Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,6
somehow contrived to end his wife's life.
It was a government plot, designed to bring down Kruger-Brent's share price and limit the company's enormous power on the world stage.
Like Peter Templeton, no one could quite believe that a healthy, wealthy young woman could be admitted into New York's finest maternity hospital in the summer of 1984 and wind up twenty-four hours later on a slab in the morgue.
The rumors were fueled by a stony silence from both the family and the Kruger-Brent public-relations office. Brad Rogers, acting chairman since Kate Blackwell's death, had appeared just once in front of the cameras. Looking even older than his eighty-eight years, a white-haired apparition, his papery hands trembled as he read a terse statement:
"Alexandra Templeton's tragic and untimely death is entirely a private matter. Mrs. Templeton held no official role within Kruger-Brent, Ltd., and her passing is not pertinent to the management or future of this great company in any way. We ask that her family's request for privacy be respected at this difficult time. Thank you."
Refusing to take questions, he scurried back into the maze of the Kruger-Brent headquarters like a distressed beetle searching for the safety of its nest. Nothing had been heard from him since.
Undeterred by the lack of official information, perhaps even encouraged by it, the tabloids felt free to start making the story up themselves. Soon the rumor mill had taken on a life of its own. But by then it was too late for the family or anyone else to stop it.
"We must do something about these press reports."
Peter Templeton was in his study at home. With its tatty Persian rugs, antique Victorian upright piano, walnut paneling, and bookcases crammed to bursting with first editions, it had been one of Alex's favorite rooms, a place to retreat to after the stresses of the day. Now Peter paced it furiously like a caged tiger, shaking the newspaper in his hands.
"I mean this is the New York Times, for God's sake, not some supermarket rag." The disdain in his voice was palpable as he read aloud: "'Alexandra Alexandra Blackwell is believed to have been suffering from complications of the immune system for some time.' Believed by whom? Where do they get this nonsense?"
Dr. Barnabus Hunt, a fat Santa Claus of a man with a crown of white hair around his bald spot and permanently ruddy cheeks, took a contemplative draw on his pipe. A fellow psychiatrist, and Peter Templeton's lifelong friend, he had been a frequent visitor to the house since Alex's death.
"Does it matter where they get it? You know my advice, Peter. Don't read this rubbish. Rise above it."
"That's easy for you to say, Barney. But what about Robbie? He's hearing this kind of poison day and night, poor kid."
It was the first time in weeks that Peter had expressed concern for his son's feelings. Barney Hunt thought: That's a good sign.
"As if his mother were some kind of prostitute," Peter raged on, "or a homosexual or a...a drug addict! I mean, anyone less likely to have AIDS than Alexandra..."
Under other circumstances, Barney Hunt would have gently challenged his friend's assumptions. As a medical man, Peter should know better than to give any credence to the pernicious idea that AIDS was some sort of righteous punishment for sinners. That was another thing the press should be blamed for: whipping the entire country into such a frenzy of HIV terror that gay men were being attacked in the streets, refused employment and even housing. As if the dreaded disease could be spread by association. It was a bad year to be gay in New York City - something Barney Hunt knew a lot more about than his friend Peter Templeton would ever have suspected.
But now was not the time to raise these issues. Six weeks after Alex's death and Peter's grief was still as raw as an open wound. His office at Kruger-Brent headquarters remained empty. Not that he'd ever done much there anyway. When Peter first married Alexandra, he'd insisted to Kate Blackwell that he would never go into the family business.
"I'll stick with my psychiatry practice, Mrs. Blackwell, if that's okay with you. I'm a doctor, not a businessman."
But in the years that followed, the old woman had ground him down. Kate Blackwell expected the men in her family to contribute to "the firm," as she called it. And what Kate Blackwell wanted, Kate Blackwell always got in the end.