The Cinderella Hour (31 page)

Ellen made a concerted effort not to look at Patrick. He had predicted
exactly what Blaine would say, the defense he would use, and why his murder of
his family would never go to trial.

“I’d like to put this to rest,” Blaine said. “Once and for
all. For my sake and my daughter’s. I haven’t minded Patrick popping back into
my life every few years. My ex-wife found his accusations immensely amusing.
She’s a psychiatrist, too. Did Patrick tell you? We got a good old-fashioned
divorce for a personally painful reason. She fell in love with someone else.
That’s rejection, wouldn’t you say? Yet she remains healthy and happy. I’ve
been a good sport about Patrick’s suspicions. He’s never gotten over Julie’s
death. I recognize that his pursuit of her phantom killer has been a way for
him to keep her alive.”

“A good sport,” Ellen murmured.

“That’s right. But I’m running out of patience. And there’s
Snow to think of. It’s also time for Patrick to get on with his life. Your
marriages haven’t worked, have they? I believe you should consider therapy,
Patrick. It might take a while, but what do you have to lose? You might
consider therapy, too, Ellen. Candy. Leigh.”

“How do you propose to put it to rest?” Patrick asked.

“By trying it in the only court where such scurrilous charges
could ever be aired.”

“The court of public opinion.”

“Very good, counselor. You say your piece. Ellen says hers. I
say mine. I know I can’t prevent you from referring to me as a killer. But a
little restraint would be appreciated. In return, I’m willing to agree on a
euphemism for what Ellen was.
Whore
, although accurate, is unduly
prejudicial. I’m willing to go with courtesan. I’d also like to avoid a lengthy
debate about Julie’s manic depression. That’s to your advantage, of course. It’s
a debate I would win. But I’ll stipulate that Patrick believes she had no
underlying mental illness, if you’ll concede that, in my professional opinion,
she did. I won’t even bolster my position, despite the fact that it
is
bolstered, with the reminder that a family history of bipolar illness is a risk
factor for postpartum depression—and that Julie would have been Snow’s aunt.”

“Snow? What does—”

“Yes, Snow,” he broke in. “She had severe postpartum
depression, Ellen. Listening between the lines of what she said on-air last
night, I’d say she was symptomatic before you left Quail Ridge.”

“You’re
lying
. Snow wasn’t pregnant.”

“She was, and she miscarried. But let me guess why this is
news to you. You were too busy baking cookies to notice. Or were you too busy
doing something else?”

“You—”

“Careful, Ellen. You’ve been containing yourself so well.
Kudos to you, Patrick. But her worthlessness as a mother clearly remains an
issue. Maybe it’s not relevant to our discussion. I’ll leave it to you, Ellen,
to decide. I think we can both agree it would be unfair to ask the judge in our
mock trial to make a ruling.”

“The judge in our mock trial?” Ellen asked.

“Are you only now beginning to realize what I’m proposing?
Please try to keep up.”

“You want this discussion to take place on
The Cinderella
Hour.”

“Where else? But I don’t think we should ask Snow to be the
judge. Her listeners will be. Judge and jury. Snow’s role will be as moderator,
to ensure equitable access to the microphone. Let’s agree not to talk over one
another. That wouldn’t be fair to Snow.”

“And this proposal
is
?”

“No offense, Ellen, but if you weren’t such an unfit mother
you would understand that I’m suggesting this
for
Snow. Only, of course,
if she agrees. If nothing else, her ratings will go through the roof. The
stakes for me are high. What Snow privately decides, based on the case we each
present, will determine my future relationship with her. It’s a huge risk for
me. And, on the off-chance it hasn’t occurred to you, I’m the only one
incurring any risk at all. You’re accusing me of murder. My only accusation
against you is that you’re wrong. I stand to lose my marriage, my daughter, my
career.”

Blaine
looked from Ellen to the unreadable gaze of the man who would have been his
brother-in-law.

“Patrick. Inscrutable as ever. But you’re conflicted, aren’t
you? The law-and-order part of you likes the idea of going public. Everyone
would be watching me from there on out. That brings up another risk I’m taking.
Even if my practice survived the verdict, any time a patient suffered an
adverse outcome, or was even slightly unhappy with her care, I’d be blamed.”

Blaine
shifted his attention to Ellen. “Lieutenant Cole is more than ready to alert
the good citizens of Chicago to the menace in their midst. The damned problem
is that he has this archaic notion of honor. He’s worried about your
reputation. He’s probably also a little dismayed that you didn’t tell him about
your unsavory past. You didn’t, did you?”

“The issue is your unsavory past.”

“We’re talking about you now, Ellen. I wonder about your
legal jeopardy. Patrick’s wondering about it, too. If you’re still turning
tricks, he has an obligation to arrest you. I doubt he’s susceptible to
bribery. But it might be worth a try. I’d suggest taking him to bed. That is
what you do best. Which reminds me, does my daughter know how you make your
living?”

“When do you want to do this?” Ellen asked.

“The sooner, the better. I don’t need any time to rehearse
the truth. Patrick may think you require more practice, however, in perfecting
your lies.”

“I can speak for myself,” Ellen said. “I’m ready when you
are.”

“Then let’s do it tonight, if that works for Snow. She’ll
have to bump this evening’s scheduled guests, but I think this qualifies as the
sort of extenuating situation anyone would understand. Would you like to
discuss this with her or shall I?”

“Don’t you dare.”

Blaine
smiled. “Fine. Unless I hear otherwise, I’ll be at WCHM at nine tonight. We can
go over the ground rules then. I’ll defer to whatever Snow wants. It’s her
show. And she knows what she’s doing. That’s not merely a proud father remark.
It’s the observation of an expert who has been interviewed countless times.” Blaine’s smile became a sneer. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have patients to see. Lives to
save.”

“I hate him, Patrick.”

“You did well.”

“Not nearly as well as you did. What he said to you about
Julie and psychotherapy and . . .”

“My eleven failed marriages?”

“Eleven?”

Ellen had discovered Patrick Cole could smile. Now she
learned he could laugh.

“I’m kidding. I’ve been married twice, a long time ago. The
first failed because of Julie. I got married too soon after her death and for
the wrong reason. I was trying to get on with my life, to force it to happen
before I was ready. The marriage lasted less than a year. The good news is that
my ex-wife fell in love with the right man the next time around.”

“You’re glad about that.”

“Of course. She didn’t deserve what I put her through.”

“And the second marriage?”

“It was the second for both of us. We were good friends going
in and remained friends after we called it quits. She, too, found the love of
her life after her divorce from me.”

“But you haven’t . . . again. Not since Julie.”

“Not since Julie,” Patrick said. “But not because of Julie. I
could fall in love again. I’d like to. It just hasn’t happened. What about you?”

“Me?”

“And love.”

Me
?
“Never.” Ellen gazed at the Chicago skyline. They were driving toward the
five-star luxury of the two-bedroom suite Patrick had reserved for them at the
Wind Chimes Hotel. It was distant from the slums where she and Snow had lived,
but quite close to the Drake Hotel where a stoned-on-cocaine stripper had conceived
a baby girl. “What Blaine said about my unsavory past was true. I should have told
you.”

“Is it in the past?”

“Yes. It died a sudden death a year after I left Quail Ridge.
I woke up one morning and didn’t want to do it anymore. But I had wanted to,
Patrick. I wasn’t a victim. I made my own choices. Blaine was right. I will be
an extremely unsympathetic witness.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I have to, and I want to. It will protect her, don’t you
think? After tonight, even if the public rallies to his defense, the accusation
will be out there. People will wonder. Blaine was right about that, too.
Everyone he knows will be protected against any violence he might be tempted to
commit. Unless . . .”

“He sees it as a new challenge? Committing a perfect murder
in plain view?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think he finds murder all that satisfying. If he
did, he would have done it again. And he hasn’t. Believe me, I’ve looked. He
prefers living victims he can torment.”

“That’s what tonight is about, isn’t it? Tormenting you and
me in front of a live audience . . . and Snow. Using us, like the sociopath he
is, for his own amusement.”

“I think that’s why he suggested it. I also think it’s going
to backfire. He’s not going to persuade your daughter to turn against you.”

“How can you say that?”

“I won’t let him. And,” Patrick said, “I don’t believe she
will let him.”

“You really can’t say that. I was never a mother to her,
Patrick. And if what Blaine said about her postpartum depression is true, I
abandoned her when she needed me most.” Ellen sensed more than heard the
homicide lieutenant’s reaction. When she looked at him, she saw his frown. “What
aren’t you telling me?”

“That it is true. Following a miscarriage sixteen years ago,
Snow had severe depression. She talked about it last night.”

“You listened to the rest of the show?”

“I listened to all of it. I downloaded it onto a CD and
played it during the flight.”

“So you have it with you.”

“At the hotel.”

“I’d like to hear it before I talk to her.”

Good, Patrick thought. She would hear the words—emotionally
spoken by Snow—that made him confident it was Ellen’s daughter herself who
would resist Blaine’s efforts to alienate her from her mother.
I decided
Atlanta
, Snow had said.
It had meaning for my mother and me.

“We’ll order room service,” he said, “and do just that.”

“You think I can eat?”

“I think you need to try.”

Blaine
expected the locked doors to
swing open as he neared. Didn’t everyone, the ICU security guard included, know
who he was?

As he veered from the closed doors to the guard in question,
he made a conscious effort to conceal both the impatience—and euphoria—he was
feeling. The euphoria was the most difficult. Since his deliciously enjoyable
encounter with Ellen and Patrick, he had been flying high.

“Dr. Prescott to see Mira Larken.”

The guard consulted a computer monitor. “I’m sorry, sir. You’re
not on her authorized visitors list.”

“I should be. Look again.”

“No, sir. I don’t need to. Your name’s been removed.”

“Care to tell me by whom?”

“I don’t have that information.”

“Well, I do. It’s a simple misunderstanding that will be
remedied as soon as I speak with my wife. She’s with Mira. Would you please ask
one of the nurses to send her out to resolve this?”

“Certainly.”

Within seconds, and by phone, the guard communicated Blaine’s request. After what Blaine regarded as an unacceptable delay, he was given the
unacceptable reply.

“Your wife isn’t with her sister, and the patient herself is
sleeping.”

Blaine
’s
fury was immediate.

“Then I will need to talk to”—
scream at, stab, strangle
—“never
mind. I’ll straighten this out later.”

He was damned if he was going to let anything dampen his
mood. Especially not Vivian and Mira. They had been old news since it was
obvious the Larken sisters’ psychodrama wasn’t going to unfold as planned. There
would be no suicide for Vivian. And, for Mira, no realization—too late—that
she, not Vivian, should have become his wife.

He had been enraged at first. Who knew that zero-self-esteem
Vivian would decide to pay a visit to Mira, to
talk
to Mira, instead of
staying at home, as she was supposed to, listening to his interview with Snow?
Or that instead of moving in with her sister and brother-in-law, where the
psychological games would truly begin, the suddenly homeless Mira would have an
alternate housing opportunity in the form of Thomas Vail?

Blaine
would divorce Vivian within the week. No one could blame him. Following tonight’s
Cinderella Hour
, Chicagoans would take sides. Most would side with him.
But not, or so he would claim, his wife. He was disappointed to be losing
Vivian to divorce, not to death. It would have been nice to inherit the
mansion.

What lay ahead with Leigh—she would become Leigh again,
his
Leigh—and Snow would more than compensate. Blaine hadn’t felt this good, this
powerful, since the medical examiner had ruled the murders of his sister and
mother accidental.

The extent of his euphoria then had been a surprise. There
had been only mild elation following his father’s death. The difference, he decided,
was in the degree of difficulty of the respective crimes. Anyone could pull off
a hit-and-run. Poisoning without detection required finesse.

As would poisoning Snow against Leigh. But once Snow was
emotionally his? Leigh would be forced to beg him for his help in winning back
her daughter’s affection. She would do anything he wanted. Anything . . . and
everything.

He decided to cancel his appointments for the remainder of
the day. He wasn’t in the mood to pretend to care about whining women. He would
spend the afternoon at the mansion instead, letting anticipation course
unimpeded though his veins.

Maybe he would figure out a way to inherit the Larken estate,
after all.

As soon as Blaine left, the guard
placed the follow-up call he had been asked to make. What Mira’s nurse had told
him, and what he had told Blaine, was the truth.

Vivian wasn’t with Mira, and Mira was asleep.

But Vivian
was
in the ICU. With Daniel. She had been
told of Blaine’s request to speak with her—and why.

“It’s not a misunderstanding,” she had said from her chair
beside Daniel’s bed. “He’s not authorized. I guess I’d better tell him.”

“Stay put,” the nurse had replied. “We’ll handle it.” Then,
perhaps because she saw apprehension on the haggard face of the woman whose
words were working wonders with the unit’s sickest patient, the nurse added, “I’ll
let you know when he’s gone.”

It was a gift, Ellen told herself
as the phone in Snow’s condo rang unanswered. She needed time—oh, maybe a
lifetime—between hearing Snow talk about her postpartum depression and even
attempting to speak to her.

A lifetime. Not the seconds between when the CD ended and she
walked to the suite’s nearest phone and dialed the number Patrick had given her.

Snow’s machine picked up after the fourth ring. Her message
was the sort that single urban women knew to leave, providing the number but
not her name. She ended by asking that a message be left.

Hang up! an inner voice of self-preservation advised. Hang up
now
.

“Hello, Snow? It’s me. Whoever I am. You’ll recognize the
voice. Our voice. I can’t call myself your mother. It would be an insult to
mothers everywhere—including you. I’m
so sorry
I wasn’t there when you
lost your baby. I could have been and
should
have
been. I knew
something was wrong with you that day. Terribly wrong. I thought it was because
of Luke. If I hadn’t been so focused on myself, on getting away, I might have asked
the questions any real mother would have asked.

“But I was focused on myself. What’s new about that, you’re probably
wondering. When was I
ever
focused on you? There’s an answer to that.
You may not believe it. Why would you? But once upon a time, I was a mom, Snow,
your
mom. I didn’t have postpartum depression. Just the opposite. For
me, the first year of your life was the happiest year of mine. And, I think, it
was a happy year for you, too. We laughed all the time, and touched all the time,
and . . . it couldn’t last. Because of me. What I was. I didn’t know the reason
then. I’m only beginning to understand it now.

“You were better than me. Untainted and pure. That’s why I named
you Snow. I
wanted
you to be better. You were too good to be the
daughter of a whore.

“You
are
too good to be my daughter.”

Ellen paused, distracted for a moment by the sudden
remembrance that she was not alone. She didn’t look at Patrick, didn’t dare.

“I’m calling because of something I hoped you would never
have to deal with—but which, I’m afraid, you do. I sent you an email last
night. Ellen O’Neil from Atlanta. I’m a wedding coordinator there. How’s that
for life imitating lies? I couldn’t tell whether you realized it was me.
Something in the way you said my name made me think maybe you did. If so, you’ll
have figured out that Blaine is your father.

“The thing is, I didn’t send the email to warn you. I knew
you would already be wary. I needed to hear him talk about his past. I thought
it might help me remember what he told me the night we met. It did, and it’s
far worse than the violence you already know about. Julie didn’t poison the
Mother’s Day meal, Snow. Blaine did. He murdered his sister and mother. You
look like Julie. He knows who you are.

“You’re safe from him for now, whether or not you’re with
Luke. I hope you
are
with him, Snow, not for safety, but for love. What
he said to you last night, the way he said it . . . He loves you so much. It’s very
obvious that he always has. Just as it’s very obvious that I’ve always been
wrong about him. My forte is identifying bad men, I guess, not good ones.
Anyway, we need to talk. As soon as possible. I’m sorry, but we do. I’m here,
in Chicago. In room
12
-
222
at the Wind Chimes Hotel.”