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  “Miss McNally. Wen Dulles.” Dulles rises, much as he can. His navy-blazered bulk snags the tablecloth, gold buttons catching on the linen as he leans toward me. I get a solid handshake. Dulles smoothes his striped tie back into place, then gestures. “My wife, Fiona.”

  Leaving my own coat on to telegraph my intentions, I ease into the booth. My back is to the restaurant. I can see my own reflection in the hazy mirror that stretches the length of the filigree-papered wall. I can also see the weary face of Fiona Dulles. Carefully ash blond, flawless eyebrows, pale skin stretched tight across patrician cheekbones. She’s one second away from tears. She hasn’t spoken a word.

  “Call us Wen and Fee, Charlie,” Dulles instructs.

  Fee, who must weigh less than a hundred pounds, is wrapped in a Burberry shawl. The fringed plaid is draped over her boiled-wool jacket, its tiny buttons embossed with an elaborate design. Her leather gloves, caramel and creamy as expensive chocolate, are on the table in front of her, one laid carefully on top of the other. Fee Dulles drops her eyes, and begins to stroke the gloves with a manicured hand.

  Now I remember. This is the woman in the Hermès scarf who recognized me at the Head’s party.

  “Lost connection earlier,” Wen Dulles continues. His voice, gruff-edged, seems impatient with the apology. “Damn phones.”

  “Wen,” his wife says. Her voice barely registers above a whisper. “Please. This isn’t necessary.”

  A waitress arrives at our table. With one silent glance, Wen instructs her to leave.

  “Mr. Dulles?” I begin. I can feel the clock ticking. Franklin will be back any moment. My brain begins to concoct dentist stories. I have to hurry. But I’m so curious. “You said it was about Bexter?”

  Dulles splays both hands on the white tablecloth, showing manicured fingernails, a chunky class ring with a deep amethyst stone.

  “Fee went to Bexter. We both did. It’s a fine school. Old school. Got the right stuff. We’ve donated a pile of money, I don’t mind telling you. To keep it that way.” He leans toward me, sizing me up. “But now we’ve gotten phone calls. Two of them. Nasty stuff. Nasty. My wife doesn’t think we should involve you. But I want you to find out who’s behind those calls.”

  “I can’t—” I pause, stopping myself midrefusal. I didn’t contact Wen and Fee Dulles. They contacted me. This is inarguably a green light for me to investigate the Bexter phone calls without it being linked to Josh. And that’s what I’m going to do. “Can you tell me more? When did the calls come in? At your home? Who answered? What did the caller say?”

  Fee looks at me and opens her mouth to say something.

  “Our home. Our private number.” Wen raises a hand to stop her. “Fee answered the calls. Same person. Same message. But this remains confidential. Agreed?”

  “A man or a woman?” I nod, directing my questions to Fee. I need this information. “What did they say?”

  Wen nods, apparently giving his wife permission to continue. Or maybe, ordering her to.

  “I couldn’t distinguish, male or female,” she begins. She puts a hand to her throat, pursing her lips. Shakes her head. “No. I just answered, as I usually do, and the voice said…”

  She pauses, looking at her husband. He tips his head, go on.

  “The voice said, ‘Do you know where your children are?’ And hung up. Have you ever heard of such a thing? That silly slogan from television. I thought it must be the prank. Senior prank at Bexter, you’ve heard of it?”

  “I have. Heard of the prank, I mean.” But I’m thinking that’s not what this is.

  “But I was so…unnerved, I called Bexter to check on Lexie and Tal. Dorothy—poor Dorothy—said they were fine.”

  “The second call was no prank.” Wen’s voice is judgmental. “Last Wednesday. The same caller. This time, asked for money. Go on, Fee.”

  “You’re aware of what happened at Milton Academy? The scandal? The sex? The voice told me Bexter was in the same situation.” Fee’s hushed voice catches, and those tears seem imminent. With two long fingers she begins to worry a votive candleholder, the flame flickering as she twists the crystal cylinder.

  “Not sex, though. It was drugs. Pills. All kinds. That our son, Talbott, was deeply involved in it somehow. The police were closing in. They said if we sent a money order for nine thousand dollars, Tal’s name would be kept out of it. If we didn’t, everyone would know.”

  “We mailed a check to the post-office box,” Wen says. “Yesterday. With Tal’s college applications pending, we couldn’t risk it.”

  “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Dulles, this is a matter for the police.” So much for my big Bexter story. This is far beyond anything I can handle. I put up both palms, stopping any further discussion. “It’s extortion. Blackmail. You must report this. You couldn’t be the only ones getting calls. And drugs being sold? To students? And you know blackmailers never stop. They always want more.”

  “I understand. However—” Wen Dulles makes a flat dismissive gesture “—I’m certain Tal has done nothing wrong. But it’s imperative that our son goes to college with the spotless record we’ve all worked so diligently to keep. We’ll pay whatever we need to make that happen.”

  “But this is just the beginning.” Why doesn’t he grasp the big picture? “It’s not going to end. And we only investigate what may be possible stories for the news. That publicity is exactly what you say you don’t want. You want the police. You really do.”

  Fiona’s tears have won their battle. She’s dabbing her face with a delicate handkerchief.

  “You have an inside track at Bexter, do you not?” Wen Dulles gathers his coat, his voice carefully polite. “And you solve problems. Solve this one. And keep our children out of it.”

  I watch the couple leave the restaurant, Wen striding ahead, his wife behind. And I’m left alone. With another secret.

  So much for teamwork. Although it’s my fault. Back at the station, Franklin had left a sticky note of his own on my computer monitor. It said: Tomorrow. Not even signed. In just that one word, I can feel the tension.

  But, fine. Tomorrow it is. And at least I didn’t have to lie about seeing Wen and Fee Dulles.

  Tonight, Josh is working late, Penny’s having dinner with Annie. I’m at home, my Beacon Hill home, in sweatpants and a vintage Beatles sweatshirt, having a glass of wine and nibbling ancient but vacuum-sealed string cheese from my neglected refrigerator. Prime-time CNN mumbles in the background. I’m on a ruthless mission. Suddenly, there’s too much stuff in my apartment. It’s all got to go.

  I’ve already yanked three of the four drawers from my dresser, dumping more T-shirts and scarves and forgotten sweaters than anyone could possibly own onto my bed. That way I can’t go to sleep until it’s all divvied up. Three big green plastic bags await my decisions. Keep. Throw. Charity.

  With a sigh, I put my wine on the nightstand and sit cross-legged on the floor. Selecting a never-worn and perfectly good turquoise wool hoodie, another failed attempt to break out of always wearing black, I fold it into the charity bag. But I’m thinking more about Wen and Fiona Dulles than my fashion mistakes. Organizing my thoughts along with the sweaters.

  Kids using drugs at Bexter? They probably do, like everywhere, but Josh never mentioned anything remotely like that. And he certainly wouldn’t put Penny in danger. But maybe he doesn’t know. On the other hand, it doesn’t need to be true. The caller could have made it up. It would be simple enough to concoct a believable and devastating scenario as a way to scam money from wealthy parents. Risky, though.

  I shake my head, selecting a chunky cabled cardigan with regrettable buttons for the donation pile. Dorothy told Josh and the Head she’d gotten exactly the same kind of sinister phone call. But Dorothy’s calls occurred more than a week before Fee’s.

  And now Dorothy is dead. She always knew everything going on at Bexter. Did she try to track down the caller? And whoever it was killed her in retaliation? Does that mean Wen and Fee are in danger? />
  I stop, midfold, trying to retrieve an escaping idea. What did I just think?

  Dorothy always knew everything that was going on at Bexter.

  Maybe—maybe she was the blackmailer.

  I put my head down on the stack of sweaters and stretch out my legs, just for a moment, to think about whether my idea could work. Dorothy, knower of all Bexter knowledge and with access to every personal file and phone number in the place, gets wind of a drug ring? Students selling drugs? Or more likely, someone from outside. Dorothy’s lonely. She’s trapped in a menial secretarial job on a modest salary. Frustrated, bitter, having to cater to wealthy parents and pampered students. She can’t take it anymore and starts her blackmailing scheme. To draw suspicion away from herself, she pretends to get a semi-threatening but possibly prank phone call of her own.

  When actually, she’s the one making the calls.

  What if a parent who discovered her extortion scheme killed her? Even Wen and Fee? Well, okay, not them. But what if whoever is actually selling the drugs found out? And he killed her?

  If Dorothy was the blackmailer and she’s dead, the envelope with the Dulleses’ check is still in the post-office box. And maybe there are others.

  “Josh? Is something wrong?” I guess I fell asleep in my sweater pile. Squinting at my nightstand clock, I realize it’s after midnight. Why is Josh calling? What’s the noise in the background? I press the phone closer to my ear and remove a piece of fuzz from my lip. “Honey? Are you home? Sorry, I fell asleep and I just—”

  “I’m still at Bexter,” Josh interrupts. Hs voice is tense. Guarded. This is no late-night cuddle call. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, what’s going on? It sounds like sirens. Are you okay?” A dozen disasters instantly present themselves, ugly little life-changing possibilities. Outside my window, white flakes glisten through the streetlights. It’s snowing again. “Are you okay?” I repeat. “Is Penny?”

  “We’re fine. She’s home. Hold on.”

  Muffled voices on the other end. Josh is talking to someone else. I close my eyes, straining, unsuccessfully, to hear what they’re saying. Whoever it is.

  “You there, Charlie?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But hey, you’re scaring me. What’s…?”

  “Alethia Espinosa. Dean of girls? Fell down the steps outside Garrison Hall.”

  I picture Garrison, one of the newer classroom buildings, a three-story redbrick designed to look authentically colonial. The building houses mostly midlevel administrative offices. The steps are stone. And steep.

  “Is she—? How did—?” My hand grips the phone, clamping it to my ear so I don’t miss anything. I hear cars, people talking, another siren. Josh is obviously outside.

  “I don’t know,” Josh says. “We don’t know. It’s snowing again, the steps might have been slick. We suppose she was working late and fell as she was going home. She was out cold when the Head found her. Lucky he was there. Otherwise, I don’t know. She might have been there until morning. The EMTs are working on her now. And, Charlie? The Head also told me—Hang on, okay? Sorry.”

  Am I too suspicious? I flop back onto my clothing-strewn bed, considering. That’s two “accidents” in less than two weeks. Dorothy. And now Alethia. Her best friend. And the Head found her? Why was he in Garrison? His office is in Main. The steps couldn’t be that icy. Yes, it’s starting to snow now. But barely. And the Bexter people are scrupulous about shoveling.

  “Charlie?”

  I sit up. “Yeah?”

  “I had to go around the corner. Listen, sweetheart, there’s more. The Head told me there was apparently another phone call. Like the one Dorothy told us about.”

  I start to tell him about Wen and Fiona, who must have taken my advice and reported their call. Then I decide—no. Let him tell me about it. Then I can tell him I already know. “Really? Who answered it?”

  “Alethia.”

  I made it to Bexter in record time. And I’ll be fine as long as no one makes me take off the ankle-length parka and substantial muffler that are hiding my sweatshirt and sweatpants. A stretchy wool cap camouflages my yanked-back hair. When Josh told me Alethia got a “Do you know where your children are?” phone call, I almost lost it. I insisted he tell the police, no matter what the Bexter hierarchy said.

  Turned out, they’d already done that. And now the police are demanding everyone stay at Bexter for questioning, even though it’s the middle of the night. It’s frustrating that I can’t tell the police about the Dulleses’call, but no way I’m staying home. Annie agreed to stay overnight with Penny. At least I can sit with Josh until it’s his turn. If police are investigating, maybe this will all be solved.

  We’d walked arm in arm down the echoing paneled hallway, deciding to wait for the police in Josh’s office. I can tell Josh is running on adrenaline. He tosses his parka on the couch, yanks open his tie, and for the millionth time, runs a hand though his still snow-damp hair. His jeans are soggy from the slush. He told me the dean of boys, Kent Bishop, is in the conference room already. Then they’re calling the new development consultant, Harrison something. Hope they won’t mind I’m here. But it’s too late if they do.

  “Did they already interview the Head? What did the cops say about the phone calls?” Josh and I are nuking cups of tea in the ancient microwave he keeps on one of the bookshelves. I never come here without remembering this is where we first met. I’d appeared, without an appointment, searching for answers in what turned out to be a ruthless and deadly insider-trading scheme. I’d expected “Professor Gelston” to be a Mr. Chips geezer, wheezy and old-fashioned. Instead, I went weak-kneed, faced with my teen heartthrob Atticus Finch come to life.

  “They’re pissed. I don’t mind telling you.” Josh hands me a ceramic mug, tea-bag tag hanging over the side.

  He looks at me, perplexed. “Are you cold?”

  “A little,” I fib. I can’t take off this parka. “Anyway, why’d the Head decide to spill it? And when?”

  “Tonight. Before the EMTs got here. The Head was frantic. Panicked over the school’s reputation. As well as his own reputation, naturally. Harrison Ebling was there, as well. He was all bent out of shape about his fundraising plans. Thinks the publicity will ‘kill the take.’ What an idiot.”

  “He must get a cut.” I dunk my tea bag, calculating.

  Josh shrugs. “The bursar is worried parents will yank their kids. And then, goodbye tuition money. You see the pattern.”

  “And so?”

  “But finally I told them, forget about the money, it’ll be worse if we cover it up. What if it came out we’d all known about this? That we didn’t say anything? What if the students are in danger? Avoiding a problem is never the answer.”

  I take a tentative sip of not-quite-hot-enough tea, proud of myself for successfully resisting the urge to say I told you so. Anyway, there’s something more important I need to tell him.

  “Speaking of which,” I begin. “I got a call this morning.”

  A sharp rap on the door. Without waiting for an answer, it’s pushed open by a uniformed Brookline police officer. He consults a spiral notebook. “Professor Gelston? I’m Officer Jeff Petrucelly. Will you come with me?”

  Josh puts down his mug.

  I can’t stand it. I hafta know. I take a chance, relying on my unlikely outfit for cover. “Officer? Could you tell me—”

  Josh frowns. “I’m sorry, Officer. My fiancée.”

  “Yes,” I continue, hurrying to pick up my sentence. “Professor Gelston’s fiancée. I just came to keep him company. But I just wondered, is there any news on Miss Espinosa’s condition? Did she say anything? About what happened to her? And were there any other footprints on the steps?”

  “We’re still working this case, ma’am.” Officer Petrucelly flips his notebook closed and tucks it inside his jacket pocket. Then he looks at me, assessing. “Miss Espinosa is in critical condition. However, Miss McNally, any further information will have to
come from our public-affairs officer.”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired. And my tooth hurts.” I wince, not in pain, of course, but at my awkward attempts to reinforce my escalating deception. Problem is, if I tell Franklin what I was doing last night, I’ll unquestionably have to tell him everything about what’s happening at Bexter. I do trust Franklin to keep secrets. But these I promised not to tell.

  “Sorry to hear that.” Franklin raises an eyebrow, not sounding that sorry. He turns back to his computer, leaning toward the screen, telegraphing his focus. I see my lists of VIN numbers on half the split screen and the NHTSA Web site on the other.

  “Did I tell you Annie Vilardi got a new car?” I turn my desk chair toward him, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence, plowing through the tension. Hoping to lure Franklin back to normal. Maybe it’s only guilty me who’s uncomfortable. Maybe Franklin is just working. “Well, it’s new to her, at least. I guess her parents bought it from—”

  “What’s the VIN? I assume you got it.”

  “Yes indeedy. You bet I did. Girl reporter, always on the job. Do I get a big gold star?” I cross my legs, movie star, pretending to pat my hair into place. This is throwing Franklin an irresistible softball. When he teases me back, all will be well.

  “Tell me the number. I’ll search the databases. You haven’t done that, I assume.”

  Thud.

  Franklin doesn’t even look up. Guilt washes over me again. I should have searched it myself. I forgot.

  “I wrote it down here,” I say, putting my notebook on Franklin’s desk and pointing to the string of letters and numbers. He taps them into the computer, no comment.

  Fine. I can be professional, too. I’m not required to share everything with my producer. I’m allowed to have a personal life. A private life. And if Franklin’s going to be so huffy and unpleasant, maybe I don’t feel so guilty about not warning him of Kevin’s New York offer. Maybe I’ll just go down to Kevin’s office now. Tell him yes, I’ll go to New York. Then Franklin can be dismissive to the new reporter.