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  She attempts a smile. “Forgive me. I just can’t bear to go through them right now, and the movers will be here in the next few days. I’m still a bit off center. With it all.”

  It’s still before noon. I don’t have to meet Franklin and J.T. for hours. “Millie? If, maybe, there is something in her papers. Would you like me to look?”

  Millie nods, and I follow her into the study. But my search turns up nothing. No diary. No ledger. No file of incriminating letters. So much for my revealing investigation of Dorothy Wirt’s secret life. If this is all there is, her life was an open book, centered on everything connected to Bexter. Letters from the bursar to the Head, asking to be in charge of the current push for money. Letters from a board member, somebody named Joan Covino, recommending “successful” consultant Harrison Ebling to lead the donation drive. Memos announcing Ebling. Memos outlining the fundraising campaign. The dean of boys demanding a bigger office. I write it all down in my notebook, names and dates. Boring, boring, Bexter inside baseball. You’d think there’d be more about education and less about money. All I’ve gotten from this search, so far, is a nasty paper cut.

  Sitting at her desk in a needlepoint swivel chair, I try to make myself be bad Dorothy. What would I do if I had incriminating information? Where would I put it? If I were embezzling from Bexter bank accounts? Where would I keep the records? Extorting hush money from worried parents? With Alethia as accomplice? Where would we keep track of our victims?

  Much as it would make a great story to cast Dorothy as the bitter and vengeful Joan Crawford-y schemer, I just can’t make it fit. Dorothy was a beloved member of the Bexter community. Her desk is crowded with photographs of her with students and parents and babies. Silver-framed graduation ceremonies. What looks like a Christmas pageant. A tiny infant swaddled in a flowered blanket. Dorothy, smiling, holding a bouquet of daisies, surrounded by students. Bexter was her family. Why would she decide to rip them off?

  “How are you doing, Charlie?” Millie now has a pale blue smock covering her gray sweater and pants, and a scarf tied over her hair. “Forgive me, I’m packing up a bit. Any luck?”

  “Nothing, so far at least. It’s just run-of-the-mill paperwork. Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. The photos are lovely, though. She was obviously very devoted. And everyone seemed to love her.”

  I hold up my right forefinger. “May I use your restroom, though? Before I finish up? I’ve got a little paper cut I want to wash.”

  Millie frowns. “Oh, dear. The powder room down here is cleared out, I’m afraid. Do you mind going upstairs? I apologize for the clutter.”

  The carpeted stairway is stacked with more boxes. I can see the rectangular discolorations in the paint where someone has taken down pictures or photographs. The upstairs hall is emptying, too. It smells of dust and bleach and change.

  The cheery bathroom, blue-sprigged white wallpaper, yellow towels, seems almost sad. I stare into the medicine-cabinet mirror. Tell me something, Dorothy.

  Silence. My finger throbs, reminding me I wish I had a Band-Aid. I look at the medicine cabinet again. Why not?

  I swing open the mirror. I stare at the jars of pills. Do I dare? Millie asked me to help. And Dorothy is dead. I reach out a hand and swivel the bottles so I can read the labels. Patient’s name: Dorothy Wirt. Temazepam, 10 mg. Take once daily for insomnia. Patient’s name: Dorothy Wirt. Nifedipine. 5 mg. One each day for high blood pressure.

  According to the date on the label, the sleeping stuff, thirty pills, was dispensed…I calculate on my fingers. About fifteen days ago. Dorothy died…I calculate again. Exactly a week ago. So there should be more than twenty pills here, even if she took one every day she was alive. Gingerly, I pick up the amber plastic container. The label covers the whole thing, so I can’t see inside. No refills, it says. I slowly turn it upside down, listening. Click. Click. Click. This bottle is nowhere near full.

  Maybe she took too many by mistake. But when? Maybe she took too many on purpose. Maybe she did kill herself. But why?

  Millie will be wondering where I am. And suddenly I realize I’m an idiot. I touched the pill bottle. Should I wipe my fingerprints off?

  “Charlie? Are you all right?” It’s Millie. Her voice, inquiring, rises up the stairs.

  I have to go.

  Using the back of my hand, I push the medicine cabinet closed.

  Millie meets me at the bottom of the stairs. Her once-composed face is blotched and red. Her eyes are teary.

  “I’m so sorry, Charlie. I started looking at Dorothy’s things, packing.” She sighs, pulling herself together. Gives me a wan attempt at a smile. “I think I might just take a short nap. Put my feet up. Before I tackle the rest of the boxes. I have a whole week, so they tell me. So no rush, I suppose.”

  A week. And she’ll pack up the bathroom last. I may have some time, so I’ll wait and see what happens. And if the pills prove Dorothy killed herself, accidentally or not, maybe better that her sister never knows.

  “Of course,” I say. “My coat?”

  “Is in Dorothy’s study. And please, Charlie. Do finish going through Dorothy’s things, if you like. You may find something. And besides, then I won’t have to face those boxes again. I would be forever grateful.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ll call you if I find something.”

  Millie starts up the stairs, her blue-veined hand holding on to the polished wooden banister. Suddenly she seems like the old sixty-five. “Just let yourself out, dear.”

  The only box left is marked “5 of 5.” Helpful. I slit open the packing tape with a letter opener. Inside, wrapped in newspapers, what feels like a vase. Under that, a desk blotter. Under that, a couple of Boston Globes. Whoever packed this must have just thrown in everything in sight. I put the already yellowing newspapers aside. Under that, a ream box of paper, all blank. And next to that, the last thing in the box is a pamphlet with glossy covers, legal size, stapled on the spine. The title is in bold-faced embossed gold. Bexter Fundraising Report. On the cover, three noticeably diverse Bexter students stride cheerfully across the tulip-filled Bexter yard.

  I page through it, half concentrating, and then flip back to the front cover, ready to put the booklet back in the box. The cover is dated March. But it’s not March yet.

  Odd? I lean back in Dorothy’s chair, musing. Or not so odd. Maybe this was just printed and they were getting ready to send it out. Donations lists. Which reminds me. Wen and Fee Dulles made a big deal of how much they’d contributed. Randall Kindell, too. Might as well find out just how much. Or if it’s even true. I open it again, searching.

  And, I see, someone else has apparently done exactly the same thing. Fiona Rooseveldt Dulles. I find her listed on page 22 under Patrons. She’s easy to find because her name is circled.

  Circled? Why?

  On page 24, in Benefactors, I find Randall Cross Kindell. Circled in pencil. Faint, but unmistakable. Wenholm Dulles. Circled. And then I see a few more. Names I don’t recognize. Most names aren’t circled.

  Why did Dorothy mark these names? As targets? As suspects? As allies? Or enemies?

  After carefully writing the names in my notebook, in order and by category, I close the pamphlet, and put it back into the cardboard box. Nothing more to look at. I’m done. I shrug on my coat, tying its woolen belt and flipping up the collar against the chilly afternoon. I pick up my tote bag. Done.

  The little study is quiet. Millie is probably deep into her nap. A tiny shaft of sunlight struggles through the gauzy curtains, glinting briefly on the picture frames lining Dorothy’s desk.

  What if there’s something I missed? What if something is marked or checked or underlined, and I didn’t see it? What if that’s the key to the whole thing—whatever it is?

  I can’t stand it.

  I take the fundraising report and slide it inside my bag. Who will even know it’s gone?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “T hanks for joining us on Drive Time all you car
lovers out there. It’s Tyler and Taylor on Wixie, here to…” The booming radio voice pauses. “Drive. You.” Two voices talking now. “Car-razy!”

  A souped-up version of the Beatles’ “Drive My Car” fills my Jeep as I head back to my Beacon Hill apartment. I’m verging on late. I’ve got just enough time to get home, grab some food, change clothes and then go meet J.T. and Franklin for our valet-parking stakeout. I wonder if Franko is still upset about the Kevin meeting. I shake my head, tuning out the radio chatter. I wasn’t trying to cut him out of the process. He’ll have to get over it.

  As for Kevin, I have about two weeks now to make my New York decision. My current vote is yes. This morning at home it was no. How can something that once seemed so irresistibly compelling fade into “maybe”? Every television journalist dreams of going to the network. Do we outgrow our dreams? Am I afraid? Afraid of New York? Or of making the wrong decision? Over the past week or so, I’ve changed my mind about fifty thousand times.

  “And here’s Morris from Milton,” Taylor’s or Tyler’s voice grates through the speakers. Maysie’s next show is tomorrow, but she’s insisting now that she’s home, she can do it herself, over the phone. So much for my short-lived and low-paying radio career. But at least I don’t have to listen to these guys hawking used cars.

  “…my wife and I are leaving Beantown,” the caller is saying. “Yup, got a job down south, so we’re getting out of Dodge.”

  “Good one,” Taylor or Tyler retorts. “Dodge, huh? But it’s not a Dodge you’re selling today, right?”

  This is appallingly stupid. I reach to change the station, but have to hit the horn instead. I glare at some teenager who’s paying more attention to his cell phone than his driving.

  “…it’s hot, it’s cool, it’s the Mustang you’ve always wanted,” the voice says. “Metallic blue, perfect condition, and we’re so pumped to sell, we’re ready to deal.”

  “Sounds like a deal! And whoo hoo, listeners, you heard it here first. So let’s give your phone number…”

  A blue Mustang. They’re selling a blue Mustang. Is someone moving stolen cars over the radio? Pretty smart. And pretty safe. The person on the phone is just a voice. An anonymous voice. Could be calling from anywhere.

  Is the blue Mustang a clone of Michael Borum’s car? I have Borum’s VIN. All I have to do is see it, check the VIN, and I could prove it’s stolen. And that means I could prove the seller is part of the—whatever it is. Bet Franklin can’t stay angry through that.

  Keeping my eye on the road and driving one-handed, I scramble in my Jeep’s center console for some paper. Nothing. A pen. I could write the phone number on my hand or somewhere. I finally grab one.

  The phone number is Boston’s area code, 617—I try to ink the numbers onto my palm. Nothing. The pen is dry. All I’m getting is red indentations.

  I’ve got to remember the number. I flip off the radio and being singing it out loud, to the tune of an old Marvelettes song from the sixties. Still singing, I use one finger to write the number on the car window. The temperature outside is plummeting. The weather guy predicted it’ll go below freezing. Maybe when I get home and puff my warm breath on the window, the number will appear. Just like in The Lady Vanishes.

  Almost home. Five-five-five, zero-one-nine-three. I sing it, over and over. Pull into my parking place.

  I yank open the building’s front door. Race up the steps, still singing under my breath. Five-five-five. Up two flights of stairs, whirling myself around the newel post of the second landing. Zero-one-nine-three. Dig out my keys. Open the door. Run for the kitchen phone. And the pad and pencil I always keep there.

  Five-five-five…

  And there’s the pencil and paper. Zero-one-nine-three. And the number goes safely onto the pad. I raise a triumphant fist. I win.

  Grabbing the kitchen phone receiver, I punch in the numbers, my plan forming as I dial. I’ll be the dumb-blonde car buyer, I’ll take a hidden camera and go see the car, okay, in some kind of disguise, and nail the bad guys.

  I hold the phone way from my ear, incensed, hearing the most irritating sounds ever created. Is there anything more ear-harassing than the rising scale doo-doo-DOO of “the number you have reached is not in service”?

  Did I dial wrong? I punch in the numbers again. Doo-doo-DOO. I slam down the phone. Stupid short-term memory.

  I stand there, fists clenched, seething. Staring at the phone number as if I can learn something. My stupid phone-number song is still going through my head. I’ll probably never forget it. And it will take the place of something I really need to remember.

  My fists unclench. I’ll just call Wixie tomorrow. Get Saskia to tell me the number. Or I could call her now. I reach for the phone, then stop halfway. Why am I going to tell her I need the number? I suddenly want to buy a Mustang?

  Plan B. I’ll use the whole situation to make Franklin happy. I’ll tell him about it tonight during the stakeout and he can call the radio station tomorrow. He can pose as the buyer, go undercover with the camera and get all the glory.

  Another life disaster successfully averted.

  “He’s not coming? Are you kidding me? Why didn’t he call me?” I lean out the window of my Jeep, motor running and headlights on. It’s getting ready to snow again, tiny flakes spitting onto the windshield. I have two huge coffees in the cup holders, one for me and one for Franklin. Now, to my surprise, it sounds like they’re both for me. “Is he sick?”

  J.T.’s in the station’s fiery-red Explorer, his window open, his headlights facing the opposite direction in the alleyway outside Channel 3. He buzzes down his window so it’s open wider and leans out to reply. “Nope. He just said he’s feeling like a third wheel. Something like that. Said we didn’t need him.”

  I don’t know whether to be angry. Or upset. Or hurt. Or guilty. I’m a little of each.

  “Yeah, okay, fine. I guess.” I shrug, trying to evaluate. And to think I’d been eager to share the WWXI blue Mustang lead. Still, eyes on tonight’s prize, the stakeout will work. Even though part of the fun is doing the story together. “You drop off the Explorer in valet parking. I’ll be waiting across the street. Are the cameras operating like we planned?”

  “Yup. I did a few test runs. All worked great. We rented both cameras for two weeks, so we’re set. There’s, like, three, four hours of tape time. After that, we’re done. No matter what happens. It’ll go to black.”

  “We’ll get what we get.” I twist my head around, looking up at the sky. A big snowflake plops onto one eye. “You think this’ll be a problem? The snow?”

  “It’s winter.” J.T. shifts his car into Drive. “Valet parking could be even more crowded, you know? People don’t want to walk? Drop off their cars instead?”

  “We’ll at least be able to see if the taping system works.” I yank my gearshift into D. “Let’s do it.”

  It’s snowing hard as we arrive at the Longmore. It’s 9:00 p.m. I stay back, sneaking the Jeep into a bus stop half a block down the street from the hotel. The city’s glowing streetlights let me watch J.T. pull into the Longmore’s curved driveway, and see the nylon jacket of the valet parker come out. They chat. J.T. should be telling him the “staying late, maybe overnight” story. And then, just as we planned, the valet slides into J.T.’s place in the driver’s seat. J.T. pushes through the revolving doors and into the hotel. Inside the Explorer, three cameras are rolling tape. Just as we planned. We hope.

  The Explorer, valet at the wheel, eases out into the street. Pulls to the curb. Double-parks next to a hotel van. Terrific. He can’t leave it there for long. I’m transfixed. I can’t take my eyes off the car.

  There’s a bang outside my passenger-side door. I leap so high my head almost hits the roof. I whirl, eyes wide, terrified. It’s J.T., trying to get in. I click open the lock, he slides into the passenger seat.

  “I came out the side door,” he says. “Worked without a hitch. One of these coffees for me?”

  We keep
vigil in our parking spot just down the street from the Longmore.

  “You know, you don’t really need to clamp the viewfinder to your eye the whole time,” I say to J.T. “As soon as someone gets into the car, you can roll tape. Nothing’s happening. You’ve been like that for almost an hour.”

  J.T. doesn’t move the camera from its ready position. “Soon as I put the camera down, something will happen. Never fails,” he says.

  I can’t see his face, since the camera is between us.

  “No question,” I agree. “Can you believe the Explorer’s been double-parked this long? All we’ve got is video of snow. And a couple valet parkers who used the front seat to get warm or something.”

  “Here comes someone.” J.T. sits up straighter. One hand is on the lens, ready to focus on whatever happens.

  My heart begins to race. This could be it. I click the gearshift back into D. “Ready. Cross your fingers for the hidden cameras.”

  A man in a valet jacket, head bent against the increasing snow, opens the door to the Explorer. I see the rear lights go on.

  “Here we go,” I say. I realize I’m holding my breath. Stakeouts. Hours of boring surveillance. Followed by instant and heart-churning adrenaline.

  The minutes tick by. One. Two. Five. And then the lights go off. The valet gets out. And he trots back into the hotel.

  “Are you kidding me?” I say. My mouth drops open.

  “Are you friggin’ kidding me?” J.T. says.

  “It’s eleven o’clock. Do you know where your car is?” J.T.’s got his elbow braced on the passenger-side window ledge. He hasn’t budged in the last two hours. And neither has our car. It’s still double-parked in front of the hotel.

  I throw him a look, creeped out a bit by the “do you know where your car is” line. But of course, he can’t know about the Bexter phone calls. And it’s a such TV cliché, everyone uses it. I quickly go back to watching the Explorer. I can’t afford to miss anything that might happen.