Read Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material (29 page)
There is no Black Tie Club in Tuxedo Park. In describing the fictitious Black Tie Club, I took certain liberties, inspired by the private club that does exist there and by other exclusive social clubs where prospective members yearn to gain admittance and sometimes never know exactly why they are denied.
St. Francis of Assisi’s Canticle of the Sun was written in the thirteenth century. Translations from the medieval Italian vary.
“Si trova tutto nel tavolo grande,”
the message in St. Francis’s halo in the aviary fresco, means “All can be found in the large table.”
Puzzles are tangled and twisted and take time to solve. For me, at least, the writing process is like that. The ideas don’t come in a straight line. Things that happened many years ago can come to the fore, finding expression in the present.
Growing up near Tuxedo Park, I was fascinated whenever we drove past the guarded entrance and wondered about the secret world beyond the gates. As an adult, I’ve had the chance to go inside and discover that what truly exists there is even more majestic and magical than the version conjured by my youthful imagination. I became haunted by the thought of evil lurking in this protected and idyllic place.
Tina McEvoy and Pam Graetzer shared their understanding of Tuxedo Park, showing me around and revealing one curious and marvelous location after another. It was with them that the story began to really come alive as I began to imagine my characters moving through that unique world. Many thanks as well to Jim Jospe, who very generously lent me his extensive collection of books about Tuxedo Park.
Inspiration also came from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Trips to Italy aroused an interest in the life and death of St. Francis of Assisi along with an appreciation of all things Italian. While I was viewing the magnificent architecture, sculptures, frescoes, and ceramics in that fabulous country, the puzzle began to loosely take shape.
In brainstorming sessions, Father Paul Holmes shared his passion for Italy and extensive knowledge of religious history. Initially, the idea of suicide by stigmata took his breath away, but he seized on it with enthusiasm. If not for his reaction, I don’t know if I would have felt secure enough to continue with the concept. Throughout the writing of this book, he offered wonderfully creative ideas, exacting research, and unflagging encouragement.
Tante, tante grazie,
Paolo, for all that you do.
Criminal defense attorney Joseph Hayden graciously answered some last-minute questions about the legal ramifications of my characters’ dastardly deeds. I owe you and Katharine a dinner, Joe.
Fortunately, Carrie Feron is my editor. She did an expert job of trimming, tightening, and making the manuscript better. The story is stronger and more suspenseful because of her considerable talent and skill. Once again, Carrie and her trusted assistant, Tessa Woodward, carefully shepherded the book through all its stages. Their professionalism is greatly appreciated.
Maureen Sugden copyedited with exacting care. Her notes were a joy to read and consider. Thanks to Mary Schuck and Richard Aquan for designing an enticing cover. I’m very grateful for the support of everyone at William Morrow, including Liate Stehlik, Lynn Grady, Sharyn Rosenblum, Nicole Chismar, Bobby Brinson, and Virginia Stanley.
Beth Tindall designs and runs maryjaneclark.com, while Colleen Kenny produces the much-commented-on “movie trailers.” Thanks to them for making it possible for me to enjoy the benefits of all their hard work.
Jennifer Rudolph Walsh and Joni Evans are still guiding my writing career. Between them, they offer the best of everything: experience, business acumen, pragmatism, wisdom, and sage editorial advice. It is an invaluable asset to be able to call on them.
And finally, my boundless thanks to Peggy Gould. She knows why.
MARY JANE CLARK
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of twelve novels, including
When Day Breaks
and
It Only Takes a Moment
. A former writer and producer at CBS News in New York City, she knows intimately the world of which she writes. The daughter of an FBI agent and mother of two, she lives in New Jersey and Florida.
www.maryjaneclark.com
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
It Only Takes a Moment
When Day Breaks
Lights Out Tonight
Dancing in the Dark
Hide Yourself Away
Nowhere to Run
Nobody Knows
Close to You
Let Me Whisper in Your Ear
Do You Promise Not to Tell?
Do You Want to Know a Secret?
Jacket photograph © by Mark Segal/Getty Images
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TO HAVE AND TO KILL
. Copyright © 2011 by Mary Jane Clark. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN: 978-0-06-199554-5
11 12 13 14 15
OV/RRD
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
S
UNDAY
, N
OVEMBER
28 . . . T
WENTY-SIX DAYS
UNTIL THE WEDDING
M
OTHER AND DAUGHTER WORKED, SIDE BY SIDE
, in the kitchen of The Icing on the Cupcake. Piper Donovan mixed buttercream while her mother poured smooth batter into round baking pans. The front of the store was closed, the shelves emptied of the rolls, Danishes, and coffee cakes eagerly purchased by the morning’s many customers. The ever-present aroma of sweet delights wafted throughout the building.
With her long, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, Piper stood at the table laden with bricks of butter, cartons of eggs, and bags of flour and sugar. Piper picked up a flower nail—a thin, two-inch-long metal rod with a small, round platform affixed to the end—and secured a square of parchment paper to it. Holding the flower nail in one hand, she applied firm and steady pressure to the plump bag she held with the other. Piper concentrated on the stream of stiff butter-cream icing that oozed out from the piping tip and fashioned it into an acorn shape on top of the parchment. Then, picking up another decorating bag, with a different tip, she piped a wide strip as she turned the nail, cloaking the top of the acorn completely. Piper slowly spun the nail, making longer petals that overlapped again and again. When she reached the bottom, she had created a perfect yellow rose.
She repeated the process over and over, gently sliding the parchment squares with the finished roses onto baking sheets before storing them in the refrigerator.
“You’ve gotten so good at it, Piper,” said her mother as she leaned forward to get a closer look at the flowers.
Piper shrugged and smiled mischievously. “And all those years you complained I never paid attention to you,” she said.
“I really appreciate you taking the time to do this, honey,” said Terri Donovan. “It’s getting so I can’t keep up with everything. I hated to do it, but I even had to turn down three wedding cake orders. Having these flowers made in advance will really help me at the end of the week when I have to make the cake I did promise to do.”
“It’s no big deal. I had to come out again anyway with more of my stuff. Might as well do these while I’m here.”
But
it
is
a big deal if my mother’s turning down wedding cake orders,
she thought.
“Do you have much more to bring back?” asked Terri as she sifted confectioners’ sugar into a mixing bowl.
“A few more cartons and the rug,” said Piper, squeezing out a final delicate yellow flower. “I sold pretty much all the furniture and the kitchen things to the guy who is taking over my apartment.”
“Good,” said Terri. “None of it owes you anything. We found most of it at tag sales and, when the time comes for you to get another place, we’ll be able to find more.”
As she brought the decorating utensils to the sink and began washing them, Piper was thinking about getting back to the city and the audition she had in the morning.
Terri reached out and touched her daughter’s arm. “It’s going to be great having you back home, Piper,” she said softly.
As Terri spoke, her eyes were trained over Piper’s shoulder.
Piper turned around to see whom her mother was looking at. There was nobody else in the kitchen. “What are you looking at, Mom?”
“I’m looking at
you,
honey.”
“Uh, no. No, you’re not. You were looking at something behind me.”
“I was not,” insisted Terri. She nodded in the direction of the cleaned piping tips. “Make sure you put everything back exactly where you found it.”
“Got it, Mom.”
Strange. Was her mother losing it? Usually she was pretty laid-back, but recently she had become almost maniacal about having everything in its place. And there were other things Piper had noticed. On Thanksgiving, her mother missed a few of the glasses when she poured the apple cider. She had ruined the gravy, stirring in confectioners’ sugar instead of flour. And when a customer handed Terri a $10 bill this morning, she pulled change for $20 from the register. Thank goodness they had honest customers.
Piper hadn’t really thought much about each individual event, but now, as she concentrated on the decorating, she realized something was up. “Mom, is something wrong?” she asked gently.
Piper observed that her mother’s jaw tightened as she shook her head.
“No, nothing’s wrong, Piper. Just too much to do and not enough time to do it. I guess I’m a little tense, and when you’re tense, you make mistakes.”
Piper didn’t buy it, but she kept silent. She knew she was on the brink of having to set major boundaries with her parents about her own privacy. So it was only fair that she gave her mother hers.
As she carefully arranged the piping tips in their container, Piper knew that, soon enough, she would figure out what was going on with her mother. When you lived in the same house with someone, there was no place to hide.
Unfortunately, that worked both ways.
M
ONDAY
, N
OVEMBER
29 . . . T
WENTY-FIVE DAYS
UNTIL THE WEDDING
S
OME PEOPLE WERE NAMED FOR
beloved relatives, honored historical figures, favorite characters in fiction, or admired movie stars. Piper was named after her mother’s passion: Terri Donovan was never happier than when she was piping sweet icing on a wedding cake.
Pacing back and forth in the hallway of the rehearsal studio on Manhattan’s West Side, Piper found her mind wandering. Based on her mother’s criteria, if Piper were to have a daughter, what would she name her?
Encore? Brava? Ovation?
The door to the audition room opened, and a young woman emerged. She looked very similar to Piper and the other four girls waiting in the hallway. Piper braced herself, knowing she was next on the list. Her heart pounded.
“Piper Donovan?”
Breathe,
she told herself, wondering how she had survived all twenty-seven years of her life, even though everyone thought she didn’t breathe well enough. Her acting teachers, her karate, yoga, and Pilates instructors, her mother and father were always reminding her: “Just take a deep breath, Piper.”
Entering the audition room, Piper studied the man sitting behind the long table. The casting director would size her up within just a few seconds and determine if she was right for the role. His laptop computer was open as he finished tapping in his notations about the previous actress.
The man turned his attention to the pile of photographs on the table and picked up Piper’s head shot. “Good morning, Piper. I see here you spent a couple of seasons on
A Little Rain Must Fall,
” he said as he scanned the information printed on the back.
Piper nodded. “Until they killed me—uh, I mean, until they killed off my character.”
“Tell me about your character.”
“I played Maggie Lane’s long-lost younger sister, Mariah, who was always wreaking havoc. Neither of our characters was aware that we weren’t actually related, but, you know how the soaps are, the viewing audience knew that we weren’t really sisters. Glenna Brooks, who plays Maggie, is, like, über-tiny, brown-eyed and dark-haired. I’m obviously tall, with the whole ‘green-eyes-and-blond-hair’ thing. They had me dye it platinum for the role. I was into it, so I kept it that way.”
“How did you die?”
“DWI. The writers wanted a cautionary tale.”
“Big deathbed scene?”
“Yeah—eleven days! It’s a soap; you die in installments.”
The director smiled. “And I see you did a shampoo commercial,” he said, glancing at the head shot again. “
That’s
where I know you from! You’re the girl on the horse with the mane of golden hair. That commercial used to be on during the first season of
Glee
.”
Piper nodded. “I wish it was still running in prime time. Miss the residuals.”
The director returned to the information on the back of the photograph. “So what have you been doing lately?”
Um, giving myself pep talks,
thought Piper, but she answered with the standard “Oh, you know. Reading a lot of new scripts.”
“How are you paying the rent?”
Piper shrugged. “I waitress.”
“Where?”
“The Sidecar above P. J. Clarke’s.”
“Which P. J. Clarke’s?”
“The original one at Fifty-fifth and Third.”
“There’s a restaurant above there?”
“Yeah, it has a separate entrance with a doorbell and a more sophisticated menu, but they still have the burgers.”
“Huh. I’ll have to check it out.”
“You should.”
She wondered how this happened so often. How did she end up spending more time on the merits of P. J. Clarke’s than on her actual audition?
Mind-blowing.
As if he were reading her mind, the director asked, “What do you like about this role?”
Piper hesitated. The fact was, there wasn’t much she liked about the role. It was too close. She was coming off her own epic romantic failure, and playing a woman with a broken heart night after night would really just be masochistic. But Gabe, her agent, insisted she was perfect for it. Gabe, love bug that he was, thought she was right for every role. Bummer that Gabe wasn’t a casting director.
When the audition was over, Piper couldn’t even remember what words she had strung together in response to the question. She hoped they were coherent. All she knew was that before she got halfway through her monologue, the casting director turned his attention away from her and back to his laptop. When she was done, he thanked her but made no further comments. Piper knew she wasn’t going to get the part.
Still, as she gathered up her coat and scarf in the hallway outside the audition room, she allowed herself to hope that maybe she was wrong. For Piper, hope was everything.
A
S SHE MADE HER WAY
toward the exit, Piper pulled out her BlackBerry and switched the ringtone from silent to normal.
“Ohmigod! It’s Mariah Lane!” The squeal came from a pair of young women exiting the Starbucks a few yards away.
“It totally is!” cried one of them in a stage whisper. “She was the best part of
A Little Rain Must Fall
.”
Both women made a beeline to the target of their enthusiasm.
“Hi, I’m Piper Donovan.” She held out her hand.
“Oh, we know who you are. We love you!” said one of them, giggling. “We hated when they got rid of you.”
“We follow you on Twitter and we’re friends on Face-book,” said the other.
“Good one! I’m actually just about to send out a tweet,” said Piper. “Why shouldn’t it be about the two of you? What are your names?”
“Oh, awesome. I’m Heather and this is Nina.”
Piper tapped out the letters with her thumbs.
just met nina and heather who say they love me. love them!
The girls didn’t have paper, but they insisted Piper sign their Starbucks cups. As Piper used the blue highlighter, which she kept in her bag for marking script sides, to scribble her autograph on the still-warm cups, she had to laugh. Was it pathetic that this was totally making her day?
Still, Piper felt grateful that she had been given a sign. She wasn’t forgotten and she was on the right path.
Her luck was going to change.