy said, “Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

In order of the grimness of their facial expressions, Teresa Radford was at the top of the list. I wondered if she was grim because Damon was badly hurt, or because he wasn’t dead? The ex–Mrs. Radford had been movie star Teresa Gleason twenty years earlier when she married Damon, who was then a low man on the TV totem pole. Now deep in her forties, she was still lovely, and still had her trademark long red hair. She retained the bone structure the camera must have loved, but bitterness had hardened her mouth, and her eyes were puffy with fatigue.

Jeremy Radford, Teresa’s and Damon’s son, stood next to his mother. Jeremy always seemed older than fifteen to me. An inch taller than his father, and still growing, he was a good-looking young man. If Damon had a “best part of himself,” it was Jeremy.

Standing closest to the lounge door, nervous as a racehorse waiting for the starter’s gun to go off, was gorgeous, platinum-haired Serena McCall, former daytime diva, now the inexperienced head writer of Trauma Center. I amused myself imagining she took her position by the door so she could beat the other “concerned visitors” in a race to pay tribute to the patient.

I had not expected to see the other two people in the room. The first surprise was Tommy Zenos, apparently not in Connecticut for his uncle’s funeral. Tommy was sweating and peeling the wrapper off a large-size Snickers bar. Several other crumpled and discarded Snickers wrappers were scattered on top of the end table next to him. His jacket was straining at the seams, and his yellow gold wristwatch had become so tight I knew he would have to go back to Piaget soon to have more links put in the band. Now, it wasn’t strange that our show’s executive producer had rushed back from his mourning family to rally the troops. Politically, it was smart. What was odd was that he hadn’t called me as soon as he heard about the accident to find out what I was doing to cover Cybelle’s absence from the studio. I was flattered he trusted me to handle the show, but I was curious about why he was off on a major chocolate binge. Tommy wasn’t indulging himself in a few forbidden treats. He wasn’t eating for pleasure; he was devouring candy like a drowning man grabbing at a life preserver. I wondered what could have happened to upset him so much.

The final unhappy face in the group belonged to Jay Terrill. It was a small, pointed face, with a twitching pink nose. Jay resembled a rodent, but he had none of a rodent’s natural charm. He was staring at me in embarrassment, and he should have been embarrassed. Jay was one of my scriptwriters; he was supposed to be home writing. I remembered what Tommy called Jay behind his back: “the suck up.” Several times recently I had seen him sucking up to Damon. Tommy had warned me Jay was after my job.

I said a warm “hi” to Tommy and Jeremy, a polite “hello” to Serena and Jay then I extended my hand to Damon’s ex, whom I recognized from photographs and from having seen her movies.

“I’m Morgan Tyler, Mrs. Radford. I’m so sorry about what’s happened.”

What I meant was, I’m sorry about what happened to Cybelle.

She was gracious. “Please, call me Teresa,” she said.

Tommy, the people-pleaser son of a daytime television legend—his father created three landmark dramas for ABC—felt he needed to elevate the quality of my sympathy. He identified me by job title. “Morgan’s the head writer for Love of My Life.”

“I know,” she said. Then, to me, she added: “I’ve been a fan for years. You’ve done a very good job keeping heart in the stories.”

“Thank you. I’ve enjoyed your movies.”

Any further mutual-admiration bonding was interrupted by the appearance in the doorway of Detective Phoenix. Serena, spotting an attractive man with no wedding ring on his finger, stood up straighter and aimed her breasts at him. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Serena McCall.”

“This is Detective Phoenix,” I said, introducing them.

Serena extended her hand and he shook it briefly. I introduced the others in the room: Teresa Radford, Tommy Zenos, Jay Terrill and Damon’s son, Jeremy Radford.

Jeremy spoke first. “How’s Dad?” he asked Phoenix.

“The doctor just gave him a pain shot,” Phoenix said. “He’ll be asleep in a few minutes, but he wanted to see you, son.”

Without another word, Jeremy hurried out of the lounge and down the corridor toward his father’s room. Tommy, Jay and Serena, realizing they would not see the demon this morning, seemed relieved. Tommy had a question. “Did you find the person who hit them?”

“We found the car, Mr. Zenos.”

“Call me Tommy.”

Phoenix didn’t call him anything. “The car was stolen, then abandoned after the incident,” he said.

Serena, edging closer, unleashed her inner Marilyn Monroe and asked in a breathy voice, “What are you going to do now?”

That’s what Serena said, but I got the feeling her real question was, What are you doing for the rest of your life, you good-looking, employed, obviously straight man with a big gun?

Phoenix’s response to her spoken question was to glance politely at Serena and them aim his answer to all of us in the room.

“There’s nothing more we can do,” he said. “Radford insists the witness was wrong when he said the car hit them intentionally. He’s adamant that the event was an accident. Case closed.”

Jay added his theory. “It was probably just a kid who stole a car to go joyriding, then when he hit somebody, he panicked and drove away.”

Serena said what I was thinking, “Such a cliché. Is that how you would have plotted this story, Jay?”

He seemed to shrink into his rodent’s body. He didn’t reply, but from the glance he shot Serena, I would have advised her to stay out of any street where Jay Terrill had access to a car. Serena’s cell phone rang and she turned her attention to it. All I could hear was her end of the conversation, but it sounded as though there was trouble on the Trauma Center set.

At this point, the party broke up.

Tommy, Jay and Serena left the lounge and headed toward the elevator. Teresa sat down again to wait for her son. I took the stairs.

Detective Phoenix caught up with me one flight down.

“Do you walk everywhere?” he asked.

“As much as I can. It helps me think.”

“Uh, look, Mrs. Tyler—”

“Call me Morgan.”

“Morgan. Since this isn’t a criminal case anymore—what I’d like to say is that since we don’t have any . . . professional . . . connection—would you have dinner with me tonight? With my aunt and me, at our home?”

“You live with your aunt?” I heard myself say, and realized it sounded judgmental and snobbish. He either didn’t notice, or he overlooked it.

“Actually, she lives with me. You’ll like Aunt Penny. She’s a terrific lady, and she’s a fan of your show.”

He must think I can’t talk about anything else.

“If you’re off duty now,” I said, “doesn’t that mean you’ll be back on duty tonight?”

“We’re off until tomorrow. So . . . will you have dinner with us?”