Once More With Feeling (39 page)

"Maybe. But wouldn't that make it more
forgivable?"

"Will it be forgivable to Owen? If you end
up in bed with him, what will he think of himself?"

Gypsy raised her chin a notch and stood a
little straighter. "I really don't know. I can't even imagine what
he thinks of himself now. How could he come home at night and face
his wife after sleeping with Anna? Not that he ever came home that
damned often."

"Oh, grow up! Do you think you're the first
woman whose husband has cheated on her?"

"My husband hasn't cheated on me. I don't
have a husband."

"Tell me you are not going after Owen to
prove something to yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"I can think of two possibilities. Either
you are trying to prove that this new 'you' has what it takes to
get Owen Whitfield in bed. Or you are trying to prove that he is
capable of infidelity. You have never been a hundred percent
certain, have you?"

"Ninety-nine point nine. I never had the
opportunity to be in the same room while he and Anna were down to
their skivvies engaging in foreplay."

"Have you set out to make Owen go to bed
with you?"

Gypsy almost wished she could say yes. If
she were that sort of woman, her life might be easier and even more
successful. But in the baggage she had toted from her life as
Elisabeth had come a ton of scruples and another of compassion.
"No, I haven't. I never bargained on the attraction we feel. He's
twenty years older than I am. I was still hurt and angry. I never
thought . . ."

"Lord, lord."

"What would be wrong with it? I'm the
closest thing to a wife he has left."

"His wife is in a coma on Long Island."

"I'd love to see the courts take up that
one, wouldn't you? Think of the headlines. 'Wife's soul in new and
better body. Husband forced to choose . . .'"

"I am going home."

Gypsy couldn't blame Marguerite. She sighed
and the fight went out of her. "I'll walk you to the door."

Marguerite picked up her coat, which looked
suspiciously like a sixties Nehru jacket. "Just think about the
consequences. Please."

"I fumble through every minute just waiting
for heaven to intervene again. How can I think about
consequences?"

"If you cannot think about consequences with
Owen, then think about some with Richard."

They stopped in the foyer. Gypsy tried to
read Marguerite's expression, but it was hopeless. She fished.
"What on earth do you think all that hostility was about last
night? I've never seen Richard like that."

"I don't know if I have anything to say that
you want to hear."

"Try me."

"Are you listening with Gypsy's ears or
Elisabeth's?"

"I can't separate us anymore."

"Well, Richard was never the goody-goody
Elisabeth believed him to be. They had been friends too long for
her to see him clearly."

"You've been friends with him every bit as
long."

"But I see everyone clearly. Loyalty has
never hindered my eyesight."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Richard is not above political shenanigans.
I remember when he was at Yale and running for some student office
or the other. He befriended this odd young man--Web, I think his
name was--to help him run his campaign. They put together a
frightfully schlocky platform that tied in the war, student
protest, the draft. I can't remember it all. But the worst part was
that he totally misrepresented his opponent, who was far more
sincere about those issues than Richard himself. Richard won, of
course. And he will keep on winning every election he enters unless
someone exposes him for what he really is."

"And what is he?"

"A ruthless manipulator who only gets more
so with age."

Gypsy opened the door. "Have you ever met a
politician who wasn't a ruthless manipulator?"

"You have always been blinded by Richard's
Democratic ideals."

"And you've always been disgusted he wasn't
a Republican."

Marguerite stepped over the threshold.
Someone was frying bacon and Marguerite wrinkled her nose. "Think
about what I've said. Richard seemed very wary of Gypsy Dugan last
night, and Richard has powerful friends."

"I'll think about it. In fact I'm planning
to look into it." Gypsy watched as her friend started down the
hall. "Marguerite . . ."

"Yes?" Marguerite turned.

"The friend's name was Web? For some reason
I don't remember him."

"He was Richard's roommate during his senior
year. An odd looking young man with short legs and huge shoulders."
She smiled a little. "He had strange hair, like a steel wool pad.
He could have been a linebacker if those little legs had just moved
faster."

Gypsy had an instant vision of another man
who fit that description nearly thirty years later. "I still don't
remember him."

"I think they became friends after you
refused to go out with Richard anymore. Your friendship was rather
strained for a while, wasn't it?"

"This Web. . . His real name wasn't Desmond,
was it? Desmond Weber?"

"Well, yes. Actually I think that was it.
I'd forgotten. You must have met him, after all."

"Yes, I met him."

"I wonder whatever happened to Web. He was a
funny boy, but I rather liked him."

Gypsy wouldn't have put the facts together
so quickly if she hadn't known that Des had gone to Yale. But the
relative age and unusual description had fit like a suit from
Savile Row. Des and Richard had been friends, close friends from
the sound of things. And neither one of them had ever mentioned the
other in her presence--or Elisabeth's.

"Kendra, got a minute?" Several days after
her conversation with Marguerite Gypsy stood beside Kendra's desk
and fiddled with the other woman's letter opener, which was shaped
like a medieval dirk. It could do a fine job of drawing and
quartering the competition.

"For you? Two." Kendra popped a wad of gum.
"Nothing on Thad Lester."

"The gospel singer with all the illegitimate
kids?"

Kendra popped in affirmation. "His wife
divorced him and took up with some Latin music star out in L.A.
Thad's singing country and western in small town bars and
witnessing for Jesus on the side. He hasn't been anywhere near New
York, and he claims he's a happier man now that he's repented.
Sounds like he gives you and the show credit for saving his
soul."

"This is a weird, weird job."

"He's even paying his child support."

"I've got someone I want you to investigate.
Can you come in my office for a moment?"

Inside the office Gypsy closed the door
behind them. "Kendra, do you know who Richard Adamson is?"

"Sure. I voted for him for congress. Cripes,
Gypsy, don't tell me he's screwing elephants or shooting radiator
fluid. I don't want to know."

"I don't know what he's doing." Briefly, and
without mentioning Owen, she told Kendra about her encounter with
Richard. Then she told her about Des. "Doesn't it seem odd that Des
has never mentioned the connection?" she finished.

"I don't know. Maybe there's never been a
reason. Adamson keeps his nose clean. I don't ever remember hearing
a rumor of any kind about him."

"Then why was he so hostile toward me?"

"Maybe the two of you have a past. He hinted
at one, didn't he?"

"Not that kind. And if we do, I don't
remember it." Gypsy thought about that a moment. If she'd been to
bed with Richard, she was just as glad she didn't remember.

"What do you want me to do?" Kendra
asked.

"I want you to do some research on Adamson
without mentioning it to Des. Do you mind?"

"No problem. I'm pretty autonomous. Of
course if Des asks me point-blank. . ."

"He won't, and if he does, we'll know that
Adamson's been talking to him. That will be interesting, too."

"I ever quit this job, I'm going to become a
private dick. Pay's better."

"Think of this assignment as practice."
Gypsy unlocked her desk drawer and took out her purse. "I'm going
to the Bronx with my crew for some background shots of the Norman
Carroll neighborhood."

"Perry's doing all right?"

Perry had been a Norman Carroll student now
for two days. "Great. Last thing I heard two guys already asked her
to have sex, and one of the girl gangsters tried to trip her on the
stairs. She made a C on her first algebra test, but the teacher was
suspicious and demanded she take it again."

"I've got a lot of admiration for you for
doing this story. It might really change some things."

There were a million students in the city's
public school system and seventy thousand teachers, and this was
only one television show. Gypsy didn't have any illusions. "Do you
know that some of the city's schools have 200% more students than
their capacity?"

"Yeah?"

"And now they're talking about even more
cuts to the educational budget. Do you think what we're trying to
do here might have an impact on funding?"

Kendra shrugged. "Maybe not. But you could
talk to your friend Richard Adamson. Maybe if he's elected
governor, that'll change, too."

"You're still here?"

Hours and a trip to the Bronx later Gypsy
looked up to see Casey standing in her doorway. His hair was
rumpled, as if he had been finger-combing it while he worked, and
his five o'clock shadow had progressed to something darker and
sexier. It was past nine o'clock, and apparently he hadn't thought
about going home yet, either. "You, too?"

They stared at each other for a long moment
before he spoke. "I thought maybe we ought to compare notes."

She knew he was referring to their search
for her would-be assassin. All their conversations revolved around
that now. "I'll warn you, I haven't eaten, and grouchy doesn't come
close to what I'm feeling. Any chance we could grab some dinner
while we talk?"

"Yeah. I think I wolfed down a hot dog from
the stand at the corner about eight hours ago."

She stood and stacked the papers on her
desk. "Your call where we go."

"Since when?"

"This is the new, reformed Gypsy,
remember?"

"I'm in the mood for pasta."

"Sounds good. Let me comb my hair."

By the time she met him downstairs he had
already given today's Billy Boy instructions. She was used to the
rigmarole of entering and leaving the studio now. She scurried into
the plain blue sedan while the young man stood guard, then Casey
slid in behind her. They were moving slowly through the evening
traffic before Casey spoke.

"I thought we'd go to that little place in
the Village that you used to like so much."

"Sounds good to me."

"Still haven't regained any of your memory,
have you?"

"Why? Was that a trick?"

"I just wondered. . . "

"I wish I could be more help. But I meant it
when I said I wasn't going to get any better."

"So you don't remember the place we're going
to in the Village. How about a certain taxi ride the night before
the accident?"

"Did we get lost or something?"

He sighed heavily. "I've told Des I'll be
leaving. He offered me more money. Then Tito offered me even
more."

"Are you staying?"

"No."

She stared straight ahead. So many lives had
changed in such a short time.

"What about you?" he asked after a
while.

"I like my job."

"I think you like producing best of
all."

She considered that. So far she had loved
every minute of the Norman Carroll story. Not just because she had
contact with Grant, but because she could shape the story herself.
At least at this preliminary stage she worked well with her crew,
and she'd discovered she had an instinct for background footage
that might be valuable later when the story was edited. She could
hardly wait to shoot the bulk of it, so that she could put
everything together into a smooth finished product.

"I like being in front of the cameras," she
admitted. "But I think I like what goes on behind them better."

"You could start your own production company
when Tito gives you the ax."

"Have you heard something I haven't?"

"No. But he'll give you the ax eventually.
That's the name of the game. You used to say you'd marry a rich man
and live a life of leisure when Tito didn't want you anymore."

Elisabeth had married a rich man, or at
least one who had become rich. The new Gypsy knew that wasn't all
it was cracked up to be. "Were you rich enough to suit me?"

"You were thinking more along the lines of
an oil-rich Texan."

"I was pretty short-sighted."

"You were scared to death of being nobody
again. It haunted you."

Their Billy Boy driver turned on to a side
street. With a stab, Gypsy recognized the neighborhood. Anna lived
nearby, in an apartment above an art gallery that sold cast iron
fish skeletons and waffle sculptures made from discarded egg
cartons. Elisabeth and Owen had come here for dinner when Anna had
first begun to work for him, and about a month before the accident
they had come for a party. Owen and Anna had stood in a corner
talking to each other most of the evening while Elisabeth spritely
entertained the rest of the guests. Her suspicions had caught fire
that night.

The sedan pulled to a halt three doors down
from the gallery. There was no way Gypsy could refuse to get out.
What would she tell Casey? That in another life this was the block
where her husband had become an adulterer? She walled off her
memories and followed him inside.

The restaurant was brightly lit and
overflowing with people. The smells were heavenly. They took a
table in the back and Gypsy's bodyguard took one not too far away,
where he could keep an eye on her and the door. She hardly noticed
him. She had become used to having someone nearby all the time.