Do You Want to Know a Secret?: A Novel

Do You Want to Know a Secret?: A Novel

by Mary Jane Clark
Do You Want to Know a Secret?: A Novel

Do You Want to Know a Secret?: A Novel

by Mary Jane Clark

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Overview

"The secret is out: Mary Jane Clark is one of the most exciting novelists in America today. Do You Want to Know a Secret? is an unabashed, edge-of-the-seat, page-turning stunner." - Dan Rather

Secrets can really kill your career.

Beautiful New York TV anchorwoman Eliza Blake has a past to hide. Her popular co-anchor has a scandal he'd die to keep secret. The next President's pretty wife wants desperately to avoid indecent exposure. A parish priest knows a terrible truth. And a killer has a secret agenda that reaches from New York City's streets to the White House-- it includes the time and place where Eliza Blake will have to die...


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429902878
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date: 04/01/2007
Series: KEY News , #1
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 304
Sales rank: 163,912
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

Mary Jane Clark is the author of more than a dozen novels, including: Do You Want To Know A Secret, Do You Promise Not To Tell, Let Me Whisper In Your Ear, Close To You, and Nobody Knows. She was for almost three decades a producer and a writer at CBS News in New York City. She lives in New Jersey and Florida.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The vague tingling sensation started at her polished toe and quickly crept up her shapely calf.

"Damn!" Eliza Blake exclaimed as she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, fingers shuffling through the jumble of Band-Aids, dental floss, hair spray, makeup and tampons until she found the clear nail polish to stop the run in the second pair of designer pantyhose she'd gone through in what had already been a fourteen-hour day.

Putting her long, well-defined leg up on her desk, she applied the sticky liquid as her mind replayed the day's mishaps. The satellite difficulties on this morning's show were then followed by the first lady's office's abrupt canceling of a long-sought interview scheduled to be taped that afternoon. Scrambling, the KEY to America bookers had called around for a replacement to fill the time allotted for Angela Grayson on the following morning's broadcast. They performed admirably, coming up with the starlet du jour, the latest overnight sensation. The actress, however, didn't want to be questioned on live television so early in the morning. And she didn't want to come to the Broadcast Center either. Eliza would have to go to her hotel suite to tape the interview this afternoon.

On the ride to the Plaza with her camera crew, Eliza hurriedly scanned the research packet provided by an associate producer, framing the questions she would pose. She and her gear-laden videotape team were met in the hotel's opulent lobby by the star's apologetic publicist who claimed his boss had suddenly come down with some sort of bug. While the crew resignedly reloaded the camera and lighting paraphernalia back in the car, Eliza spotted the actress and her latest handsome co-star, holding hands, smiling and skipping out the side exit of the hotel toward Central Park.

"Should we take this personally?" Eliza asked her crew wryly, gesturing toward the oblivious lovebirds.

"Nah," came the response from Gus, the senior man on the KEY News camera staff, who squinted at the pair and shook his head. "Raging hormones'll win every time."

Now, back in her KEY to America office, Eliza had just screened the piece on a popular author that would ultimately fill the minutes originally planned for Mrs. Grayson. The writer had been eager to come in for a last-minute interview. Nothing like a chance to market a few more books and stay on the New York Times bestseller list for another week or two, thought Eliza, smiling to herself.

She was tired and eager to get home to Janie but the orange-wrappered Butterfinger called to her from the desk drawer. Aching for the sweet pick-me-up, she debated for all of five seconds and gave in. Guiltily, she relished the candy bar. There had been a time when she never had to worry about what she ate. But no more. The last few years, since John had died and Janie had been born, weight came on more easily and was harder to take off. Stop it! She shook herself. If you're going to sin, at least enjoy it.

As she crinkled up the candy wrapper, the tiny oval locket hanging from the delicate gold chain on her wrist caught Eliza's eye. She took it between her fingers and began to play with it. The locket was her grandmother's gift to her on her tenth birthday. Her grandmother, who had spent her working life scrubbing and cleaning one of the big "cottages" in Newport, had saved to buy the locket. As a kid, Eliza had thought it magical, and she rubbed it and made wishes on it. When things went the way she wanted, she gave the locket credit. When she didn't get what she desired, she ignored the possibility that perhaps the locket didn't have all the powers she wanted to believe it had.

Now, rationally, she knew that a tiny golden oval couldn't really have any force. But that hadn't stopped her from rubbing the yellow charm, dented and jammed unopenable, as she prayed through the long hours at Sloan-Kettering. She hadn't gotten her wish.

Tossing her head to clear the painful memories from her mind, Eliza began to straighten the papers on her desk. She wanted to go home. She thought of how she planned to give Janie the locket on her tenth birthday, in six years. Meantime, Eliza would wear it, still savoring its specialness. Eliza knew it was ridiculous, but when she rubbed it something always happened. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but something. Silly. What would the KEY News viewing audience think if they knew her foolish little superstition?

She was stuffing the last of her homework in preparation for the next morning's broadcast into her canvas tote when her co-anchor Harry Granger appeared at her office door. He was gripping a rolled-up newspaper and by the expression on his face, Eliza could tell he wasn't happy.

"What's up?" Eliza asked, fully prepared for some vintage Granger moaning about KEY News management.

But Harry, usually so straightforward and unreservedly opinionated, was hesitating.

"C'mon, Harry, what gives? What have they done now?" Eliza found herself smiling. They had played this scene many times before, using each other as sounding boards, venting frustrations about the workings of KEY to America and KEY News. But they knew they were just blowing off steam. They weren't going anywhere. They loved their jobs.

"I wanted to show you this before someone else did." Harry slowly unrolled the newspaper. Eliza saw the blazing masthead of The Mole, the most popular of the nation's supermarket tabloids. At the side of the front page sat an inky black rodent with oversize teeth; next to it was the slogan "We dig it all up."

Beneath that was the gigantic headline. Eliza stared at it, feeling her chest tighten. She let her telephone buzz insistently as she scanned the story about the most painful period of her life. Harry rambled on in outrage.

"Everyone knows these tabloid stories aren't worth the paper they're written on! Oprah just won a lawsuit against one last month. Nobody really pays any attention to them."

"You did," she said.

CHAPTER 2

"Eliza, thank Christ you're still there! What the hell took you so long to answer?" Not waiting for her response, Range Bullock pushed on. "Bill isn't in yet and I need you to stand by. I don't know what's with him lately. He hasn't called, Jean doesn't know any of his appointments, and we're forty-five minutes from air. He's making me nuts. Anyway, Eliza, can you get down here and start to go over the copy?"

Bullock, executive producer of the KEY Evening Headlines, hung up the phone, sighed heavily, and reached for the economy-size bottle of Tums which sat next to the large container of aspirins he kept on his desk at all times. As he popped the chalky tablets into his mouth he thought, This job is aging me. Quickly.

Where the hell was Bill? An unexplained absence just wasn't like him. At least, not until recently.

Bill Kendall, who had been anchoring the KEY Evening Headlines for twelve years, was reliable, dependable and predictable. Range and the hard-news people knew his routine and admired his discipline. At precisely 6:30 every morning, Kendall called the network assignment desk for a briefing by the overnight assignment editor. After getting a rundown of the mostly foreign stories that happened while the nation slept, Kendall would say invariably, "Okay, I'm going for a run. I'll be on my beeper."

Like clockwork, an impeccably dressed Kendall would appear in the newsroom at 9:30, full of amiable small talk for the newsroom staff as he made his way to his office. Once there, he checked with Jean, his secretary, regarding the phone messages and his schedule for the day. Next he finished going through the New York Times and the Washington Post, which he had begun in the limousine on the way to work. At 10:30 he listened to, but never spoke on, the national conference call, a multiline conversation between the domestic news bureau managers and the Evening Headlines producers. Bill Kendall and Range Bullock always had a closed-door powwow after the conference call, Bill venting his views on the stories of the day and what he thought KEY coverage should be.

At their meeting that morning, Bill had seemed a bit preoccupied again. Bill's mind seemed to be elsewhere more and more lately. Range tried not to dwell on it. A guy was entitled to an off day once in a while, even Bill Kendall.

Range looked at his watch. He couldn't stall any longer. He had to call Yelena Gregory, the KEY News president, and tell her that Eliza Blake would have to fill in for Bill. If Bill couldn't make it, Range much preferred Eliza to that idiot from the Washington bureau, Pete Carlson. For some reason he couldn't understand, Yelena was high on Carlson. She had agreed to a terrific contract for the guy, including the provision that Carlson was Bill's first-choice replacement. Range was happy that there had been no time to fly Carlson up from Washington that evening.

Range wondered if Eliza had seen the Mole story yet. If so, he hoped to God that it wouldn't affect her performance tonight. What a lousy break! He remembered how hard they'd worked to keep Eliza's hospitalization confidential. That was four years ago. Why was someone raking the whole bloody thing up now?

Where the hell was Eliza? He wouldn't need those damned Tums if she was sitting at the anchor desk going over the copy. He had a show to get on the air.

This job was killing him.

CHAPTER 3

Judge Dennis Quinn stood in the express checkout at King's, his cart containing cooked shrimp with cocktail sauce, poached salmon, roasted red potatoes and a large salad. Bad enough he didn't have a woman to take care of the menial task of grocery shopping, he sure as hell wasn't going to cook for himself, too.

As he waited, he pulled a copy of The Mole from the display rack. He enjoyed reading about other people's misery.

If you could believe what was in The Mole, Eliza Blake, the beautiful network anchorwoman, was a big-time cocaine addict and had been forced, a few years back, to check in as a patient at the Carrier Clinic in Belle Mead, New Jersey. The story spent a lot of time describing the various psychological problems and alcohol and drug addictions treated at the hospital. The article wound up by quoting an unnamed KEY News source who said, "The public depends on the mental stability of those entrusted with reporting the news," and went on to question Eliza Blake's ability to do her job.

Dennis Quinn threw the paper into his cart. He would read the story to his mother later. She was such an Eliza Blake fan. He didn't think she knew about this.

He carefully counted out the money to pay for his order and carried his grocery bag out to the parking lot.

"Hello, Judge Quinn."

Oh, no. It was Amber. Dennis cringed as he watched the smiling woman with the heavy thighs hurrying across the macadam toward him. Why did she persist in wearing those short skirts? Didn't she know how gross it was to see her legs rubbing together?

Of course he hadn't thought her so gross every Tuesday night after the Westvale municipal court sessions. He'd been only too happy to get some of those chubby thighs. But that was two years ago when he'd just been a town judge, before he had moved on to the Bergen County Superior Court. Amber had been convenient, but she wasn't classy enough for his larger aspirations.

"How ya doin', stranger? Long time no see." Amber was grinning. Bad caps. God, she was chewing gum, too. The cow.

"Hello, Amber. How nice to see you again."

"Haven't you gotten my messages? You never call me anymore. A girl would think you didn't care." She looked up at him in a pathetic attempt at coyness.

A girl would be thinking correctly, he thought. "Oh, you know how it is, Amber. I'm so busy trying to keep up with all my cases. The courts have such a backlog. I have no time for a social life anymore."

"I liked it better before."

"Well, it certainly was simpler then."

"I was wondering, could you use any help in your office?" Amber asked hopefully. "You always said what a good secretary I was."

I'd say anything to get what I wanted. "Unfortunately, Amb, there's a hiring freeze on." Seeing her mouth begin to turn downward, he hurried on. "I wish I could stay and talk but I have several briefs I have to get to tonight. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I know how it is." Amber stood watching as he got into his black Lincoln Continental with the JUDGE decals on the license plates.

Craning his neck, he preened before the rearview mirror as he drove off. Just twelve years out of law school, he was the youngest judge on the Superior Court bench. If you had the funds, anything was possible. The Superior Court was great, but he had bigger plans. He reminded himself he wanted to call Nate Heller again. It wasn't too early to set up the next step.

As he pulled into the driveway of his long, white ranch, he felt good. And then he remembered. Another payment to Bill Kendall was due.

CHAPTER 4

Eliza replaced the receiver in the cradle after Range's call and wondered if he had seen the Mole article yet.

Drug addiction! Cocaine! Dear God!

She felt her heart pounding and her cheeks grow hot. This horrible story could ruin everything! Everything for which she had worked so hard. For herself, for Janie.

Janie.

Thank goodness Janie couldn't read yet and was still young enough that her classmates wouldn't be teasing and embarrassing her.

You've got to get a grip, Eliza told herself. Everyone is going to be watching you for your reaction. Get a hold of yourself. Hold your head up. Do what you have to do to get through tonight's broadcast. Take one thing at a time.

She called home and asked Mrs. Twomey to stay with Janie for another two hours.

"I know I'm already late, Mrs. Twomey. I'm sorry."

"Not to worry, Mrs. Blake. My little faerie and I are havin' a grand time. She's just finished her supper and I'm after pourin' the Mr. Bubble into the tub."

Eliza smiled weakly to herself. "My little faerie." Mrs. Twomey, born and raised in Ireland, was unaware of the connotation of the expression here. Eliza delighted in the woman's affection for Janie.

"Go on with ya," the housekeeper went on. "Do what you have to and stop your worryin'."

Next, as usual, Eliza thought of John. Whenever anything of moment happened, she thought of John, wished she could still share it with him. She felt the loss, the persistent tug of missing him. She was almost used to it now, four years later. But just because you were used to something didn't mean that it didn't hurt.

She held the inside of her wrist to her nose and remembered one of the last nights in the hospital. John was dozing as she entered the room and she had watched him, loving him so. All the painful treatments had not worked. He was very thin and flushed with fever. Eliza could see his chest laboring slowly up and down under the thin cotton hospital blanket. She heard his wheezing breath.

John opened his heavy eyes, and his gaunt, pained face cracked into a weak smile of pleasure as he saw her standing there. She straightened, smiled bravely back and went right to his bed, leaning down to kiss him. She felt the heat coming from his emaciated body as he held on to her. Please God, don't take him from me. Not yet. Not ever.

Then, in his rasping voice she heard him whisper, "Oh, you smell so good."

She knew she would never forget it. John had known he was near death. Yet, as sick as he was, he had taken pleasure in something as simple, as basic as her perfume.

She would never wear another fragrance.

Stop it! Stop replaying everything!

Eliza rose determinedly from her desk, replacing the gold button earring she had snapped off to call Mrs. Twomey. She walked the few steps to the mirror on the pale gray office wall and looked into it. A thirty-four-year-old face gazed back. It had a look of honesty and intelligence, though most of the written critiques of Eliza Blake's face had used words like attractive, pretty, engaging. The face that stared back was the face that greeted millions of viewers every morning on KEY to America.

She looked into dark blue eyes which Harry Granger, her morning co-anchor, said "never missed a trick." Right now, the white parts were tinged ever so slightly with pink. She reached back and grabbed the small, ever-present bottle of Visine from the top of her desk, tilted her head back, and squeezed.

(Continues…)



Excerpted from "Do You Want To Know A Secret?"
by .
Copyright © 1998 Mary Jane Clark.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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