Brenda Starr, the glam comic-strip reporter who never gets old. The nickname always bugs me, since I’m a real-life reporter whose aging is all too apparent. Still, Mays is just being affectionate. I wonder what she’d say about Kevin’s network offer. I wish I could ask her.
“Mays,” I say, stepping into the room. “We’ve gotta go on this shoot in about three minutes. I have no idea about J.T. Shaw. Maybe he’s secretly some kind of ax murderer, okay? I’ll keep a lookout for an ax. Yes, I’m doing your radio show. Josh had WWXI on in the car just the other night. But listen—”
“Gotta love radio,” she says. “Don’t even have to comb your hair and lipstick is optional. And I told you they’re paying, right? Not much, though, kiddo. Probably enough for a new pair of shoes, the way they’re chintzing out these days. But thanks, Brenda. Soon as little Maddee or Malcolm arrives, you take over the microphone.”
Time’s up. Franklin and J.T. are waiting. I’ve never kept a secret from Maysie before.
I hold out my left hand.
And I don’t say a word.
Her scream echoes down the hall as I head out the door.
“Can you hear me now?” Franklin’s voice is muffled. He’s walking across Route 1, the so-called Auto Mile, headed for one of the many car dealers lining this section of the highway. We’re talking by cell phone, making sure we’re connected.
My laptop and I are stashed in the wayback of our “undercover car,” the unmarked black SUV we use for stakeouts and surveillance. The one-way windows are tinted as dark as they can be and still pass state inspection. I can see out perfectly from my vantage point in the McDonald’s parking lot, but no one can see in.
This is the annoying part about being recognizable. I can barely go undercover anymore, around Boston at least, unless I’m deeply in disguise. So we’ve devised a scheme where I can stay hidden while Franklin and J.T. act as my eyes and ears.
“Ten-four, gotcha. I hear you loud and clear.” Phone clamped to my shoulder, I twist out of my hunter-green down vest and fold it against the back of the front seat as a makeshift headrest. No telling how long this is going to take. My boots are off, too, and my legs are stretched out the length of the back compartment, my black wool pants already attracting a coating of carpet lint. I’ll have to change clothes before the Bexter party tonight. But now I’ve got my computer on my lap. Latte in the cup-holder. A pretty good view out the back window.
Red-white-and-blue-striped banners flutter across a block-long used-car lot. The mammoth sign on the flat-roofed showroom behind them proclaims Miracle Motors. Lines of glossy vehicles with grease-pencil prices scrawled on the windows glisten in multicolored rows. Towering above, on a two-story metal contraption, a bright yellow minivan rotates like the car lot’s own moon. On its windshield: Take me Home—I’m Your New Honey.
Just as Franklin walks onto the lot, J.T. pulls in, driving his dark blue Audi. Right on schedule. J.T. emerges in a burnished leather jacket, black jeans and black turtleneck. He looks like a walking American Express gold card. Franklin, sacrificing style for the benefit of the story, wears a too-big Celtics hoodie he snagged from the sports department and some garish basketball shoes.
Let’s hear it for stereotypes. The salespeople lock their sights on conspicuous consumer J.T. Franklin is just a guy in a sweatshirt with a Bluetooth earpiece. Again, our plan works.
While Franklin heads for the back of the lot, J.T. tries to engage as many of the salespeople as possible. I burst out laughing as J.T. takes out a pocket-size digital camera and gets the slavering employees to snap his photo with car after car. Our cover story is that he wants the photos to show his wife her new-car choices. The snapshots will prove dangerous cars are for sale. If we can find any. And I’m betting my job we can.
“Try to find a 2006 Cambria,” I remind Franklin. I tap the keyboard, check that my battery level is nice and plump and click open my notes. “They’ve been recalled for transmission failures. Look for the first character in the Vehicle Identification Number to be a one. A two means the car was made in Canada and we don’t want those.”
All the way across the street, I see Franklin gesture to wave me off. He knows. The seventeen-digit VINs on each car are the key to this story. They’re like a car’s social security number. Its unique fingerprint. Once we grab the VIN, we can look up the car’s repair history.
“Here’s a pale blue Cambria, 2006,” Franklin says, opening the driver’s-side door to see the metal plate on the inside of the doorjamb, one of the places where the VIN is always stamped. “Yes, one is the first number here. And now, confirming that the tenth character is six for made in 2006. Yes. Ready, Charlotte?”
Franklin reads me a string of letters and numbers. I type it into the computer database we’re creating. He moves down the row to the next Cambria, and then the next and the next. It’s time-consuming and there’s absolutely no room for mistakes. If I type even one digit incorrectly, we’ll be looking up the wrong car and our story will crash and burn.
Franklin moves away from the line of Cambrias. I see J.T. leading his entourage to get the same cars on camera. Little do they know.
I get a little flare of goose bumps. And it’s not because the heat in the car is off. We’re a great team. And this is a great story.
“Franklin, you there?” I say into the phone.
I just had two more ideas about how we can make our story even better.
I flip open my reporter’s notebook. Although we’re verging on late for the Bexter party, my eye-wearying day of transcribing VINs is not over yet. Josh is still inside changing, so there’s just enough time.
“Just read me the numbers and letters, okay?” It’s probably the last thing Annie Vilardi expected me to say about the new—well, new to her—Ombra sedan her parents just gave her. She’s helping to make payments with the money she earns sitting with Penny. Now the two of them, wearing identical Bexter jackets and tasseled ski caps, are delightedly demonstrating every gadget and gizmo on the white four-door. It’s the automotive version of a refrigerator, safe and boxy. But my research is about to prove even cars like this could have unrepaired recalls. So practicing what I preach, I’d better check out Annie’s car.
“Look through the windshield, on the dashboard. Nope, tucked in farther. The numbers are on a little metal placard.”
“Oh, yeah, I see it!” Annie says. She calls out the rest of the VIN as Josh trots down the front steps, checking his watch.
“Keep the porch lights on,” he says. “Don’t let anyone in. You have our cell numbers. And turn off the oven after you take out the pizza.”
“Of course, Professor Gelston,” Annie says.
“Duh,” Penny says.
One Bexter Academy Drive, the most prestigious address in Bexter faculty housing, is just five houses away from Josh’s number six, though we can’t see it through the neighborhood’s stand of evergreens. Tonight is Headmaster Byron Forrestal’s annual open house, a command performance for Bexter faculty and staff, as well as parents of new students.
And it’s my first appearance as a parent. At least, step-parent-to-be. I link my fingers through Josh’s as we approach the Head’s ornately carved oak front door and ring the bell. It feels as if I’m stepping into a new life. It’s also my first real opportunity to sniff out the truth about those phone calls. If I’m a parent, I don’t want my daughter to be in danger.
“Sweets?” I say. “They all know we’re getting married, right?”
Before Josh can answer, the door sweeps open and a cultured voice comes from behind it.
“Indeed. It’s our Josh and his beautiful Ms. McNally. Welcome, welcome. And my most sincere congratulations to the happy couple.”
The Head himself has answered, looking as stereotypically predictable in his prep-school mode as Franklin and J.T. did in their undercover outfits this afternoon. Our coats are whisked away. The Head is clipped and almost military, compact and square shouldered in his double-breasted bl
ue blazer and yellow Bexter tie. Gray slacks match his gray temples.
As the Head leads us into a cozy living room, all firelight and candles and buzzing with low-key chat, it looks as if every other man is dressed almost identically. What’s more, someone must have sent the women a twin-set-and-pearls e-mail. I adjust the collar of my black turtleneck dress. Close enough.
“Biscuits and brandy, of course, for you both. Our little tradition.” The Head gestures to a gleaming array of silver trays and cut-glass decanters matching crystal glasses. “Then do look around the cottage, my dear.”
Very lord of the manor. I don’t sense any hesitation or nervousness. I guess he assumes Josh didn’t tell me the Bexter secret. He’s quite an actor.
“You’ll see I’m a history buff. As your Josh will explain. Our meeting starts in just a few moments.”
The Head strides away, leaving the faintest scent of—scotch? Josh pours brandy. Which I couldn’t possibly drink at this hour.
“‘Cottage,’ did he say? History buff?” I ask softly, close to Josh’s ear. His living room is twice as big as what I’d consider a cottage, and twice as elaborate. Handsomely patterned rugs. Majestic fireplace. Mahogany paneling. Elaborate ship models, sails full. Swords, betasseled and polished. Glowing sconces. I steal a closeup look at a framed parchment document, elaborate and unreadable, then at a stand holding an open leather-bound book, pages yellowing and brown edged. “Looks like a Revolutionary War museum in here. How does he afford all this valuable stuff on a school administrator’s salary? Or is that a lot higher than I’d imagined?”
A tweedy couple, her scarf recognizably expensive and his tie yellow, both holding brandy glasses in hand, pass by us with polite party smiles. I see the woman do a fleeting double take. I’ve seen that look many times before. She’s realized who I am.
“One Bexter Academy Drive is endowed, so it’s rent free,” Josh whispers after they’re out of earshot. “Plus, he’s single. Uses all his salary on his colonial history obsession. That book on the stand is his latest treasure, scuttlebutt is he outbid some museum for it. But there’s nothing old-fashioned about his alarm system. He showed me once. It’s state of the art.”
“Who’s that? In the Hermès scarf?” I ask. I tuck myself behind Josh, scanning the room. I hide my brandy snifter behind a massive white poinsettia. “Dorothy Wirt is here, right? Where? Who’s the guy with the—”
Someone claps for attention, instantly silencing the cocktail-time chatter and the beginnings of my detective work.
Josh shoots me a “you’re not fooling me” look. “Tell you later,” he says.
The Head is the center of attention.
“Welcome all, to our annual gathering. New parents, tonight we’ll discuss rules and regulations. Responsibilities. And of course, my favorite topic and yours, fundraising.”
My brain clicks off a bit, scanning faces in the crowd, as the Head natters on in the plummy voice Josh imitated so perfectly. Luckily, I manage to hear my name and look attentive again before it’s too late.
“…and we’d like to extend a true Bexter welcome as she enters our little community. Now we have our own in-house investigative reporter.” He raises a glass in my direction.
Dear Miss Manners.
“Always looking for a good story, Headmaster,” I say. My most congenial. I went to Chicago’s Public School 11, and I may not ever be comfortable calling someone “Headmaster,” but here I am in Rome.
There’s a smattering of applause as the formal part of the evening ends. I grab Josh’s arm, pull him to a corner. “Show me everyone,” I demand.
Josh looks perplexed. “Everyone who?”
“You know. The people you said know about the calls.”
Josh’s arm stiffens. I watch his expression change.
“I just want to know,” I say, attempting to cut off his inevitable protest. “I just want to see them. I promise I won’t say anything.”
Josh sighs, then looks down at me skeptically.
I try for earnest. “Soul of discretion.”
Josh points across the room, defeated. “You see Dorothy? Just coming out of the other room. Holding what looks like scotch. That’s Alethia Espinosa with her. Dean of girls.”
“Are they sisters?” I ask. “They’re like fluttery little wrens.”
“Hardly. Like I said, don’t get in their way,” Josh replies. He puts down his brandy. “And Dorothy has a real sister, who lives with her.”
I feel a touch on my elbow.
“Miss McNally, I have some members of our Bexter family you must meet.” The Head has two more men in copycat blazers in his wake, both half a step behind him. Their posture verges on obsequious.
“May I present Harrison Ebling, our new development consultant, and our bursar, Aaron Pratt.”
The moneymen. The fundraisers. I almost smile. They think I’m making the big reporter bucks and are gunning to put the hit on me for a donation. But this may be a plus. Josh had told me the bursar knew about the calls. Maybe this development person does, too. I plot strategy, wishing for my notebook.
“How nice to meet you,” I say. “We’re so eager for Penny to start next semester. How long have each of you been with Bexter?”
Josh’s foot goes on top of mine. And it’s not a mistake.
I move my boot away, resisting the urge to add a tiny kick indicating I’m just delicately probing, and keep my eyes charmingly fixed on the two newcomers. “And do tell me what you’re each working on. I’m so eager to learn everything about my new Bexter family.”
It’s a private school. But I bet nothing stays private for long.
Chapter Five
“J ust look at me, not at the camera.” I smile encouragingly at Declan Ross. We’re in his living room, sitting knee to knee on the spindle-backed chairs Franklin and I moved out of the dining room and placed in front of the fireplace.
I knew today’s interview would make our story. Put a real face on the problem. When I called from Channel 3 earlier this morning, giving the accident victim the tried-and-true “it could help other people” tactic, he’d agreed. Happily, this time it’s actually true.
“Rolling,” J.T. says. “I have speed.”
Franklin, notebook in hand and sitting out of camera range on a flame-stitch sectional couch, performs an over-dramatic cough, complete with eye-rolling. “I have speed” is movie jargon, because film cameras have to rev up before you can start shooting. Our video camera is at the proper speed instantly. J.T. just says it to sound hip and Hollywood. Franklin isn’t going to let him get away with it.
I throw him a cool-it look and turn to Declan Ross.
“So, Mr. Ross,” I begin. I adjust the skirt of my new and somewhat risky aubergine wool suit. “How did you feel when you got the recall letter, saying your car’s brakes could fail, and that most likely, a failure would happen at high speed?”
“How can carmakers get away with it?” Ross says. He holds out both hands, supplicant, illustrating the depth of his concern. “They manufactured vehicles that were defective. Thousands of them. They should never have left the factory. I could have been killed. My family could have been killed. It’s a nightmare, not just for me, but for every driver on the road. I’m enraged.”
I pause for a beat or two. Truth is, we’re done. In thirty seconds, Mr. Ross has given me all we need: anger, disdain, fear for his own family and outrage for others. We could take down all our equipment and walk out of here right now. I glance at Franklin again. We don’t need to exchange a word. He shrugs, smiling, then rolls a finger, pantomiming, “It’s a wrap.”
But suddenly I’m not sure.
“Couple more questions,” I say. It’s rude to take your sound bites and run. Plus, I just thought of something. “Back to the accident. When you were driving the rental car. The air bag on your side didn’t go off, did it? Did you ever find out why? Did the police ask about that?”
“Hardly.” Declan Ross is dismissive. He pushes up th
e sleeves of his navy turtleneck and blinks, briefly, after looking directly at the megawatt light pointed at his face. People only do that once.
“The cops couldn’t get out of there fast enough as soon as they saw we were all okay. Once they realized I hadn’t gotten the license plate—how could I? They were like, ‘Well, we’ll be in touch.’”
“Have they been?”
“Nope. And they sure didn’t seem too optimistic about finding the guy. Now I check out every car that goes by, trying to find him myself. Bastar—I mean—oh, I shouldn’t say—” Ross, suddenly flustered, looks at me.
“It’s just tape,” I say, waving off his embarrassment. “Not live television. You can start over, no problem. And I understand you’re upset.”
“Upset that we’ll never find who did this,” Ross continues. “Cops don’t seem to care.”
“Well, it’s an unfortunate reality,” I say. “If no one was hurt, it may not be worth their time to charge someone with driving to endanger. A trial could be tough. Because the other driver, forgive me, could say it was your fault. Or that it happened because of the icy road.”
Declan Ross shakes his head. “It’s just not fair. It was a rental car. And I didn’t get the extra insurance. So now, I take the hit. And my insurance premium does, too. Someone should find that car, you know? Find that damn driver and take his license. Force him to pay. He could have killed my children.”
I pause, leaving a beat of silence so that juicy sound bite is easy to edit. And he’s right. Someone should find that driver. Maybe Franklin and me. Maybe there’s a bigger story we’re missing.
“Mr. Ross?” Franklin’s voice. “Sorry to interrupt. You said you ‘check out every car that goes by.’ So did you see something recognizable? Even just the color of the car might prove helpful.”
“Daddy?” a voice comes from somewhere behind me, then the squeak of rubber on hardwood floor. Gabriel, in gigantic rubber-soled running shoes, runs to his father’s knee. “Can I be on TV?”
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