Gabrielle, Beatrice, and Fritz Henderson stood huddled together at the foot of the Chelsea Pier waiting for the sun to rise over the Hudson River. It was sadly ironic that the people standing with Gabrielle on this warm and somber August morning were the very same witnesses who had stood with her on her wedding day. Only this time they were together again to say good-bye to her husband.
Gabrielle tightly grasped the small vial in her hand. Because Jack had no family and she wanted to avoid any further publicity, she’d decided to cremate his body and in a final tribute, sprinkle a small amount of his ashes off the pier where they’d had their first date.
Looking across the river, Gabrielle found herself hoping that with the sunrise she would wake up from this horrible nightmare once again a wife instead of a widow. She and Jack had had so little time together, and already she was forced to say good-bye. His death was so senseless and unnecessary. Of all the emotions that were coursing through her at this moment—guilt, remorse, fear—it was the anger that Gabrielle tried to squelch before it welled up and took hold of her. She was angry at God for taking away yet another important person in her life, leaving her alone and forcing her to yet again rework the road map of her future. She was angry at Jack for going back to the chalet instead of joining her at the spa as she’d requested. But most of all Gabrielle was angry at herself for allowing Jack to die in that fire knowing that his wife and the mother of his unborn child was not in love with him.
As the sun rose over the Hudson, Gabrielle began to sob. Beatrice handed her a fresh Kleenex and held her until she could collect herself. “Thank you both for being here with me. Is there anything you’d like to say before we—” Gabrielle asked, unable to continue without crying.
“Jack, you were my best friend and business partner,” Fritz stepped in, his voice shaky. “I’ve known you since the third grade, and throughout the years we’ve been like brothers, always there for each other. And I know that this past year was one of your best. I’d never seen you happier or more positive about your future.
“It won’t be the same without you around, buddy. Hell, I won’t be the same, but I am grateful for the time we did have. I love you, Jack, and don’t worry, I’ll be here for Gabrielle and the baby. And don’t worry about the company. I’ll make sure it grows into a business your kid will be proud to inherit.”
“Jack, you and I didn’t know each other well, but we had one thing in common—we both loved Gabrielle very much,” Beatrice followed sadly. “Though your time together was brief, you made her very happy. For that I thank you. I’ll look after your wife and child the very best I can. May you rest in peace with the Lord.”
“Jack, I promise to keep your spirit alive for our baby. I’ll make sure your child grows up knowing what a good and kind man you were. You’ll stay in both our hearts forever. Good-bye, love,” Gabrielle said simply, her heart too full of grief and guilt to say any more. With shaky hands, she uncapped the vial of Jack’s ashes and scattered them over the Hudson River. As the fine gray dust hung in the air before descending slowly into the water, the three recited the Lord’s Prayer. After several minutes of silent reflection, Gabrielle, flanked by both Bea and Fritz, walked back to the car, each lost in private and personal memories of the man to whom they’d said farewell.
“Here’s your Motrin,” Gabrielle said, handing Beatrice the bottle of pills and a glass of water. Like all of Gabrielle’s medications, the bottle’s label was color-coded, identifying the contents. “I hope they help.”
“Thank you, honey. They’ll do fine until I can get my prescription refilled.”
“I’m sure all this stress is what’s making your back hurt.”
“Honey, I’m fine. Now, stop fussing over me. You’re the one who’s nearly five months pregnant. I should be taking care of you. Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’ll just be glad when the memorial service is over and all these people go home.”
“You must be exhausted. You’ve been up since very early this morning. Why don’t you lie down awhile? Your guests will understand,” Beatrice suggested with concern. For a woman who’s belly was full of life, Gabrielle herself looked lifeless.
“Do you know what the worst part of all this is?” Gabrielle asked, lost in her own thoughts and ignoring Bea’s advice. “Besides the fact that Jack will never see his baby?”
“What’s that?” she asked softly.
“I never told Jack that I loved him,” Gabrielle said, breaking into tears.
“Oh, yes, you did, sweetheart. When you told him that you were carrying his child, you let him know. Jack knew you’d never go ahead with this pregnancy unless you did indeed love him.”
“This is all my fault.”
“That’s nonsense, Gabrielle Donovan,” Beatrice said sternly. “You had nothing to do with this. Don’t you dare blame yourself.”
“It’s true. Jack is dead because I insisted on taking a honeymoon. If we had stayed at home, none of this would have happened and my baby would still have its father,” Gabrielle wept as she folded into Beatrice’s arms.
“Oh, honey, don’t do this to yourself,” Beatrice said, rocking Gabrielle gently and wanting desperately to help her, but having no clue as to how. As much as her heart went out to Gabrielle and her baby, Beatrice could not deny the satisfaction she felt once again having Gabrielle all to herself. Widowed, pregnant, and illiterate, Gabrielle needed Bea now more than ever.
“What’s the latest from the police?” Ruthanna asked Felicia in a hushed voice. They were out in the kitchen with Gabrielle’s other friends, away from the rest of the folks who had come to pay their respects to Jack’s widow. Each was full of questions about the tragedy, and, as Gabrielle’s official spokesperson, Felicia found herself on the receiving end of their inquiries.
“According to Gabrielle, they’re still pursuing their main theory that some local kids broke into the chalet and had a party. Apparently they break into unoccupied vacation homes all the time.”
“But her house was obviously occupied,” Jaci remarked.
“The police think that they were fans. I guess the fact that it was a so-called celebrity’s house made it too enticing to pass up,” Felicia responded.
“And what about the fire?” Greg von Ulrich asked.
“The fire department has determined from the heavy burn marks on the rug that the fire started near the couch. Apparently, from the soot scrapings, there was some kind of accelerant used, more than likely the oil lamps.”
“But who or what lit it?” Lois queried.
“They don’t know. At face value it looks like a party that got out of hand, but because of Jack they’re not ruling out arson and murder.”
“They think someone actually tried to kill him?” Stephanie asked, pushing her way into the huddle.
“Even though he died of smoke inhalation, they found a large contusion on his head. They think it’s possible that Jack surprised the vandals and they panicked, knocked him out, and then set the fire to cover their tracks,” Felicia informed the others.
“Do they have any suspects?” Stephanie asked casually, willing herself to stay cool.
“So far only the guy who called in the fire, but apparently he’s disappeared.”
“Couldn’t the police trace the phone call?” Ruthanna asked.
“They did. It was traced to a pay phone about two miles from the chalet. The detective said that they dusted it for fingerprints, but nothing usable came up,” Felicia revealed.
“So that’s it? Jack might have been murdered, and they have no leads,” Greg remarked as Gabrielle and Beatrice reentered the room.
“None. They found a partially melted camera bag in the living room, but any identification was totally burned away.”
“I just hope, for Gabrielle’s sake, they catch the monsters who did this,” Jaci said, voicing everyone’s thought.
“Howie, how the fuck did all this happen? The plan was so simple. Jack wasn’t supposed to die,” Stephanie remarked following the memorial service.
“It was an accident. We left the house a mess, but Jack was the one who torched the place.”
“He’d still be alive if he hadn’t come home so early.”
“How do you know that? Who’s to say that he wouldn’t have gotten hit by a car later that evening? Jack Hollis died because it was his turn. End of story.”
“Maybe.”
“Did you find out anything about the investigation?” Howie asked anxiously.
“Some good, some bad. The good news is that the police have no way of identifying the camera bag. The bad news is that the person who called in the fire is the prime suspect right now.”
“That would be me.”
“Don’t worry. They’ve got nothing. No prints. No leads. Nothing.”
“But what about Beatrice? What if she knows it was us who drove by her?”
“Believe me, she hasn’t got a clue. Besides, even if she did figure it out, I know something that’s sure to keep her big mouth shut.” Stephanie briefly filled Howie in on Beatrice’s ill-advised attempt to keep Doug and Gabrielle apart. “Do you think Gabrielle would ever trust Beatrice again? I think not. So, you see, nothing and no one is going to get in the way of us writing Gabrielle’s biography.”
“You still want to go ahead with this?” Howie asked.
“Hell yes. We’ve come too far to turn back now. This entire Killington fiasco has actually turned out to be a blessing. Gabrielle has been front-page news ever since the fire. Felicia’s going crazy trying to keep up with all press requests. The public can’t get enough of the poor, grieving widow and pitiful mother-to-be.”
Howie had to respect Stephanie’s ability to bounce back with such total resilience. Having accepted the fire and Jack’s death as an unfortunate turn of events, she was ready to press forward. Stephanie Bancroft refused to let anything block her chosen path to success.
“Just promise me, no more setups.”
“We don’t need any more. It’s time to strike a deal while the iron is hot.”
“That’s exactly why I sent our proposal to a friend of mine. He’s the assistant to Russell Shockley, the editor of Target Press. He promised to make sure it got seen.”
“Target Press is just another tabloid publishing house. They specialize in those fast and dirty tell-all books. I want this to go through a legitimate publisher. That’s why it has to be an authorized biography,” Stephanie argued.
“Do you really think that’s going to happen? Gabrielle doesn’t seem to be at all interested in this project.”
“I just have to give Gabzilla a little time to get over her grief. I don’t want to appear unsympathetic to her situation, now do I?”
“As long as we destroy the pictures,” Howie reminded her. “It’s too dangerous to keep them.”
“We need them for the book,” Stephanie insisted.
“Are you crazy? We can’t use these photos in the book for the same reason we couldn’t use them in the newspaper: Nobody else has pictures of the house before and during the fire. If we use them, we might as well pave a yellow brick road right to our front door for the police to find us.”
“Okay. Get rid of all the prints and negatives in the file. Burn them,” Stephanie suggested, collapsing into laughter. She was laughing not only because of her joke, but because she had a set of the Killington photos hidden away. Despite Howie’s reservations, she was definitely holding on to those photos. When all this hubbub blew over, who knew where they might end up taking her?