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His keen interest made Barrie feel guilty for having broached the subject. She was setting him up for a big disappointment. There probably was no story here. On the other hand, what harm could come from sharing a few thoughts? Maybe he could make sense of them. Either that, or he could tell her there was no life in her sketchy ideas.
“The SIDS series has generated a lot of interest,” she began. “Did I tell you I got it on the bird?” Her series had been fed to a satellite, allowing it national coverage.
“It’s certainly given your career a kick in the butt,” Daily said. “Which is what you wanted, isn’t it? So what’s the problem?”
She stared into her cup, swirling the coffee that had grown too cool to drink. “When I first met with her, she was having understandable guilt feelings, so I reminded her that no one can be blamed for a crib death—that it just happens. Curiously, she said, ‘Does it?’
“It was that question and the way she asked it that prompted me to research SIDS. Then I ran across a bizarre story of a woman who’d had four babies die of the syndrome. Which later proved not to be the case.”
“She had that… that…”
“Munchausen syndrome by proxy,” Barrie supplied. “Some crib deaths are now coming under suspicion. Mothers are being charged with killing their own babies to get attention.
“Well…” She took a deep breath and held it, raised her head, and gave him a puissant look.
He held her stare for a noticeable length of time. Finally he said, “Maybe I should adjust my oxygen level. I’m either not getting enough, or I’m getting too much. For a minute there I thought you were suggesting that the First Lady of the United States killed her own baby.”
Barrie set her cup on the coffee table and came to her feet. “I did no such thing.”
“Sounded like it.”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting, Daily. I swear.”
“Then why all this cheek gnawing?”
“I don’t know! But something’s not right.” She dropped back onto the edge of the sofa and held her head between her hands. “I’ve been with Vanessa Merritt twice in the last few weeks. The first time, she was as strung out as a junkie on the second day of detox—a woman clearly on the verge of emotional collapse. The day of the interview, she was another person entirely. Superior. Cool. Controlled. Correct. And about as… as human as that coffee table.”
“It was a good interview.”
“It was passionless, Daily, and you know it,” she shot back. His wince told her that he agreed. “The interview with Mrs. Merritt should have been the highlight of the series. Instead, it was the low point. She was plastic. If she’d been like that the first time, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. But the contrast between the first Vanessa Merritt and the second was dramatic.”
“So she popped a coupla Valiums before she went on camera,” Daily said, shrugging.
“Probably. I’m sure she was medicated the night I saw her at that reception—either that or she was drunk. Gorgeous as ever, but vague. Almost… I don’t know… afraid. The President covered—
“And that’s another thing,” she said, interrupting herself and launching into another tangent. “He greeted me as though he and I were old chums. Naturally I was flattered by his attention, but I thought it was odd. He was enthusiastic about the series, before and after it was produced. I mean, look at those flowers. What they cost would have made a substantial dent in the national debt.”
“Then that shoots your theory all to hell, doesn’t it? He wouldn’t feel that way toward you and your series if it had shed an unfavorable light on his wife.”
“I’m just surprised by the palsy-walsy treatment. I’ve been covering the White House beat for a long time. Why all of a sudden are the President and I good friends?”
“Barrie, you’re a journalist. He’s an incumbent facing reelection next year. He’s got to schmooze all journalists. Win the press, win the election.”
She had to concede the validity of Daily’s explanation. David Merritt had, from his first term in Congress, known how to court the media. The love affair had lasted through his campaign for the presidency. The gilt was beginning to wear off the romance, although his media coverage remained largely favorable. But Barrie Travis was a small-time reporter who wielded zero influence. Why was he schmoozing her?
Her mind darted from one puzzle to another, as it had ever since her first meeting with Vanessa Merritt. She didn’t stay with any one thought too long because she feared all of them were booby-trapped.
“I could probably shrug off the inconsistencies and still sleep nights, except for one thing,” she told Daily. “And I think this is the real kicker. When we completed the interview, she hugged me. Me.”
Daily continued playing devil’s advocate. “It was good p.r.”
“No, it was an excuse.”
“For what?”
“To get close enough to whisper something in my ear that couldn’t be overheard. She said, ‘Barrie, please help me. Don’t you know what I’m trying to tell you?’ ”
“Damn!”
