Deke’s congenial grin slipped several notches. “No, ma’am. We’ll finish it out.”
“I feel safe in speaking for everyone here when I say you have our support in this. Tax evasion.” She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “They make you sound like Al Capone.”
“I really can’t talk about it.” Deke shuffled his booted feet, tugged at his bola tie. “But nobody’s calling it tax evasion.”
“Oh.” She widened her eyes. “I’m sorry. What are they calling it?”
He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “It’s a disagreement on back taxes.”
“ ‘Disagreement’ is a mild word for it. I realize you can’t really discuss this while the matter’s under investigation, but I think it’s an outrage. A man like you, who’s brought pleasure to millions, for two generations, to be faced with potential financial ruin because his books weren’t in perfect order.”
“It’s not as bad as all that—”
“But you’ve had to put your home in Nashville on the market.” Her voice dripped sympathy. Her eyes gleamed with it. “I think the country you’ve celebrated in your music should show more compassion, more gratitude. Don’t you?”
She hit the right button.
“Seems like the tax man doesn’t have much to do with the country I’ve been singing about for twenty-five years.” Deke’s mouth thinned, his eyes hardened like agates. “They look at dollar signs. They don’t think about how hard a man’s worked. How much he sweats to make something of himself. They just keep slicing at you till most of what’s yours is theirs. They turn honest folk into liars and cheaters.”
“You’re not saying you cheated on your taxes, are you, Deke?” She smiled guilelessly when he froze. “We’ll be back in a moment,” she said to the camera, and waited until the red light blinked off. “I’m sure most of us here have been squeezed by the IRS, Deke.” Turning her back on him, she held up her hands. “We’re behind him, aren’t we, audience?”
There was an explosion of applause and cheers that did nothing to erase the look of sickly shock from Deke’s face.
“I can’t talk about it,” he managed. “Can I get some water?”
“We’ll put the matter to rest, don’t you worry. We’ll have time for a few more questions.” Angela turned to her audience again as an assistant rushed out with a glass of water for Deke. “I’m sure Deke would appreciate it if we avoided any more discussion on this sensitive subject. Let’s be sure to give him plenty of applause when we get back from commercial, and give Deke some time to compose himself.”
With this outpouring of support and empathy, she swung back toward the camera. “You’re back with Angela’s. We have time for just a couple more questions, but at Deke’s request, we’ll close the door on any discussion of his tax situation, as he isn’t free to defend himself while the case is still pending.”
And of course, when she closed the show moments later, that was exactly the subject on every viewer’s mind.
Angela didn’t linger among her audience, but joined Deke onstage. “Wonderful show.” She took his limp hand in her firm grasp. “Thank you so much for coming. And the best of luck.”
“Thank you.” Shell-shocked, he began signing autographs until the assistant producer led him offstage.
“Get me a tape,” Angela ordered as she strode back to her dressing room. “I want to see the last segment.” She walked straight to her mirror and smiled at her own reflection.
Chapter Two
D eanna hated covering tragedies. Intellectually she knew it was her job as a journalist to report the news, and to interview those who had been wounded by it. She believed, unwaveringly, in the public’s right to know. But emotionally, whenever she pointed a microphone toward grief she felt like the worst kind of voyeur.
“The quiet suburb of Wood Dale was the scene of sudden and violent tragedy this morning. Police suspect that a domestic dispute resulted in the shooting death of Lois Dossier, thirty-two, an elementary school teacher and Chicago native. Her husband, Dr. Charles Dossier, has been taken into custody. The couple’s two children, ages five and seven, are in the care of their maternal grandparents. At shortly after eight A.M. this morning, this quiet, affluent home erupted with gunfire.”
Deanna steadied herself as the camera panned the trim two-story dwelling behind her. She continued her report, staring straight at the lens, ignoring the crowd that gathered, the other news teams doing their stand-ups, the sweet spring breeze that carried the poignant scent of hyacinth.
Her voice was steady, suitably detached. But her eyes were filled with swirling emotion.
“At eight-fifteen A.M., police responded to reports of gunfire, and Lois Dossier was pronounced dead on the scene. According to neighbors, Mrs. Dossier was a devoted mother who took an active interest in community projects. She was well liked and well respected. Among her closest friends was her next-door neighbor, Bess Pierson, who reported the disturbance to the police.” Deanna turned to the woman at her side, who was dressed in purple sweats. “Mrs. Pierson, to your knowledge, was there any violence in the Dossier household before this morning?”
“Yes—no. I never thought he would hurt her. I still can’t believe it.” The camera zoomed in on the swollen, tear-streaked face of a woman pale with shock. “She was my closest friend. We’ve lived next door to each other for six years. Our children play together.”
Tears began to spill over. Despising herself, Deanna clutched the woman’s hand with her free one, and continued. “Knowing both Lois and Charles Dossier, do you agree with the police that this tragedy was a result of a domestic dispute that spiraled out of control?”
“I don’t know what to think. I know they were having marital problems. There were fights, shouting matches.” The woman stared into the void, shell-shocked. “Lois told me she wanted to get Chuck to go into counseling with her, but he wouldn’t.” She began to sob now, one hand covering her eyes. “He wouldn’t, and now she’s gone. Oh God, she was like my sister.”
“Cut,” Deanna snapped, then wrapped her arm around Mrs. Pierson’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be out here now.”
“I keep thinking this is a dream. That it can’t be real.”
“Is there somewhere you can go? A friend or a relative?” Deanna scanned the trim yard, crowded with curious neighbors and determined reporters. A few feet to the left another crew was rolling tape. The reporter kept blowing the takes, laughing at his own twisting tongue. “Things aren’t going to quiet down here for a while.”
“Yes.” After a last, sobbing breath, Mrs. Pierson wiped at her eyes. “We were going to the movies tonight,” she said, then turned and dashed away.
“God.” Deanna watched as other reporters stabbed their microphones toward the fleeing woman.
“Your heart bleeds too much,” her cameraman commented.
“Shut up, Joe.” She pulled herself in, drew a breath. Her heart might have been bleeding, but she couldn’t let it affect her judgment. Her job was to give a clear, concise report, to inform and to give the viewer a visual that would make an impact.
“Let’s finish it. We want it for Midday. Zoom up to the bedroom window, then come back to me. Make sure you get the hyacinths and daffodils in frame, and the kid’s red wagon. Got it?”
Joe studied the scene, the White Sox fielder’s cap perched on his wiry brown hair tipped down to shade his eyes. He could already see the pictures, cut, framed, edited. He squinted, nodded. Muscles bunched under his sweatshirt as he hefted the camera. “Ready when you are.”
“Then in three, two, one.” She waited a beat while the camera zoomed in, panned down. “Lois-Dossier’s violent death has left this quiet community rocked. While her friends and family ask why, Dr. Charles Dossier is being held pending bond. This is Deanna Reynolds in Wood Dale, reporting for CBC.”
“Nice job, Deanna.” Joe shut down the camera.
“Yeah, dandy.” On her way to the van, she put two Rolaids in her m
outh.
CBC used the tape again on the local portion of the evening news, with an update from the precinct where Dossier was being held on charges of second-degree murder. Curled in a chair in her apartment, Deanna watched objectively as the anchor segued from the top story into a piece on a fire in a South Side apartment building.
“Good piece, Dee.” Sprawled on the couch was Fran Myers. Her curly red hair was lopsidedly anchored on top of her head. She had a sharp, foxy face accented by eyes the color of chestnuts. Her voice was pure New Jersey brass. Unlike Deanna, she hadn’t grown up in a quiet suburban home in a tree-lined neighborhood, but in a noisy apartment in Atlantic City, New Jersey, with a twice-divorced mother and a changing array of step-siblings.
She sipped ginger ale, then gestured with her glass toward the screen. The movement was as lazy as a yawn. “You always look so great on camera. Video makes me look like a pudgy gnome.”
“I had to try to interview the victim’s mother.” Jamming her hands in the pockets of her jeans, Deanna sprang up to pace the room, wiry energy in every step. “She wouldn’t answer the phone, and like a good reporter, I tracked down the address. They wouldn’t answer the door, either. Kept the curtains drawn. I stayed outside with a bunch of other members of the press for nearly an hour. I felt like a ghoul.”
“You ought to know by now that the terms ‘ghoul’ and ‘reporter’ are interchangeable.” But Deanna didn’t smile. Fran recognized the guilt beneath the restless movements. After setting down her glass, Fran pointed to the chair. “Okay. Sit down and listen to advice from Auntie Fran.”
“I can’t take advice standing up?”
“Nope.” Fran snagged Deanna’s hand and yanked her down onto the sofa. Despite the contrasts in backgrounds and styles, they’d been friends since freshman orientation in college. Fran had seen Deanna wage this war between intellect and emotion dozens of times. “Okay. Question number one: Why did you go to Yale?”
“Because I got a scholarship.”
“Don’t rub your brains in my face, Einstein. What did you and I go to college for?”
“You went to meet men.”
Fran narrowed her eyes. “That was just a side benefit. Stop stalling and answer the question.”
Defeated, Deanna let out a sigh. “We went to study, to become journalists, to get high-paying, high-profile jobs on television.”
“Absolutely correct. And have we succeeded?”
“Sort of. We have our degrees. I’m a reporter for CBC and you’re associate producer of Woman Talk on cable.”
“Excellent launching points. Now, have you forgotten the famous Deanna Reynolds’s Five-Year Plan? If so, I’m sure there’s a typed copy of it in that desk.”
Deanna glanced over at her pride and joy, the single fine piece of furniture she’d acquired since moving to Chicago. She’d picked up the beautifully patinated Queen Anne desk at an auction. And Fran was right. There was a typed copy of Deanna’s career plan in the top drawer. In duplicate.
Since college, she had modified her plans somewhat. Fran had married and settled in Chicago and had urged her former roommate to come out and try her luck.
“Year One,” Deanna remembered. “An on-camera job in Kansas City.”
“Done.”
“Year Two, a position at CBC, Chicago.”
“Accomplished.”
“Year Three, a small, tasteful segment of my own.”
“The current ’Deanna’s Corner,’ ” Fran said, and toasted the segment with her ginger ale.
“Year Four, anchoring the evening news. Local.”
“Which you’ve already done, several times, as substitute.”
“Year Five, audition tapes and résumés to the holy ground: New York.”
“Which will never be able to resist your combination of style, on-camera appeal and sincerity—unless, of course, you continue to second-guess yourself.”
“You’re right, but—”
“No buts.” On this Fran was firm. She expended some of the energy she preferred to hoard by propping her feet on the coffee table. “You do good work, Dee. People talk to you because you have compassion. That’s an advantage in a journalist, not a flaw.”
“It doesn’t help me sleep at night.” Restless and suddenly tired, Deanna scooped a hand through her hair. After curling her legs up, she studied the room, brooding.
There was the rickety dinette she’d yet to find a suitable replacement for, the frayed rug, the single solid armchair she’d had re-covered in a soft gray. Only the desk stood out, gleaming, a testimony to partial success. Yet everything was in its place; the few trinkets she’d collected were arranged precisely.
This tidy apartment wasn’t the home of her dreams, but as Fran had pointed out, it was an excellent launching point. And she fully intended to launch herself, both personally and professionally.
“Do you remember, back at college, how exciting we thought it would be to sprint after ambulances, interview mass murderers, to write incisive copy that would rivet the viewers’ attention? Well, it is.” Letting out a sigh, Deanna rose to pace again. “But you really pay for the kick.” She paused a moment, picked up a little china box, set it down again. “Angela’s hinted that I could have the job as head researcher on her show for the asking—on-air credit with a significant raise in salary.”
Because she didn’t want to influence her friend, Fran pursed her lips and kept her voice neutral. “And you’re considering it?”
“Every time I do, I remember I’d be giving up the camera.” With a half laugh, Deanna shook her head. “I’d miss that little red light. See, here’s the thing.” She plopped down on the arm of the couch. Her eyes were glowing again, darkened to smoke with suppressed excitement. “I don’t want to be Angela’s head researcher. I’m not even sure I want New York anymore. I think I want my own show. To be syndicated in a hundred and twenty markets. I want a twenty-percent share. I want to be on the cover of TV Guide.”
Fran grinned. “So, what’s stopping you?”
“Nothing.” More confident now that she’d said it aloud, Deanna shifted, resting her bare feet on the cushion of the sofa. “Maybe that’s Year Seven or Eight, I haven’t figured it out yet. But I want it, and I can do it. But—” She blew out a breath. “It means covering tears and torment until I’ve earned my stripes.”
“The Deanna Reynolds’s Extended Career Plan.”
“Exactly.” She was glad Fran understood.
“You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“Sweet pea, I think that anyone with your meticulous mind, your camera presence and your polite yet strong ambition will get exactly what she wants.” Fran reached into the bowl of sugared almonds on the coffee table, popped three in her mouth. “Just don’t forget the little people when you do.”
“What was your name again?”
Fran threw a pillow at her. “Okay, now that we have your life settled, I’d like to announce an addition to the Fran Myers’s My Life Is Never What I Thought It Would Be Saga.”
“You got a promotion?”
“Nope.”
“Richard got one?”
“No, though a junior partnership at Dowell, Dowell and Fritz may be in the offing.” She drew a deep breath. Her redhead’s complexion flushed like a blooming rose. “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” Deanna blinked. “Pregnant? Really?” Laughing, she slid down on the couch to grasp Fran’s hands. “A baby? This is wonderful. This is incredible.” Deanna threw her arms around Fran to squeeze, then pulled back sharply to study her friend’s face. “Isn’t it?”
“You bet it is. We weren’t planning on it for another year or two, but hell, it takes nine months, right?”
“Last I heard. You’re happy. I can see it. I just can’t believe—” She stopped, jerked back again. “Jesus, Fran. You’ve been here nearly an hour, and you’re just getting around to telling me. Talk about burying the lead.”
Feeling smug, Fran patted her flat belly. “I wanted ev
erything else out of the way so you could concentrate on me. Us.”
“No problem there. Are you sick in the mornings or anything?”
“Me?” Fran quirked a brow. “With my cast-iron stomach?”
“Right. What did Richard say?”
“Before or after he stopped dancing on the ceiling?”
Deanna laughed again, then sprang up to do a quick spin of her own. A baby, she thought. She had to plan a shower, shop for stuffed animals, buy savings bonds. “We have to celebrate.”
“What did we do in college when we had something to celebrate?”
“Chinese and cheap white wine,” Deanna said with a grin. “Perfect, with the adjustment of Grade A milk.”
Fran winced, then shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to get used to it. I do have a favor to ask.”
“Name it.”
“Work on that career plan, Dee. I think I’d like my kid to have a star for a godmommy.”