Anonymous Sources (9 page)

For tonight, though, I was done thinking about her. I wanted more gin and then I wanted to get to bed.

I gulped at the drink and ran my fingers through my hair and over the soft, saggy skin of my stomach. Over the silvery stretch marks. Try explaining those on a third date. The marks are the only physical evidence that I have given birth. I was so young when it happened that the rest of my body snapped back into place.

For a long time I rarely thought of her. Now, as I've said, some nights it hits me so hard I can't stand up. But losing my daughter has also made me strong. It has made me a better reporter. Because it has made me fearless. It is easy to be fearless when you have nothing to lose. And what do you have to lose, when you've already lost the thing that matters most?

    

    

SATURDAY, JUNE 26

T
he next morning I needed the cooked breakfast.

Sausages, two eggs, beans, oily mushrooms and tomatoes, fried bread, the works. A big pot of tea that I was allowing to steep too long to boost the caffeine content.

Luckily room service had shut last night at eleven, cutting me off after four drinks. Otherwise I might not have made it down for breakfast at all. As it was, I was feeling ravenous. I ordered an extra basket of toast and marmalade and gobbled it down.

My plan, such as it was, was to get back to Petronella's room early enough that she would still be in bed. If I could catch her off guard, before
she'd dressed and done her makeup, I might be able to coax something out of her.

So I swigged down the tea and was back outside Petronella's door by eight o'clock. Practically the middle of the night by grad-student standards.

This time it was quiet.

I knocked lightly. No answer. I knocked harder. This time I thought I heard a groan.

I had to knock a third time before I heard footsteps padding across the room. The door opened a crack.

Petronella squinted at me. “You.”

“Good morning. I brought you some coffee. Here we are.” I handed her the latte I'd bought on the way over. “It's skim. Hope that's okay.”

I smiled brightly, as though this were all perfectly normal and the only question was whether I'd gotten her coffee order right. Before she could react, I pushed the door open a little wider and stepped inside.

“No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. You can't be here.”

“Well, now, here's the thing. I need to interview you and I'm not leaving until we've talked. It'll only take about fifteen minutes. So I suppose we might as well get started.”

I glanced over at her desk. “I'll just sit here, shall I? Let me get out my notebook.”

She shook her head. “You have to go. Now.”

She looked annoyingly gorgeous. I need a shower and a good ten minutes' wrestling with the blow-dryer before you would want to cross my path in the morning. Petronella, on the other hand, already looked radiant, all tousled blond hair and long, tan legs.

She also looked terrified.

A moment later I found out why.

“Nella,” called a deep voice from across the room. “You might as well get it over with.”

“Jesus!” I jumped. Turned toward the bed. A head popped up from under a pile of pillows and covers. The same man I'd seen here yesterday.

Now this was an interesting development.

I caught my breath. Then I squared my shoulders and walked over. Held out my hand. “I didn't realize. And I don't believe we were properly introduced yesterday. I'm Alexandra James.”

“Lucien Sly.” He grinned. Shook my hand. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

“Lucien, for the love of God!” snarled Petronella.

“Darling, she's just doing her job. It can't be helped. Why don't you make up a few quotes and then see her out?”

Petronella went scarlet with fury. “Lucien, enough. Please. And as for you”—she turned on me—“as for you, leave now or I will ring the police.”

But I was starting to see a way in. “You know, I suppose it would be a cheap shot to point out how my story will read in tomorrow's paper if you throw me out now. Yes, definitely a cheap shot. But let's see . . .” I flicked through a few pages in my notebook. “So then, it's Miss Petronella Black, beloved girlfriend of Thomas Carlyle, found curled up in bed with a Mr. Lucien Sly—”

He interrupted, “Lord Lucien Sly, actually.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's just a title, old family thing, you know, but we might as well get it right. If it's for the newspaper and everything.” He grinned again, wolfishly.

Despite myself, I grinned back.

Petronella seemed to snap. “Get out,” she hissed.

Remarkably, this seemed intended for Lucien and not me. I turned my back modestly as he pulled on jeans and shoes. The two of them whispered together for a moment and then he crossed the room.

“Nice to meet you, Alexandra.” Then he lowered his voice. “Oh, and I liked the skirt better. They're worth looking at, you know.”

Confused, I followed his gaze. He was staring at my legs. They were hidden today beneath white linen trousers.

“I'll bear that in mind, your lordship.”

“Do.” He winked at me, blew a kiss over to Petronella, and shut the door.

OVER THE NEXT HOUR PETRONELLA
shared quite a lot of useful information.

That Thom had wanted to get serious, that he'd asked her to come to the States with him, that he'd asked her to marry him.

He'd gotten down on one knee, she told me, in the same tone of disgust one might use to relate that Thom had decided to let his toenails grow out.

Petronella's response to Thom's gallantry had been to dump him. The night before he flew home. The night before he died.

She declined to be specific about when she had started up with Lucien Sly. It seemed obvious there had been some overlap with Thom Carlyle. But whether Petronella Black was a slut wasn't any of my business. The interesting thing was that she and Thom had argued the night of his last party here. Argued so bitterly that they'd broken up. He'd flown home alone.

I ventured that it was a reasonable conclusion that Thom was depressed when he arrived back in the States. That he might have had something drastic in mind when he climbed the Eliot House bell tower.

But she shook her head. She was sure Thom hadn't killed himself. She couldn't say why, just that he wouldn't have done that. She swore she had no idea what had happened up in the bell tower. None of the possibilities—that he jumped, that he fell, that he'd been pushed—none of them made sense to her.

Finally I leaned back. Petronella struck me as shallow and immature. But she also struck me as someone telling the truth.

“Will you be flying over for the funeral Tuesday?” I asked by way of wrapping things up.

“I suppose so. They'll be expecting me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really? I don't think the Carlyles will be thrilled to see you. I mean, no offense, but you did just dump their son and you're already with another guy.”

“They don't know any of that.”

“Maybe not yet, but they will once my story comes out.”

She jerked her shoulders back. “You can't actually use any of this. Not in the paper. I want this all to be off the record.”

“What? No. Sorry. We've been on the record this whole time. I told you up front that I'm a reporter. I told you who I work for. You've been watching me take notes the entire time we've been talking. Of course I'm going to use all this.”

“But I will look ridiculous!”

“Possibly. Though I'm not sure you can blame my reporting for that.”

She shot me a withering look. “I'm going to call my father. And my lawyer. You'll be hearing from them.”

“Fine. Tell them to call my editors.”

“I mean it. I don't want my name in the paper.”

“Petronella. With all due respect, grow up.”

Instead, she stood up. Walked right over and gave me a little shove.

“I am warning you, don't print a single word of this. Don't you dare. Or I will make you very sorry.”

She was trying to intimidate me. I'm afraid she had the opposite effect.

Try me, sister, I was thinking as I walked out. Try me.

    

    

L
ater that morning I wandered down to the Emmanuel boathouse and found a few rowers who said they'd known Thom. They all were polite and gave me a few passable quotes about what a great guy he'd been.

Then I walked back to the café where I'd bought the latte earlier, found a table, and called Marco Galloni.

He had wisely avoided giving me his cell number, but it was easy enough to get it from the desk manager on the night shift. I told her he was expecting my call.

Which he clearly was not.

“Hello?” he answered groggily. “Who? Miss James? Don't you know it's Saturday morning?”

“I know. That's why I waited till seven your time. And call me Alex,” I said sweetly.

I could hear mumbled swearing on his end. “Seven
my
time? Where are you?”

“Sorry to wake you. But I'm in England and it's already noon over here. I thought you might want to hear some of what Thom Carlyle's girlfriend has been telling me.”

“Hang on.” I could hear him shuffling around. Pots clanging. Water being poured. Galloni must be brewing coffee.

“Right. Okay. Miss James. Alex. Fill me in on your adventures over there in jolly old England.”

So I told him about my conversations with Petronella, Joe, the bedder. About the terrible law school exam results and about Thom getting dumped. About all the reasons, in short, why Thom might have been awfully depressed on Tuesday night.

“Hmm” was all he said.

“Your turn. What about the autopsy? What did it find?”

“I think the chief's going to do some sort of press availability this afternoon. You guys should send somebody.”

“I'm sure we will. But since I'm on a different continent right now, what about just giving me the headline?”