“‘Neighborhood residents, who did not wish to be identified, report they heard what could have been shots. Police report receiving one anonymous call that initially brought them to the scene. They also confirm the car in the East Boston parking-lot fire did belong to the victim.’”
It’s just another murder to the Boston Globe. Not even front page. But to Franklin and me? It could be the linchpin of our story. I briefly wonder if they’re running the valet scheme in New York. Maybe that could be my first blockbuster for Kevin’s network. Millions of viewers. National attention. It would be hard work. Total commitment. But fame, and even fortune. If I take the job.
“So you think he confronted the valet people at Zelda?” Franklin is asking.
“Yes, I think he confronted the valet people at Zelda.” I repeat what Franklin says so Josh doesn’t feel left out of the conversation. “Remember, because of what I told him, he knew they were taking cars for joyrides.”
“And maybe stealing air bags,” Josh says.
“And maybe stealing air bags,” I repeat for Franklin. “I never told him what we suspected about the VIN scheme. But then, he got that toll-violation ticket. So he goes in there and—”
“Lets them have it,” Franklin interrupts.
“Lets them have it,” I agree. “But once he says his name, he’s in trouble. He doesn’t know they know exactly who he is. And exactly where his car is.”
We make the turn into the Bexter parking lot. Josh pulls his Volvo into the space marked Professor J. Gelston. The Head’s car is already in his spot. There are also cars parked in the ones labeled Bursar Pratt and Dean of Boys. The Dev Consultant’s space is empty. Alethia’s space is empty. What used to be Dorothy’s space is empty. Her nameplate has been taken down.
“They not only have to shut him up, they have to get rid of his car,” I say. “Listen, Franko, we’re here. See if you can get the police reports. On the murder, and on the car fire. See if you can get the Mustang info from Wixie. See if—”
“Do you think we should tell Kevin?” Franklin says.
“Don’t you think you should tell the police?” Josh says.
One answer works for both of them. “Tell them what?” I reply. “That we’re looking into a VIN scam at a valet-parking company, though we can’t really prove it, and that one of the people whose car may have been involved, though we can’t really prove it, may have been murdered, though we can’t really prove that, either?”
Josh turns off the key. No one talks for a moment. There’s not really a satisfactory answer. I open the door and start to tell Franklin goodbye, then think of another question.
“Franko?” I say, slowly opening my door as I speak. “Do you think Borum told the valet people about me?”
I hear Franklin take a breath. Josh looks at me from across the top of the car, and starts to say something. I point to the phone and hold up a palm, asking Josh to wait.
“I say no,” Franklin finally replies. “He’d handle it by himself. Man to man. Plus, he got that ticket. That’s why he went.”
“Maybe,” I say as the door clicks closed. “I hope you’re right.”
“Charlotte?” he says. “Still. Watch your back.”
The phone goes dead. I scan the parking lot, making sure there’s no one there I don’t want to see.
Josh puts his arm across my shoulders, drawing me close. We tramp silently through the snow-spackled parking lot toward Main. Its stately stained-glass windows, in the very tops of the hexagonal towers, are glinting crimson and indigo jewels in the Saturday-morning sunshine.
“What did Franklin say?” Josh finally says. “About whether he thought Borum told about your visit?”
“He said—no.”
We begin the climb up Main’s steep granite steps. I can’t help but think about poor Alethia. What went through her mind that night, standing on Garrison’s ice-covered stairway, right before someone pushed her to her death? Did she know who it was? Did she know what was happening? Did she understand why?
What did Michael Borum see? And who? And is his death my fault?
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” Josh says.
“What?”
“Do it.”
I raise my hand, baffled. We’re standing on the broad top step of Main, face-to-face, the massive inlaid-oak double doors twice as tall as we are.
“I, Charlie McNally, soon to be Charlotte Ann McNally Gelston, do solemnly swear on shooting stars and Shakespeare…”
Now I get it. I repeat his oath, smiling at our private joke. I first met him during an interview when I was trying to track a mysterious line from The Tempest. We’d first kissed, a week later, after seeing a shooting star.
“That I will allow the police to investigate the Borum case…” Josh says.
“That I will allow the police to investigate the Borum case…” I repeat. True enough. Because I’m not swearing I won’t investigate, too. What happened to Michael Borum wasn’t my fault. It was the toll violation that set him off. And I’ve decided Franklin’s right. Borum didn’t tell the valet people about me. He’s too macho for that.
Was.
“And that I will never go anywhere alone until the case is closed,” Josh continues.
“And that—”
One side of the oak door swings out between us, almost knocking into Josh’s shoulder and pushing me back on the top step.
“Ah, there you are, Gelston,” the Head says. He’s got a blue-and-white-striped woolen muffler wrapped around his neck, and he’s wearing a rumpled tan corduroy sports coat. The man is from central casting. “Are we ready for the meeting?”
I come out from behind the door.
A perplexed look crosses his patrician face, then it morphs quickly to polite. “And Miss McNally?” He flickers a glance at Josh. Then back at me. “To what do we owe this lovely surprise?”
If Franklin could see me, he’d applaud. Maysie would hoot with derision. My mother would burst into tears of joy. Me, I’m trying not to laugh as the Head ushers me in and I see my preppie reflection in the massive gilt mirror that covers one whole wall of the lobby of Main Hall. I’ve taken off my coat and boots, revealing a black cardigan sweater that I have buttoned up the back, a tweed pencil skirt, a tiny patent belt, pearls and a silky scarf. Ladylike black pumps adorned with interlocked gold-ring logos, a not-so-subtle present from Mom, finally came out of my closet. I’d drawn my personal style line at wearing a headband, but other than that, I’m in the full Wellesley. The Bexter bigwigs are going to swoon.
Mata Charlie. Ready to scope out the secrets of the BEX.
“And so,” I finish my pitch to the Head as we walk toward the conference room, “since Penny begins here this semester, I’d adore to take a look at the BEX. Josh has told me so much about it. It’ll be a history lesson for me. Who knows, maybe it’ll make some sort of wonderful feature story, the lions of industry and national leaders who have been so formative in the country’s development, all of whom got their start right here at Bexter.” Big smile. I can’t believe I’m saying this stuff.
“Of course, Miss McNally. You’re part of the Bexter family now. Stay right here. I’ll bring you the BEX.”
The Head waves me into the anteroom of his office. A sturdy cherry-wood desk is empty of personal belongings, its flawlessly glossy top covered with a pristine paper blotter tucked into a leather holder. Two pencils, perfectly sharpened, stiff in a cordovan-leather container. A letter opener with a matching cordovan handle.
The desk chair has a needlepoint seat pillow.
I look at Josh, my eyes questioning. He gives me a tiny nod.
This was Dorothy’s desk.
The Head returns, his arms wrapped around what looks like an oversize scrapbook, bound in aging brown leather.
“The BEX,” he says, handing it to me.
I can smell the leather. The BEX is much heavier than it looks, thick as a New York City phone book, trimmed in brass. The front is stamped
with an embossed Bexter seal, tastefully discreet, and the school motto, Bex et Lux. The brass at the lower right corner is burnished at the tip, exactly where someone would turn the page.
“You can sit right at Doro—at this desk to look at it,” the Head continues, waving me toward the chair. He looks at his watch, then back at me. “We’ll be meeting for approximately an hour. I trust that’s sufficient?”
“That will be lovely,” I say.
Sitting at Dorothy’s desk, in Dorothy’s chair, I page through the book, trying to get a sense of it. It’s expandable, held together with two metal posts with removable silver tabs on the back. I suppose that’s how they add new pages every year. The pages aren’t numbered, so it would be easy enough to remove a page. I tuck that thought away.
Each page has its own stiff black backing. Two class photos on each side of the page, the pictures covered in clear plastic. The students are arranged similarly, the class sitting on the front stairs of Main. Names, by row, are printed underneath each one. The first one, a fifth-grade class dated 1928, shows six students. By this year, there are maybe forty per class. There’s no index.
I’m looking for Hogarth, Fryeburg, Claughton. They must still be alive, I suppose, since their names are on the donor lists. Only one way to find them.
I start at the back of the BEX. Class of 1928. The photo is sepia, the edges scalloped, tinged yellow on the edges. The girls are wearing essentially the same plaid skirts, white shirts and navy sweaters Josh and I just purchased for Penny. Only their carefully waved hair, white socks and chunky shoes mark them as of another time: 1928. That would make those kids about a hundred years old now. Probably not doing anything sinister.
I skip a few decades to the fifth graders who started Bexter in 1967. The girls’ hair is teased and pouffed, and bangs have appeared. I count on my fingers. They’d be about fiftyish now. And would have graduated in 1974. Turning to that year, I find the senior class and run my fingers along the names. And there in the front row is Alice Hogarth. Class of ’74. She’s in a classic flip with a headband, a circle pin centered on her round oxford collar.
After writing her name and class in my notebook, I turn the glossy pages back through to the senior class of 1973. There’s Brooks Fryeburg. A girl. Lesley Claughton, also a girl, is class of ’72.
I flip ahead to the newest pages and work backward. I know this is a losing proposition, because if those girls had children at Bexter now, their last names could be different. I’m right, I guess. I can’t find anyone named Hogarth, Fryeburg or Claughton. But I do see teen heartthrob Talbott Dulles, Wen and Fee’s son. That gives me an idea.
Counting on my fingers again, I wish for a huge calendar as I turn a few more pages. There’s Loudon Fielder, the prosperous owner of WWXI, already taller and more elegant than his classmates, sitting by the teacher. I guess that explains why he was at Dorothy’s service. The heavy pages creak as I keep searching. Doesn’t seem like the BEX gets much viewing. I turn one more page.
And there she is. Fiona Rooseveldt, in the senior class of 1971. I start to count again, and consider making a time chart, but it’s quicker to page through. I see a broad-shouldered Randall Kindell on the end of a top row. I don’t see Wenholm Dulles. And there’s Fiona again, with students who were freshmen in 1966.
Something is off. I turn back to her senior photo. Back to her freshman photo. Forward again. Back again.
None of her classmates are the same. I blink at the pictures and names. Maybe I counted wrong?
I look again, trying to memorize each class photo, which is tough, because the kids are sitting in different places each year. But no. Fiona Rooseveldt graduated a year later than she should. Other students come and go, new kids arrive and some students leave. But no one else leaves and then comes back. I clamp my pencil between my teeth, staring at the photos.
“We all miss Dorothy very much.”
My pencil clatters onto the desk and rolls across the blotter. Why do I feel so guilty? I have permission to be here.
The development consultant—is it Ebling?—coat draped over his arm and a Bexter standard-issue muffler twisted around his neck, stands in the doorway. Gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses. Do they hire only people who look like each other?
“Meeting is over. Your Josh will be out soon,” he says. He tilts his head, assessing. “I see you’re looking at the BEX. For one of your investigative stories?”
“Well, no, it’s not that, of course, I…” I tuck my hair behind my ear, stalling. And then I realize, this guy, the big fundraiser, probably knows exactly where everyone is. I quickly duck under the desk and pull Dorothy’s report from my bag. And from out of nowhere, I get a brilliant idea.
“Actually, I guess I can tell you I’m working on a special project. Kind of a surprise gift to the school. I was thinking of a ‘where are they now’ kind of thing? Interviewing former students to illustrate how Bexter has changed their lives?” I pause, checking his expression to see if he’s buying this. I hold up the fundraising report.
“I circled a few names from this pamphlet,” I say, all smiley and earnest. Yes, I remember now, his name is definitely Ebling. Harrison Ebling. “And, Mr. Ebling, I figured that was as good a way as any to come up with random names without asking any faculty members. You know, to keep it a surprise.”
“Very resourceful of you, Miss McNally.” Coat now on and buttoned, Ebling takes a pair of charcoal suede gloves from a pocket.
“Please call me Charlie,” I say. I’m on the verge of fluttering my eyelashes, but restrain myself. “Especially since I’m about to ask you a favor.”
“Ask a favor? Of me?” he says. He stops, one glove partly on.
“Yes,” I plow ahead, coming around the desk to face him. I hold out the pamphlet, pointing to the names. “I’ve found their photos in the BEX, but now I’m wondering how to find them. To interview. To follow up my research. I could do a Google search, of course, but I was thinking, maybe you could give me their addresses? Since they’re all donors, you certainly have them in your files. Right?”
Ebling pauses, sizing me up. Then he smiles as he pulls the glove onto his hand. “Well, I suppose it’s all in the family. Let me consider it. And perhaps if we could agree you didn’t tell them I told you?”
I nod, reassuring. “Of course. I always protect my sources.”
“So. What. Did. They. Say?” I click up the car’s heater a few notches. We’re halfway home. This is the fourth time I’ve asked Josh for the scoop, and I still haven’t gotten a satisfactory answer. He’s relishing his tale about what he called his “undercover assignment” in the Bexter staff meeting.
This is what I get for being engaged to the drama coach. Drama.
“I’m telling you,” he says, turning to me as we stop at a red light. “But you have to hear the whole thing.”
I gesture the stage back to him, and wrap my cashmere scarf a little closer.
“Anyway. I waited through the entire meeting, as I said, for the right time to bring up a question about drug use. I waited through the latest on the fundraising report, and the rundown of the new semester’s schedule, and the search for a new Dorothy. And then, the new policy about the senior prank. And then, since school starts Tuesday, the ever-popular assignment of counseling and detention duty.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“But that was the opening I needed,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “After the Head went on endlessly about our zero-tolerance drug policy, I eased into my question. Asked myself, what would Charlie do? So I said, do we have any information about drug use on campus? Even any rumors? Anyone get wind of anything, talking to students?”
“What did—” I begin again.
“So, there’s a silence. Everyone looks at each other. The Head, Ebling, Bursar Pratt, the dean of boys. There’s Alethia’s empty chair, which was disturbing. Silence.”
“Did you say where you’d heard…?”
“Of course not. Anyway, they all
looked bemused, I suppose is the word. All said they hadn’t heard a thing. Nothing drug related, any more than the usual whispers, at least. No. No. No. All around the table.” He takes one hand off the wheel to illustrate “all around,” then turns the car onto Bexter Academy Drive.
“Do I get a gold star?” he says. “And what did you find in the BEX?”
On the floor by my feet, my tote bag sings out the seventies’ TV theme song from Charlie’s Angels. Franklin programmed the ringtone into my phone as a surprise. It only rings that way when it’s him calling.
“Your master’s voice,” Josh says.
“Hardly,” I say. I flip open the phone. “Hey, Franko. Did Wixie call you back? Any news about the blue Mustang?”
“You have ESP, Charlotte? Yes, Saskia called. She’s checking with Tyler and Taylor for the number. She says they’re ‘wack,’ by the way, and she’ll call me back when she tracks them down,” he says. “But switch gears. I just got a call from engineering. The undercover cameras are fixed. We can go to the Longmore tonight. Stake it out. You up for it?”
Nothing. Zero. Nada. We got absolutely nothing.
Our story may be on life support. Breathing its last. If our story dies, I’m not far behind, journalism-wise. Maybe this New York thing is my lifeline.
We’d tried the valet scheme Saturday night. Nothing. Deciding the likelihood of the valets recognizing our car—or caring—was small, we’d tried again Sunday night. Nothing.
It’s Monday. We’re doomed.
“Tick, tick,” I say, stirring skim milk into my coffee-type beverage. After sitting almost all night in the front seat of the news car, my black pants are a mass of indelible wrinkles. My black turtleneck has tiny lint balls across the front after six hours of being chafed by a seat belt. My boots are toasting my feet into sweltering blobs and I forgot to bring backup shoes. I want to go home. J.T., Franklin and I are sick of stakeouts. We’re wiped out. Frazzled. And bemoaning our fate around a wobbly plastic-topped table in the Rat.
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