Forgotten: A Novel (26 page)

Chapter 29: Lights, Camera, Action

A
fter Emily leaves, I sit in the living room for a long time, my phone in my hand, wondering if I should call Dominic again or whether his radio silence is all the answer I need. Maybe all he wanted to do was apologize and he never meant anything more by it. It occurs to me at some point how absurd it is that all I have to do is push a few buttons and I could be talking to him, or hearing his voice on his voice mail at the very least. After so many months without that option, how can I be so uncertain now?

But I guess I was uncertain then too. Because after that day when I stood ready with my Schwinn but Karen wouldn’t go with me, the thing I haven’t told anyone—that only Karen and Peter know—is that I never made it back to the village-that-might-have-a-working-satellite-phone.

At first it was because I didn’t want to get my hopes raised and dashed again; I’d been on enough ups and downs, and all I wanted was an even keel. And then, as I grew more skilled with the hammer, as I hoisted beams and laid in floorboards and took fewer and fewer walks away from the village, it all seemed to recede. To fall away. I may have spoken about home to Peter and Karen in the way you do when you’re working together on a project—exchanging funny stories, keeping it light—but it seemed, it
was,
half a world away, a world I couldn’t reach, a world I needed a break from.

I didn’t think so at the time, but I can admit it now: I was being selfish. I was thinking of my own heart, my own head, and the break they needed from what I’d been through at home, the time they needed to heal. I knew that I could be doing more, that I could be trying harder to get in touch, that people must be worried. But Karen said to let it go, and I did. More completely than I thought possible. More completely than I should have.

And then one day the real world came rushing back, and I thought I was ready to return to it. In many ways, I was eager to. But I was still really only thinking of myself. Thinking that now that my heart and head were okay, or close enough anyway, I could just waltz back in and do whatever I wanted to do. That it was my decision, alone, to make.

These are not pretty thoughts, and they keep me frozen in place well into the night. And in the end I decide that there’s something I
can
do about it, at least one little thing, and so I put my phone away and leave Dominic to himself.

A
day later, I’m sitting in the
In Progress
audience watching as the touch-up girl applies loose powder to Detective Kendle’s face. Cathy Keeler is sitting next to her, flipping through her notes, muttering to herself. The room is hot and the air is filled with the sweaty smell of the audience’s excitement, thrilled to be this close to the queen bee of trashy journalism.

The arc lights are turned on, and the supporting players flit away from the stage. I feel a nervous pricking in my thumbs, like something wicked is about to happen.

Thankfully, Stephanie came along for the ride.

“How did you persuade Cathy Keeler to swap you for Ms. Hatchet-Face?” she asks, tucking the loose ends of her hair behind her ears. She’s wearing tight jeans and a black sweater and has topped her outfit with a jaunty beret. Her
artiste
look, as she calls it.

“Once I told Carrie that the detective who cracked the Bushnell case was available, she forgot all about boring little me.”

Victor Bushnell—whose fingerprints
were
found on the lid to the hidden compartment and on the back of the painting, the part obscured by the frame—was arrested yesterday, and the news broke late last night. It’s all over the papers and the news channels today, but the public details are scanty. No surprise that Carrie had been
all too happy
to book Detective Kendle on the show, and even to keep my involvement from Cathy Keeler.

Stephanie looks impressed. “Who knew you were so devious?”

“I’m learning.”

The assistant director puts up his hand, showing us three fingers. “Rolling in three . . . two . . . one.” The bombastic theme music blasts through the studio. Cathy Keeler’s face settles into its on-screen mix of deep intelligence and mild malevolence.

“Good evening, I’m Cathy Keeler. Most of you will have heard by now about Victor Bushnell’s arrest for the theft of a valuable Monet painting. We’ll be exploring why he did this daring but misguided act . . .”

“She sounds as if she admires him,” Stephanie mutters.

“She probably does. He’s her people after all.”

While Cathy fills the audience in, I watch Detective Kendle sitting uncomfortably in the wide leather chair, her mannish hands clasped tightly between the knees of her black slacks. She’s wearing a thick mask of makeup. Her pale hair shines under the bright lights.

“We have a very special guest with us tonight, the detective who solved the case. But first, let’s learn a little more about Victor Bushnell.”

The lights dim. The enormous flat screen behind Cathy Keeler is filled by Victor Bushnell’s face—a studio pose that projects confidence, trust, competence.

“Victor Bushnell, president and CEO of Bushnell Enterprises, is a man of many talents. Inventive genius, maverick, daredevil, and patron of the arts, he first came to prominence in . . .”

“Speaking of patron of the arts,” Stephanie says, “did you receive any more flowers from you know who?”

“No.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No, but I did get a visit from his ex-girlfriend.”

“What?”

Several people turn in their seats. Cathy Keeler’s head snaps up, searching the crowd for the disturbance. I sink lower in my seat, willing the darkness to hide me.

“Keep it down, will you?” I hiss.

“When did this happen?”

“A couple of nights ago.”

“What did she want?”

“She was looking for Tara, really, but she ended up telling me that she and Dominic were over, and that he’d be back.”

She shoots me a look. “That’s kind of odd.”

“I know. I don’t quite believe it myself.”

“And he still hasn’t called you?”

“No, but I think . . . I’m okay with that.”

Stephanie gives me a look like she doesn’t believe me, but she keeps silent.

The video ends and the lights come back up. Cathy Keeler stares into the camera. “With us tonight is Detective Kendle, the detective who broke this case wide open. How’d you do it?”

Detective Kendle shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “The break in the case came from an outside source, actually.”

“An accomplice who helped him steal the Monet?”

“It was a Manet.”

“Pardon?”

“It was an Édouard Manet painting, not a Claude Monet.”

Cathy Keeler laughs fakely. “Oh well, we don’t need to get caught up in minor details.”

Detective Kendle gives her a contemptuous look. “There are no minor details in my profession, Ms. Keeler.”

“Yes, of course not. You were saying something about an outside source?”

“That’s right. We had covered the groundwork, but it was one of the lawyers for Bushnell’s insurance company who cracked the case.”

“Why did he do it?”

“We believe it was because he had a loan he couldn’t repay that was guaranteed by the painting.”

“Do you know why he stole it himself?”

“I could only speculate.”

Cathy Keeler leans forward eagerly. “Please do.”

Detective Kendle lifts her nose in the air. “I deal in facts, Ms. Keeler. Not speculation.”

A crease forms between Cathy Keeler’s eyebrows. Her dermatologist would be alarmed if he was watching.

“This must be satisfying,” Stephanie says.

“You have no idea.”

“Will you tell us how Mr. Bushnell went about the theft, at least? How did he manage to evade the museum’s security?”

“We haven’t worked out all the details yet.”

Cathy Keeler gives her a treacly smile. “Yes, of course. Well, I’m sure you’ll be receiving a commendation for your great work.”

“It’s Emma Tupper who deserves the credit, Ms. Keeler, not me.”

“Emma Tupper? The lawyer who was missing in Africa?”

“Yes. She’s the one who solved the case.”

Cathy Keeler blinks rapidly a few times, putting the pieces together. “And, of course, she was a previous guest on our show. Perhaps you saw that episode?”

“Yes,” Detective Kendle says huffily.

“Yes. Quite. Ms. Tupper
does
seem to have a way of keeping her name in the media.”

“That’s not what she’s like at all.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Admire her, do you?”

“I do, actually.”

Stephanie slips her hand into mine. “You’ve got someone in your corner, at least.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “More than one person, I hope.”

T
he Management Committee wants to see you,” Jenny says to me nervously the next day.

“Thank you, Jenny.”

She twirls the end of her hair around her index finger. “You look nice.”

I took extra care with my appearance this morning, putting on my most conservative suit and slicking my hair back into a sleek chignon.

“I was going for ferocious.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, it’s an inside joke.”

Feeling giddy, I straighten my blazer and slip the Dictaphone into my pocket. “If I’m not back in forty-five minutes, send the Initial Brigade after me, will you?”

“You’re in a funny mood today.”

I give her a smile instead of explaining and take the long way around so I don’t have to walk by Matt. I haven’t seen him since our altercation, though I’ve felt his disappointment seeping through our communal wall.

I walk through Reception and push the Up elevator button. The Management Committee meets five floors up, on the penthouse floor. I’ve only ever been there once, when I got hired on after I graduated from law school. TPC has a hiring ritual that dates back to when you had to belong to the right eating house to get a job here. If you were “in,” you got called into the real boardroom, where you were slapped on the back and glad-handed by a room full of middle-aged men calling you “little lady.” If you were “out,” you ended up in a side room with the motherly woman from HR.

I wonder which room I’ll end up in today?

The elevator arrives and I step into it. The doors start to close.

“Hold the door,” a familiar voice rings out.

Before I can reach for the Close button, an expensive black shoe pokes through, stopping the doors in their tracks. They pull back to reveal Sophie, who’s wearing a nearly identical suit to my own. Her straight blond hair is even molded into a similar hairstyle.

She meets my eyes, looking flustered. “I’ll take the next one.”

I grip the Dictaphone in my pocket. My hand feels slippery against the silvery metal. “No, that’s all right.”

She enters and stands next to me. I hesitate for a moment, then hit the Up button. The doors slide closed. She glances at the row of buttons, her finger moving toward the one I’ve already pushed. She pulls her hand away.

“I guess we’re going to the same place,” she says, forcing a smile.

“Looks like.”

We watch the numbers silently light up one by one. What can it mean that we’ve been called to the Management Committee together? Maybe the
In Progress
ploy wasn’t such a good idea after all? And am I really going to have to expose Sophie while she’s sitting right next to me?

“Nice coverage on Cathy Keeler.”

I turn toward her, checking for signs of sarcasm. All I see is a reflection of my own apprehensive face.

“Thanks.”

“Your doing, I presume?”

I nod.

“Impressive.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling a twinge of surprise, and maybe a little guilt too.

“What do you think they want with us?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The doors ding open. We exit and walk down the long corridor. Our whole office is plush, but the penthouse floor is out of this world. The carpet’s so thick I can’t hear my own footsteps, and the walls are covered with a richly colored handmade wallpaper. Heavy oil paintings of former members of the firm look down at us with a disapproving air.

“Did Matt say anything?” she asks.

“I don’t think he’s talking to me at the moment.”

She looks at the floor. “Mmm. Me either.”

We arrive at the large black doors of the boardroom. Rumor has it the Management Committee meets here every morning to pore over receivables and plot how to steal clients from other big firms. My chest feels hollow, like my heart has been removed.

“Well, good luck,” Sophie says.

I can’t help but smile. “You too. Nice suit, by the way.”

She gives me a quick once-over. “You wear it better.”

Again, she actually seems sincere. The Dictaphone starts to feel like a weight in my pocket.

A woman in her midfifties is waiting for us at the door. I recognize her as the chairman’s personal assistant, who has also been, if the same rumor mill is to be believed, his mistress for the last thirty years. Good thing her first name is the same as his wife’s.

“Ms. Tupper, Ms. Vaughn, right on time.”

“Yes,” we say together.

“They’re waiting for you.”

She opens the door. I cast a nervous glance at Sophie. “After you.”

“Oh no, I insist.”

I square my shoulders and walk through the door. The boardroom is long, wide, and windowless. More dead partners’ images line the wood-paneled walls. There’s an enormous oak table in the middle of the room, surrounded by fifteen old men wearing dark suits. I can almost smell the fading testosterone.

I catch the eye of the lawyer who handled my mother’s estate. The one who told me not to go to Africa, who said it would hurt my career. How angry I was that day, how indignant. I’m glad, now, that he told me no. I might not have gone otherwise. And that would’ve been a mistake, despite everything that’s happened.

Matt speaks from the end of the table. “Emma, Sophie, welcome. Please have a seat.”

I almost don’t recognize him in this austere setting. His suit jacket is done up and he’s exuding an air of authority I’ve only seen in the courtroom.