Just the same, no evidence of wrongdoing. No evidence of disaster. Let me repeat, no evidence at all, not one iota, just innuendo, just the rhetoric of suggestion. I knew all the tricks in that department. What I hadn’t realized was that Linda and Margaret knew them, too.
Linda stood by me and wept on camera. Of course, it’s not the first time, she said. A man of his charm, his charisma. And she was so pretty and ambitious. And young, not the sort of girl who’s going to be content with an office romance.
I couldn’t have done better myself. She stood by me, all right, gently lowering the noose over my head and, when she’d gotten the tension just right, filed for divorce.
Margaret took a slightly different tack; she said she was protecting the program, enhancing our drive time concept with some serious human interest. She set herself up as Shelley’s advocate and kept the focus relentlessly on our missing employee with a regular segment called “The Shelley Watch.” Margaret offered a huge reward for information and talked up our missing researcher’s sweetness and intelligence.
I fell in with this, particularly in the early days when I was sick and afraid every morning with the newspapers and every afternoon with the Internet and every evening with the news. Always expecting the worst, a body, some horror, that perky chorus girl coat soaked in blood. It was easy to say my only thoughts were for her safe return. Simple truth!
But was it that simple for Margaret, who was already cultivating my replacement? I know she was for a fact. No wonder I became, well, intemperate. And then Linda, what about my Linda, with her cash withdrawals and her permanent malice? Who was she paying off? Some hitman, possibly?
I voiced the idea, though I’d have been better to keep my mouth shut. I see that now; this was one situation talking couldn’t improve. My martyred spouse, a connoisseur of the moral highlands, murmured “mid-life crisis,” while Margaret, more legalistic, suggested libel. Not appreciating the subtlety of my two Medeas, I wasted time on Javier, the decorator, who had Brooklyn connections and could get good stuff cheap.
I hired a detective, sicced lawyers on the slippery bastard — nothing. I concluded I’d been mistaken. Maybe, after all, Shelley had offended the wrong person, trusted the wrong guy in a bar, ventured to a rendezvous with urban crime. Not impossible, eh? Plausible, even. Much more plausible than the idea that Troyman had risked everything to throttle her. I stuck to logic and tried to claw my way out of the mud, but the Medeas had done too good a job.
The day I met with the suits, I changed my mind again. That was the day I was out: No more drive time with Troyman, the work of a generation destroyed. I stopped by Margaret’s office to break the news, although I’m sure now she already knew. She was on the phone when I stepped inside. “...just for the three of us,” I heard her say, then she saw me and she hung up fast.
“If only they’d found Shelley, I’d have been cleared,” I told her.
“Would you?” asked Margaret. I look back and try to read her expression. Between makeup and Botox, who knows what women are thinking anymore.
“Don’t you believe me?” I asked. Even with all that had happened, I still thought she’d believe me. After all those years.
“I don’t know who you can believe any more.”
“I’m not even sure she’s dead.”
“You think everyone’s lying?”
“Suppose she had a breakdown, suppose she just chucked the whole thing and went to Aruba?”
Margaret’s eyes were cool, and she didn’t seem nervous. “Might as well suppose you got away with it,” she said.
That’s when I noticed a champagne bottle, a magnum of Moet with fancy gold ribbons bowed like a chrysanthemum at the neck.
“Kind of early to be toasting my replacement.” I was strongly tempted to sweep the bottle off her desk.
“Successful completion of a project,” Margaret said. “Everything’s not always about you.”
How do you like that! In my hour of need, Troyman in extremis, that was the last conversation we had. After twenty years, she had nothing more to say to me.
I went home to the apartment, packed my bags. I figured a couple weeks in the South, playing golf, hitting the beach, letting them try drive time without the Troyman, and preparing for my return. Linda had been staying in Connecticut, putting distance between herself and her errant spouse. More or less to annoy her, I drove up the day before I left.
There was an early snow that fall, just a dusting, and the old farmhouse looked very Currier & Ives. Because of the weather, I pulled around to put the car in the garage, and went in by the kitchen: Currier & Ives meets Martha Stewart with six figures worth of cabinetry, granite counters, limestone floor, and a big furniture-type island. A magnum of Moet champagne tied with a gold ribbon was sitting in plain sight. Same paper, same store, same ribbon decoration. Completion of a successful project. They’d both been in on it, and probably Shelley, too. I started yelling for Linda.
She wasn’t pleased to see me. She mentioned our separation agreement and, when I asked about the champagne, told me to save my conspiracy theories for The Racket. She was doing a divorce renovation, she said, and the bottle of champagne was for Javier, who was bringing some kitchen designs.
The Moet broke with a satisfying crash. Satisfying, just like the look of terror on Linda’s face as she reached for the phone, set to threaten me with 911 and lawyers and the rural constabulary, calls destined never to be completed. Later, I drove to JFK, I’m sure I did. I know I did. How else would I be here? I drove to JFK, caught a flight, and voila! Troyman on the beach.
Why here? Remember my facts. Remember the Medeas. I think, I know, that Shelley disappeared with cash in hand. She liked the sun, hated the cold — and is still fond of me, I know she is. How long can she be loyal to the Medeas? How long? How long would be needed? And then where else but here?
I turn off the radio and sit up. Three o’clock. People are starting to fold their chairs and blankets, close their umbrellas. They’ll pass me smelling of salt and sun oil and certain powerful meds. I see a few late arrivals straggling in, students coming for a swim after school, workers who have blown off that last hour of work. Troyman alert, feeling lucky.
And yes! I see her down the beach, right at the water’s edge. I see her! Someone new. She’s walking along in a bright yellow bikini, her dark hair under a straw hat. I’ve got her. I run after her, but I’m smart. I don’t speak until I’m fairly close to her. “Shelley,” I say, “Shelley?”
She glances around, her eyes shadowed by her glasses, but continues walking, kicking up the purling, shallow water. Shelley liked childish games.
“Shelley, Shelley Phillips!” I’m so sure, I catch her arm.
She flinches away. “Let me go! You know contact isn’t allowed.”
I ask if the champagne was good, if the money’s still coming through regularly. Because I’m standing between her and the guard kiosk, she tries to back away into the surf.
“Look,” she says, “you’re getting seriously out of line.”
I explain I’m Troyman, Troy Donnelly, twenty million listeners and a dominant market share, though, of course, she already knows that, having helped prepare the stats.
“Shelley, sweetie, I understand your point of view, but I can’t get back to drive time unless and until you come clean and sink the two Medeas. We’re talking my career, my whole life,” I say, and though I’m talking pretty loudly, I still hear the guard’s warning shouts.
Two of them this time in their green scrub suits, hiding the red trunks I know they’re wearing.
Should have warned you. He’s fine inside, but outside... Come on, Mr. Donnelly.