Margaret Ainsley. Six feet tall if she’s an inch, an Amazon, a golfer, a swimmer, a sailor. Some days I miss her. I do. At the beach in the late afternoon when it’s probably too late for Shelley but too early for meal call, I miss Margaret. She is not as pretty as Shelley, not as elegant as Linda, but smarter than both. Humorous and quick, very quick. The one who loved me. The sky darkens over the water in late afternoon, and I think of sailing on the Sound and remember how she made me laugh.
Twenty years we worked together. She produced the show for the last fifteen, and we were an item for most of that time. Wonderful companion, Margaret, with only one blind spot: She expected me to divorce Linda, which was not on at all. In my job, you can run around, but divorce cuts your credibility, not to mention your bank account.
Besides, Linda was useful to me in her own way, a star on the charity circuit, a dynamite organizer, a stylish consort. She wasn’t interesting but she wasn’t unreasonable. If she spent money, she spent it well, and she didn’t ask for anything else from me. I could live with that.
Margaret wanted both passion and permanence. I declined; there would have been demands. Even when I got her to accept the advantages of the arrangement as it was, she still expected fidelity. I have her letters here. Margaret wasn’t as careful as Linda. E-mails, too, I saved. Did me no good at the time, but I haven’t given up, not even in my present difficult circumstances, because you never know.
When the thing for Shelley developed, I made a big effort with Margaret. Do you suppose she gives me credit for that? Did she take that into her calculations? I sent her flowers, gave her better jewelry, a bigger stake in the company — a fatal error there. But my good intentions came to nought. Shelley was so pretty, so young, a believer, too.
With Margaret, talk radio’s a business; with Linda, a racket. That’s how she referred to my work: The Racket. Shelley believed in what I was doing, saw the glamour in it, loved it, admired me. I couldn’t resist.
Office phone records: I’ve got them in my hand. Calls — pay attention now, here’s the crucial thing, the thing I haven’t been able to get anyone to credit — calls from Margaret to Linda. How do you like that? Brief. Seconds only. Careful, but not careful enough; Troyman can see they were up to something. Here, look back three years, four years of records.
Are there any calls from Margaret’s personal phone to Linda Donnelly? Exactly one a year acknowledging receipt of annual birthday potted orchid and Godiva chocolates. And then — look at this — five calls, six calls, a total of eleven calls in three weeks. When? Just before the catastrophe.
Suggestive, right? Oh, they had excuses. I’d been acting erratically, they said. The two of them, those two Medeas, had been concerned. The obsession — their word, not mine — with Shelley Phillips, so uncharacteristic, so troubling. To Ms. Phillips as well. She was in tears one day right in the studio about Troy’s advances. Et cetera, et cetera. My advances! If I was advancing, Shelley was retreating like Pickett’s charge. The damn hypocrites!
Oh, you can say what you like, but my ladies were smooth and cool; top quality Dairy Queens. They claimed they had to keep in touch for my sake. Everything, always, for my sake. Even now. I tremble to think how much they’ve done for my sake. I have the records, I know about the calls, I can almost hear them. What are they saying? Any day now I’ll know. I’ll hear them clearly.
Details, that’s the thing. Recover the details. Troyman on the hunt! Think, think back to that halcyon, innocent time. Everything’s perfect. Linda’s decorating the houses, Margaret’s producing the show, Shelley’s meeting me for breakfast and opening her apartment door to me for a drink after work. Everything in its place and everything great.
When did it begin to go wrong? I know. It was the day Shelley says to me, “You know I want to get married before I’m twenty-six or seven,” as if she’s sure I’ll take the hint. I feel cold. Time for facts of life: Linda, the show, my reputation for gravitas. I omit her mentor and good buddy, Margaret, perhaps a mistake, but I’m concentrating on the essentials. Shelley snivels in her handkerchief and her darling eyes fill up. I pat her hand. I’m thinking of a very nice bracelet at Tiffany’s. Classy, but young. There were matching earrings, too, which I decide will be necessary. I call from the office and order a set.
Mistake. Expensive presents leave records; Tiffany kept the delivery address. I should have taken the package myself. I should have. Should I be condemned for one mistake? Just one mistake, my friends.
There’s something else, another piece of the puzzle, which I’ve almost got worked out. What was it? Scan the surf, don’t neglect the passing parade of the bronzed and burning. There’s a blonde, something in her walk. There’s nothing to say Shelley couldn’t have dyed her hair, changed her style — probably would have — but no. Be careful today. I have to be sure, be certain.
Yes, now I remember. Day of the tears. I’m just walking into the studio and I hear sobbing. Something tells me it’s Shelley. I’m concerned, sure, we’re nearing air time. I’m thinking I don’t need this complication, when I hear my producer’s voice.
A case of knowledge ignored — not my ordinary failing. I should have remembered that Margaret was fond of young people, good with interns and new hires. She wanted children and even thought about adopting at one point. You can bet I discouraged that. I could see myself being maneuvered into back door stepdad, not a role for Troyman. I tried paternity with Wife Number One of Blessed Oblivion and I’ve been paying for it ever since.
I walk by Margaret’s office, fearing the worst and set to employ my noted finesse, when she closes the door on a tearful Shelley, who’s standing with a wad of tissues in one hand. A significant tableau, but who’s a mind reader? At the time, what I saw was hysteria and inconvenience, tension in the studio, and a major screwup on some campaign funding data, courtesy of Ms. Phillips’s little crisis.
Just the same, that day was the start of something. I know it was. The start of phone calls, mysterious bank withdrawals, obscure payments. To Javier, the decorator, Linda claimed, and Javier, smooth as Valvoline and with enough names for a Spanish grandee, lied through his teeth for her.
I’ve wanted to see Margaret’s bank records, too. Every chance I get, I tell my lawyers, go after her. They say I should stop worrying the case and relax. They say phone calls, a weeping girl, a dubious decorator, and the absence of drapes prove nothing. Maybe not, but Shelley disappeared within three weeks. She abandoned her apartment with everything she owned except for the fluffy silver fox coat I’d bought her, the one that made her look like a deluxe chorus girl. I’ve tried to get my lawyers to see the significance of the coat. They say it was November; they say she had to wear something. They even hint that she was likely to have worn it to meet me. And these are my lawyers!
The police were no more imaginative, except in their interest in the Troyman. When they finally got involved they found Shelley’s apartment untouched. I’d made sure of that. No sign of violence, no blood, and no fingerprints except hers and yours truly, who, admittedly, used to stop by for a drink after the drive time show and who, yes, kept certain personal items in her bathroom. Is this a federal offense? Consenting adults, et cetera.
Someone she knew, said the police. Who did she know in the big bad city? Troyman. Old enough to be her father.