I look at the little box with the dollar amount. And then I stare at the check.
“That bad?” Franklin says. “I’m going to have to buy the burgers myself?”
But it’s not the amount that’s got me speechless. It’s the imprint on the check.
WWXI Radio, it says in the upper left corner.
And beneath that, the name of the station’s parent company.
I turn the check toward Franklin, pointing at the corner.
And now Franklin’s speechless, too.
I turn the check back to me. “Beacon Trust. Owns the valet company. And the garage. And, according to this, it also owns Wixie radio.”
“Wow,” Franklin says. “The trifecta.”
“Better,” I say. Although I have no idea what’s better than whatever a trifecta is. I do have an idea who the person is who owns WWXI radio, and who, as a result, must be a kingpin in Beacon Trust. In fact, I know it perfectly well.
Loudon Fielder. Bexter bigwig Loudon Fielder.
T
he blinking red message light on my phone might as well be my conscience. I know it’s Josh. He and Penny will be waiting for me. He’ll be wondering where I am. But problem is, no way I’m going home in half an hour. I’ve got to track down Loudon Fielder.
“You think Fielder knows Beacon Trust has turned into a triple-threat rip-off machine?” I reach for the receiver, my engagement ring taking over the conscience role. The receiver doesn’t quite make it to my ear as I see Franklin clicking off his computer.
“Hey, Franko, what’s with the log-off?” I point the phone at him. “Don’t we have to track down the mastermind? See what the elegant Mr. Fielder has to say for himself? I say we head out to his house and—”
“Tomorrow, maybe,” Franklin says, shaking his head. “Nothing gained by doing it now. You’re tired. I’m tired. A lot happened today.”
Now who’s tuned out? I don’t say that out loud.
The phone makes a
bee-bah
noise, reminding me I haven’t retrieved my message from Josh. I hold down the hang-up button with one finger. I stare at Franklin, waiting.
Franklin looks at the floor. Then at his watch.
“I’ve got to meet with the New York people,” he says.
“Oh, ho. Now the truth comes out.” I can’t resist teasing him. But I have to admit, even though I’m eager
to take down Loudon Fielder, nailing our big scoop really can wait until tomorrow. And I should let him be excited about his new job. Dear Franklin deserves his success. Tough as it is to lose him, I’m proud of him.
“See you tomorrow, Big Apple Man,” I say, turning back to the phone. I punch in my message-retrieval code. In twenty minutes, it’ll be me, Josh, Penny, Botox, wine, a fire and carryout sushi. I can look at the wedding magazines Mom sent. Check on baby Maddee. Start my own new life, which is just as exciting. The message begins.
It’s not from Josh.
After I hear the message, I hit the code to replay it yet again. Maybe this time I’ll understand it.
“This is Carter, the temp secretary at Headmaster Byron Forrestal’s office?”
Okay, that’s the easy part. I guess they hired a new Dorothy. A midwestern-sounding, youngish-sounding man.
“The Headmaster would like to chat with you, Ms. McNally? Perhaps this evening at his home?”
The first time through, this part sent me into a panic. I’d grabbed my cell, ready to call Josh and make sure nothing was wrong with him. Or Penny. But I put the phone away by the end of the next sentence.
“He’s heard about your ‘where are they now’ project? And he’d like to discuss it with you.”
Damn. I’m summoned to the principal’s office. I’m forty-seven years old, and being summoned to the principal’s office. Because he found out I was lying. Why did I ever think telling Harrison Ebling I was doing a feature story was such a brilliant idea? I’ve talked myself into a very awkward corner. And I hope I haven’t put Josh into an embarrassing or job-threatening situation. All I need.
“Say, eight-thirty tonight? At the cottage? He’ll expect you.”
I push the code for save, even though the stupid
message is now imprinted in my brain, and slowly hang up the phone. Did Ebling rat me out? To get me in trouble? Or was he chitchatting with the Head and happened to mention my so-called project?
Or maybe. Maybe he was warning the Head about something he might want to keep covered up.
I lean back in my chair, lifting one boot, then the other, onto the top of my desk.
I’m an idiot.
I close my eyes, remembering the Head’s elaborately furnished cottage, the dimly soft sconce lighting, the hazy glow of flickering candles. The museum-quality antiques. The expensive heirlooms. A modestly paid school administrator, after all, living in a “cottage” full of treasures? He knew exactly which students left Bexter. And when. And, maybe, why. Maybe he’s been extorting the students’ families for years. That’s how he bankrolls his patrician lifestyle. It would be a snap for him to make threatening calls. Just close the door of his sumptuous office and pick up the phone.
He killed Dorothy when she somehow found out. She died the night of his party. He probably drugged her. Maybe with his own brandy and those sleeping pills.
The Head killed Alethia, too. Pushed her down the stairs. He was at Bexter that night, as well.
And now. He’s luring me to his house.
I open my eyes.
He’s luring me to his house?
I clunk my boots down the to the floor and grab my coat. Absurd. The Head can’t hurt me. My car will be in his driveway. I’ll call Josh and tell him where I am. I slam one arm through my coat sleeve and shrug the coat into place. I’ll call Franklin and leave a message. I’ll call Maysie. Detective Joe Cipriani. J.T. Shaw. There’s a whole list of names I could call.
List of names. The names.
What if the others circled on Dorothy’s list had the same secret as Fiona and Randall?
I wrap my long knitted scarf around my neck, then loop it again, thinking.
Where did Fiona say she gave up her daughter? The—Center?
The Services. I loosen my scarf and, coat still on, sit back down at my desk, telepathically communicating with my computer to hurry up and get me Google.
“Adoption services Boston.” I say it out loud as I type. My search takes .38 seconds. And first on the list is “The Services,” Edgemere Street, Boston. Another click shows me a quietly dignified Web site, dark blue and soft green, all twisty vines and scrolled leaves and muted graphics. A simple logo that looks like a swaddled baby encircled by loving arms. There’s a boldface quote across the top: “For 75 years, we’ve served those in need. Confidential. Caring. And Compassionate,” says Executive Director Joan Covino.
I almost fall off the chair, digging into my purse for my notebook. I nearly tear the pages, searching for my notes from Dorothy’s files. I need to see the name, but I don’t really need to confirm it. I remember the Bexter board member who recommended Harrison Ebling for the job. Whose letter indicated he’s done a “successful” long-term project for the Services.
Joan Covino is on the Bexter board. She’s the executive director of The Services. Sure, Harrison Ebling did a wonderfully successful job on their fundraising. What a windfall when the Bexter job appeared. All he had to do was scour The Services’ confidential adoption files, then cook up a little extra fundraising on the side. For himself.
He manipulated frightened victims into telling their spouses a concocted story about a nonexistent drug
scandal, knowing they’d pay anything to protect their children. Their real goal was to keep their past a secret.
Dorothy discovered his circled list of targets. She took it. And she confronted him with it. First he made the phone calls to frighten her. And then he killed her.
He killed Alethia, too. Maybe he knew Dorothy had told her his secret. Maybe she showed Alethia his circled names. She was the next to get a phone call. She was the next to die.
Still wearing my winter coat and wrapped in my scarf, I stare at my computer screen. I stare so long that the screen goes black. I stare into the darkness as a particularly menacing picture begins to take shape in my imagination.
I’m the next one who saw the list. And what did I do? I showed it to Harrison Ebling. And sinking deeper into my own quicksand, I told him I’d circled the names myself. He’s the only person left in the world who instantly knew that was not true.
No wonder Ebling never called me back with the information. And then Josh asked about the drug scandal. Which, of course, was Ebling’s own fabrication. He must suspect I’m on the trail. And so is Josh.
I have to tell the Head.
Even in my coat, I’m suddenly chilly. I draw my woolly scarf closer. Why isn’t there an undo key in real life?
“Hey, gang, where is everyone? Josh? Penny? Annie? Whoever gets this, call me on my cell, okay?” I’m holding my cell phone between my ear and my scarf while navigating the treacherous reverse curves of Storrow Drive. Rows of balconied brownstones, blocks of Back Bay mansions on elegant side streets speed by as I dodge belligerent Boston motorists who don’t want to let me merge into their too-narrow lanes. Across the shimmering Charles River, a constellation of lights forms
a twinkling outline around the historic buildings of MIT. It’s all a blur. All I care about is finding a real person and not an answering machine.
No one answers at home. Josh is not answering his cell. Penny’s not answering hers. Not even Annie is picking up.
It’s past eight o’clock. Where is everyone?
I need to tell Josh to stay away from Harrison Ebling. He’s already killed two people who got in his way. What if Josh is next in line? What if they’re together now? What if Josh is Ebling’s next target? My insistence on investigating what happened at Bexter has put my darling Josh in danger. And he has no idea. Undo. Undo.
“Moron!” I yell, in frustration and fear, at some idiot in a white Ombra. He swerves around me, pulling ahead of my Jeep with inches to spare. My brain swerves, too. That Ombra is like Annie’s. Where are Penny and Annie?
Driving with one hand and punching in speed dial, I try every number again. Home. Josh. Penny. Annie. Nothing. No answer. No one.
“Call me,” I say over and over. “Call me. I’m going to the Head’s.”
I’m going to tell him all I know. I hope I’m right.
“Come in, it’s open.”
I lift the ornate lion’s head, the brass knocker on the Head’s lacquered front door, and tap it twice. Byron Forrestal’s distinctive accent filters through the heavy door. Within moments, I’m inside. With a turn of a knob and a soft click, the door closes behind me.
“Mr. Forrestal?” Standing, tentative, in the soft light of the foyer, I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to wait or follow the Head’s voice into the house. The cottage smells of cinnamon, and the woodsy burn of a newly lit fire.
“In the living room, Miss McNally.” An instruction, not an invitation.
Three or four steps down the hallway, my boots muffled by the muted Oriental rug, the fragrance of the fire is more pungent. As I reach the elaborately filigreed archway leading to the living room, I remember it all. Sconces. Candles. A comfortably elegant couch, two burnished leather club chairs opposite. A decanter of brandy and a silver tray of biscuits on the mahogany coffee table. Crouching in front of the fireplace, his back to me, the Head is using a poker to stir the logs that are stacked, snapping with blue-orange flames, in the oversize redbrick fireplace. He’s in his usual herringbone blazer.
“Mr. Forrestal?” Standing on the edge of the room, I’m not quite sure what to do. The “where are they now” story I oh-so-cleverly fabricated is about to disintegrate into the lie it always was. But the Head will forget about that once I warn him about Ebling’s treachery.
The Head rises from his crouch and turns, fireplace poker in hand.
But it’s not the Head. It’s Harrison Ebling.
A smiling, supercilious gray-haired killer with a hot poker in his hand.
In the Head’s living room?
Of course. He and the Head are in it together. One had the idea, the other had the access to information. One had the plan, the other had the opportunity. One needed a job, the other needed the money. And if any outsider began to suspect one of them, the other could instantly cover it up.
They’re a deadly double team. And now I’m their biggest threat.
“Hey, Harrison,” I say. I attempt an expression that’s somewhere between polite and curious, all the while scouting to see if I should make a dash out the front door. I glance down the hall to see if the Head is creeping up behind me with some sort of deadly weapon. As if a guy with a hefty cast-iron poker isn’t threatening enough. I
consider my personal weaponry. I could clonk him with my purse. Stab him with a lip liner. Spray him with hair spray. Pitiful.
“I was supposed to meet the Head here,” I say, backing away. The front door is looking pretty tempting. My only real weapon is deception. “But if he’s not here, I can always come back tomorrow. I told Josh I’d only be here for a little while, so…”
Ebling surprises me. He replaces the poker in a brass and wrought-iron holder in front of the crackling fire, then waves me toward the couch, the picture of a pleasant and gracious host. It’s difficult to imagine this rabbity middle-aged pencil pusher as desperate extortionist and murderer.
“Oh, please, Miss McNally,” he says. “Hope you didn’t mind my little joke. Byron always gets a kick out of my impersonations. The Head is upstairs. I’m to offer you biscuits and brandy. You know Byron. That’s his tradition.”
Byron?
That seems off. Maybe I’m wrong.
“Now, take off your coat and sit, please. I was just going, but Byron didn’t want me to leave you alone. As it happens, I have that list of names and addresses from the fundraising report for you,” he continues.
He pats the breast pocket of his jacket, then pulls out a piece of white paper, folded in thirds. He flips open the paper, holding it up so I can see it. It does look like typed names and addresses.
Am I wrong about Ebling? I take a tentative step or two toward the couch, slowly unwinding my scarf and placing my coat and purse on the upholstered cushions. If he’s actually going to give me the list—is he?—he’s not the blackmailer. But if it’s not Harrison Ebling, or Harrison and the Head, then who made the phone calls? Who killed Dorothy and Alethia?
“See if this is what you need.” Ebling hands me the paper, then fills two crystal snifters with overly generous
portions of the amber-colored brandy. He sets the cut-crystal decanter back onto an ornate silver tray.
“Oh, no brandy for me,” I say, perching on the edge of the couch. There are only two names and addresses on the list. Fiona Dulles. And Randall Kindell. The people I’ve already talked to. This is no coincidence. Is it? My cell phone is in my purse. I could look at my watch and pretend I had to make a phone call. I could use the phone on the end table. Then get the heck out of here.