Drive Time Page 18

  The station’s cafeteria is in the basement of Channel 3. It’s more like a graveyard for ancient vending machines. Windowless, and with the constant faint odor of decaying fruit and rancid yogurt, it’s the only place to get coffee without going outside into this afternoon’s sleet. After tasting the vending-machine coffee a few years ago, someone dubbed this place the Dead Rat Café. Not surprisingly, the name stuck.

  Franklin’s morosely dunking a tea bag. J.T. has water. Much wiser.

  “Monday. Two weeks until the February book. And we have zero,” Franklin says.

  “Zero,” I repeat. I take a sip. Mistake. “You think they put their valet scheme on hold? After Michael Borum confronted them?”

  “Maybe they only do it on certain nights. Or when certain people are working there,” Franklin says.

  “Or aren’t working there.” J.T. tips back in his chair, precarious. He’s wearing a khaki canvas vest with a million zippered pockets. His jeans are wrinkled, too. “Or maybe—”

  “We’re doomed,” I say, interrupting him. I’m shredding a paper napkin into strips, punctuating my litany of impending disaster. “This was my idea. I blew off the fake-organic-food story. And I left us with nothing. Kevin will flip. I’ve never failed on my sweeps story. This is it. The time I’ve always dreaded. The time it all falls through. Sorry, guys. We’re doomed.”

  And Kevin might rethink his New York offer. That, I don’t say out loud. I look at Franklin, hoping he has an idea that will pull me out of my dead-story spiral.

  “What if Kevin yanks the station car?” Franklin’s making it worse instead. “And the overtime for J.T. is probably in the stratosphere.”

  J.T. tips his chair back into place with a metallic thunk. His bottle of water wobbles on the table. “Listen, McNally. I say, let’s give it another go. Maybe two. The suits have spent this much on the project, they might as well spring to see it through. Who needs sleep, right? How about tonight?”

  Of course we can’t give up. Of course we should try again. But tomorrow is Tuesday. I can’t be tired on Tuesday.

  “How about tomorrow night instead?” I say. “Tuesday’s Penny’s first day at school. I’m taking her, and if we stay up all night tonight, I’ll be a zombie.”

  J.T. punches Franklin in the arm. “Parrish, come on. You up for Tuesday night? I know you don’t want to let this baby go.”

  Here we go. I stiffen, waiting for Franko to escalate. But Franklin shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “You think the hidden cam setup is the best it can be? Seems like it is.”

  Well, well. Détente. Franklin’s on board. J.T.’s turning out to be a quite the team player. And also a good stakeout buddy, which is a critical skill. It still haunts me that he doesn’t even know his own real name. Just Tommy.

  Just a minute.

  The boys’ conversation blurs into a buzz as I focus on what I should have realized before now.

  Only one good reason Fiona Rooseveldt left school for a year. I don’t care what her family pretended back then. She disappeared to have a baby.

  I begin to count on my fingers again. And I don’t need to be a math whiz for this computation.

  Does Fiona have another secret?

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I can’t find my sock!” Penny’s wail echoes across the stair landing. I creak my eyes open. Five a.m. It’s Tuesday morning. I struggle to calculate. Penny has to be at Bexter at eight. Even in my bleary state, I can figure it’s too early to be worrying about socks. But it’s the first day of school. That happens once in a lifetime. And it’s comforting to have a pal to share it. Even a stepmom-to-be.

  I throw off the quilt, leaving Josh still zonked with one arm draped to the floor, and pad down the carpeted hall into Penny’s room. She’s perched on the side of her bed, also wearing one of Josh’s Bexter T-shirts, but she’s added pink ballet slippers. Her hair is pillow flat on one side, spiked on the other. Botox drapes on her lap. A battered stuffed giraffe named Diz, who used to be spotted but who is now a weathered generic gray, is in a serious necklock under one of Penny’s spindly arms. In the other hand, Penny’s holding up one navy blue sock; stark evidence of impending disaster.

  “Pen?” I slide into place beside her, lowering one arm across her shoulders. Botox arches her tail, and plants it across my lap. “How you doing, kiddo? It’s pretty early.”

  “I know.” A wail. “But I’m trying to get ready. Like you said to. And my other sock is gone. And I don’t have another other sock. And I’ve got to wear socks.”

  Penny’s Bexter uniform of plaid skirt, navy V-neck sweater and white shirt is displayed on the puffy pink-striped chair by her closet. I untangle myself from cat and nine-year-old, and pick up the skirt. Underneath, stuck by static to the woolen plaid, is one knee-length navy blue sock.

  “It was hiding, I guess,” I say, laying it across the arm of the chair. I take its mate from Penny, and put the pair back together. “And now you’re all set. Want me to stay with you until the alarm goes off?”

  Penny’s head is already nestled on her pillow; her hands, palms together, tucked under her cheek. Her eyes are closed. I lean down and give her wayward hair the briefest of kisses. “It’s going to be great,” I whisper. I hope I’m right.

  She doesn’t even open her eyes. “I know, Charlie Mac,” she says.

  I have Maysie on speed dial. Just in case. She’s done this with Molly and Max, and in a few years, will be such an old hand that she’ll probably ship baby Maddee off to her first day of school with a casual wave and an envelope of lunch money.

  But as Penny and I walk through the oak front doors of Main, I’m as unsettled as I was on my first day at Public School 11, home of the Anthony Wayne Blue Devils. We middle-schoolers were the Baby Blues. P.S. 11 had grungy lockers along the walls, recalcitrant padlocks that I still dream about battling, yellowing linoleum and hallways full of people who were taller than I was. I hardly remember smiling. Though I could be wrong about this.

  One thing haunting me more than my own past this morning. Bexter is hiding some secrets.

  “Your dad says he’ll see you at lunch, in the cafeteria,” I remind Penny. I’m determined to keep this day normal. “He had to be in extra early to—”

  “I know,” Penny interrupts. “But I told him, no way. I mean, the other kids do know he’s my dad, and they know he’s a teacher. So it’s cool if I catch him later. No biggie.”

  The lobby has the air of a small-town British train station at rush hour. Chilly. High ceilings. Identically dressed students, carefully diverse. A few hovering parents. There’s the low-key buzz of hellos and goodbyes. Everyone bustling, everyone determined, everyone with a destination. And all keeping to schedule.

  It all appears peaceful, probably as it’s been every new semester since 1923. But I know how much has happened over winter vacation.

  I see Dean Kent Bishop and the bursar, Aaron Pratt, standing in one corner, observing the morning chaos. The Head, arms crossed, watches regally, hovering outside his corner office. Harrison Ebling gives me a nod. I recognize a few of the teachers, stationed strategically. They might as well be plainclothes cops. And maybe they are.

  I wonder who knows what and how much. I wonder if Talbott and Lexie Dulles are here. And Nancy Kindell. I wonder if Harrison Ebling has addresses for me.

  But Penny comes first. I can’t let anything ruin her first day.

  “Your dad really wanted to come with you, you know.” I hope Penny’s not having some permanent life-trauma moment, where she’ll someday tell some therapist how her mother deserted her, and then her father wasn’t there on the first day of school, and how he sent some interloper as substitute parent.

  We arrive under the two-story timbered archway that connects Main’s lobby to the branching hallways lined with classrooms. I look down at Penny, checking for terror, and reach for her hand.

  Penny stops. Looks up at me with that Penny face.

  “Are you freaking out, Charlie Mac?” Then s
he actually winks at me and tucks her hand through the strap of her backpack instead.

  “You’re going to be my mom,” she says, solemn. Pronouncing the rules. “I’m too old to hold hands.” This time, she’s wearing the headband, unnecessary to control her inch-long hair, but apparently required for preteen fashion. She’ll hang her navy pea jacket in her new classroom. Underneath, her new uniform is starched and pleated and pristine. She has two socks. And she’s smiling.

  “Then you get that cute fanny to class,” I say, giving her a pat. “No throwing chalk. No sticking your gum under the desk. No passing notes.”

  “Huh?” Penny says. “We text.”

  “Hey, Penny,” two Penny clones speak in unison as they arrive, in identical uniforms, lugging books. I wonder again how their backpacks don’t tip the little girls heels over head.

  They all perform some elaborate handshake thing that seems to include elbows and forefingers. They look up at me, register my bafflement, then remember their Bexter manners.

  “I’m Tenley Eisenberg. And this is Eve Nillsen. We met Penny at orientation.” Tenley moves her bangs out of her eyes, then holds out a hand. Then she stops. Hand in midair. And looks at Penny. “Is this—?”

  “Told you,” Eve says, cocking her head knowingly. “The one on—”

  “The news.” Tenley finishes the sentence. Reverent.

  “She’s Charlie McNally,” Penny says. Her nose tips up the slightest bit and an unmistakable note of pride tinges her voice. “She’s going to be my new stepmother, and I’m going to be her junior bridesmaid. In the wedding. She’s already brought her cat to our house. And Charlie Mac’s going to live there, too. With me and my dad.”

  “Cool.”

  “Totally.”

  “So nice to meet you both,” I say, reaching out to shake hands. “How lovely of you to—”

  Penny holds up her tiny wrist, interrupting. It’s weighted down by the pink-and-black plastic watch Josh presented her last night. “Time for class,” Penny announces. “See you at home, Charlie Mac. You guys ready?”

  The plaid-and-backpacked trio sashays down the center hallway, hunter-green pleats swinging under their matching jackets, heads close together. Penny already has friends. Parents are forgotten. Is this how mothers feel? About a hundred years old? And happy to be so?

  “Take care,” I whisper to their backs. “See you at home, Penneroo.”

  Home. New York is a million miles away. And maybe? Should stay that way.

  I know I should get right back to the station. Franklin may have heard more from Saskia about the blue Mustang offered for sale on the Drive Time show. He may have dug up the info about who owns Beacon Valet. And right after the noon news, we’re scheduled to meet with Kevin and regroup about tonight’s stakeout. We’ve decided not to start tonight until ten or so, theorizing cars that could be at the Longmore Hotel overnight are more likely to be taken. It could be a pivotal evening.

  I’d watched Penny until she was out of sight. I’d traipsed back to my car. Even turned on the engine.

  Then I couldn’t resist. Grabbing my phone, I leave Franklin a vague voice mail explaining that I’ll be there soon but have to do one little errand. I turn off the car, slam the door, head to Landman Hall and down the corridor to Josh’s classroom. I have several more-than-reasonable excuses if anyone stops me. I’m engaged to the teacher and I’m a parent. But the main door to the building is not yet locked. The halls are empty all the way to room 418. Not such great security, but it’s making my goal very easy. I want to see Josh in action.

  If the amount of e-mail he gets and the sign-up sheet for his office hours are any indication, the kids adore him. And I’ve always been curious how he handles his students in class. How they react to him. His expression. His posture. His demeanor. I’ll be undercover tonight at the Longmore. Might as well be undercover this morning, too.

  At this time of morning, classes in full swing, the hallway is empty. No kids clutching late passes, no bustling administrators carrying clipboards. The lacquered oak door to 418 is closed, like all the other doors down the hardwood corridor. A brass plaque, at eye level, is engraved “Professor Gelston. English Literature.” A four-paned window, beveled glass with brass edging, is positioned just high enough to be out of reach. Tiptoe height.

  Tiptoe it is. I put down my purse and make myself as tall as possible. And I get a surprise. I know this is Josh’s room, but I don’t see him. I stand on my toes as long as I can, calves straining and balancing with two fingers on the doorjamb. I don’t see him. I peer through the frustratingly small window, ready to duck out of sight if anyone looks up.

  I don’t see him.

  The navy-sweatered students are seated in ladder-back chairs at wooden double desks, facing away from me. At the front of the classroom is a curly-haired woman, playing down her obvious attractiveness and dressing for respect in a careful dark blue shirtwaist, camel cardigan tied around her shoulders. I purse my lips, flipping through my mental Rolodex. Did I see her at the Head’s party? Some sort of intern? Teaching assistant? Substitute? Josh never mentioned having anyone like that in his classes.

  She’s pointing, one at a time, to some names written carefully in white chalk on a floor-to-ceiling blackboard. Leontes. Perdita. Hermoine. Whoever this is gestures to one student, and then to a pile of books on the teacher’s desk. Josh’s desk. The student gives one book to each of her classmates, then takes a seat.

  Someone’s at the front of Josh’s classroom, and she’s teaching Shakespeare. The Winter’s Tale. Who is it? And where is Josh?

  By the time I get to Josh’s office, I’ve given up pretending to be casual. I’ve tried his cell phone. No answer. Now I’m calling his office phone. I hear it ringing in my ear and on his desk as I walk up to the door. No answer. I pause, click my cell phone closed and give a quick rap with my knuckles under his brass nameplate. I wait. No answer.

  Hesitating ever so briefly, I put my hand on the old-fashioned wooden doorknob, and click open the door. Pause again. Nothing. I push the door wide open. Josh’s office is empty.

  I flip my phone open again, checking for a voice mail. Josh probably was leaving a message for me while I was calling Franklin. No. No new messages. With a click of the lock, I close Josh’s office door. I need to find some answers.

  Penny. Is she where she’s supposed to be? The nasty phone calls to Dorothy and the Dulleses and the Kindells flash unpleasantly through my mind. “Do you know where your children are?” Can I be sure Penny’s in her class? Josh sure isn’t in his.

  By the time I get to the Head’s office, my own head is churning. Maybe Josh is simply taking over someone else’s class this hour. Maybe he’s in a meeting. Maybe he’s conferring with some parents. Maybe he was really in the back of the classroom this whole time and I’ve now panicked myself into believing a dark—and wholly fictional—tale of disaster.

  There’s no one at the secretary’s desk. Of course. They still haven’t hired a new Dorothy. The Head’s office door is closed. Reluctant to knock, I stand in the empty anteroom, staring blindly at the glowing green glass of the brass lamp on Dorothy’s desk, trying to decide what to do. If anything.

  “Miss McNally? May I help you with something?”

  I whirl at the voice behind me.

  Harrison Ebling is frowning. The development consultant’s pursed lips push up toward his nose, and his eyes narrow behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He looks like someone who’s caught a wayward student sneaking into the Head’s office without a hall pass or a reasonable excuse.

  “Oh, Mr. Ebling,” I say. Finally someone who may know what’s going on. If anything is. “I’m wondering if you could tell me—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” he says. He takes off his glasses, folds them deliberately, then tucks them into the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket. His ears are beginning to turn red. “And the Head is, well, out.”

  “Can’t what?” I’m not asking him about the donor addresses
he promised to find for me. “I’m wondering about Josh. I went to his classroom and he’s not there.”

  Ebling makes that pursed-lip move again. “I know that, Miss McNally.”

  He adjusts his tie, pushing it up even closer around his neck, then makes a raspy sound in his throat.

  “We’re all very concerned. I’m sure it’s just procedure. However, the officers instructed us not to discuss it.”

  “Officers? What officers?” I search his face, then clench his corduroy arm, insistent, my hand, knuckles white, gripping hard. My engagement ring sparkles against the thick brown fabric. All the blood rushes from my brain, then rushes back in again. I’m sweltering. I’m freezing.

  “Mr. Ebling. Where. Is. Josh?” I try to remember to breathe. “And where is Penny?”

  Ebling doesn’t answer. He backs away from me, disengaging his arm, and glances around the room. His office door, the Head’s door, out the entryway.

  “Mr. Ebling. I don’t care who told you what to say. Or what not to say.” My voice is icy, honed to a demanding whisper. I take two steps closer to him, locking eyes. Giving him my death stare. “Where are Josh and Penny? Tell me. Right now.”

  Ebling can’t meet my gaze. “Come with me,” he says, turning away. He waves toward the open door of his office. “We can have some privacy.”

  I close my eyes for a fraction of a second as I follow him. I’m desperate to stay calm. If they were hurt, or dead, someone would have called me. No one has called me.

  Ebling waves me to a high-backed wing chair, over-stuffed and oversize, upholstered with muted tonal blue stripes. Its twin is positioned conversationally beside it. A round mahogany table, a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums and two Bexter catalogs placed artfully on top, sits between them. The fundraiser’s lair.

  I perch on the edge of the one chair, digging in my bag for my phone. I’m ready to run. Or call for help. Or both.

  “Mr. Ebling? Please.”

  Ebling is at the door. I hear it click closed. He crosses the room and goes to sit behind his desk. He has about one more second or I am going to kill him.