Big Gossip. My best friend Maysie has such a flair for the dramatic. She’s the only woman working upstairs at Channel 3’s all-sports radio station, so she’s pretty much turned the ladies’ restroom into her private sanctuary. It’s also our usual place to chat and trade info, sort of a secret clubhouse for grown-ups.
“Back in a second,” I tell Franklin. I sprint up to the fourth floor, and open the door marked W. Maysie’s sprawled in the black canvas director’s chair she’s appropriated for her hideout, her shoeless feet perched on the counter under the mirror, the sports pages balanced on her outstretched legs. Her ponytailed hair, still naturally dark brown, is tucked under a Celtics cap, and as usual, she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup. Radio is so easy.
“Hey, Brenda.” She welcomes me with a wave, then refolds her paper and gestures me to the guest seat on the counter. She knows I’m uncomfortable with the “Brenda Starr” nickname, since I’m hardly as glamorous and definitely not a comic book journalist. But she thinks it’s hilarious. And she means well. “Heard you on the newsbreak. How’d that happen?”
I spin out the mystery of the vanishing anchorwoman and describe how secretive Angela was. “And Teddy said something like, ‘She’d better be dead,’” I report. “Maybe there’s more to this. Maybe heads are going to roll.”
But Maysie only laughs. “That was a trick question,” she says, eyes twinkling. “I actually have the total scoop.”
“Tell all,” I demand. Ellen’s apparently not dead. And there’s nothing like someone else’s life chaos to put things into perspective.
“Let’s just say…” Maysie pauses. “The ‘new face of Channel 3’ will be facing a judge instead of a camera. She has now learned, in a most unpleasant way, that trying to con the drugstore pharmacist with someone else’s prescription for OxyContin is frowned on by law enforcement. And that the cops don’t care if you have a newscast coming up.”
“She’s in…?” I can’t believe this.
“The tank,” Maysie finishes. “Angela’s gone to bail her out. Think I should drop a dime to the gossip girls at the newspaper?”
I know she won’t. Maysie and I have been friends ever since we bonded over junk food years ago in the station’s basement cafeteria. A surprise blizzard trapped everyone in the building—and a flurry of weatherman-blaming reporters descended to battle for whatever carbs or sugar remained in the station’s battered and unreliable snack machines. I caught Maysie kicking at the metal casing of the one with the potato chips, and together we tipped and rattled until two bags of barbecue flavor emerged.
Her real name is Margaret Isobel DeRosiers Green, but on the radio she’s Maysie Green, sports reporter extraordinaire. She can hold her own in any locker room, and amazingly for the news biz, doesn’t possess a backstabbing bone in her body. She doesn’t care if the glass is half-full or half-empty—she looks forward to the fun of drinking the rest of it, and then the fun of filling it up again. And I get to be the older sister she never had.
“Anyway,” Maysie says, swinging her legs down from the counter. “Thanksgiving in the works—the in-laws descending from Long Island.” She does the Maysie eye-roll. “Should be quite a scene. We’re expecting you as usual.”
Maysie’s a twenty-first–century chick with a 1950s home life—two brainy kids, a devoted husband, big house in the suburbs. Everything I used to wish for. Lately, I’ve realized I’m fine on my own. Probably fine. I know I’ve totally missed the baby boat, which upset me for a few years, but now…Well, that’s just the way it is. I’ve accepted that my only babies will be those little gold Emmy awards lined up on my study shelf.
Course they don’t teach in J-School: Future Shock—The Choice of Fame or Family.
“I’m there, naturally,” I respond. “Thanks for adopting me. Again.”
“Will it be just you?” Maysie looks at me, eyebrows raised questioningly. “Any love life pending? Someone you’re hiding from me? Maybe a hot prospect we can lure for a turkey dinner, impress him with your loving circle of friends?”
“’Fraid not.” I shake my head. “Last year’s gravy episode with Software Boy was quite enough, don’t you think?”
Maysie’s shepherded me through two long-ago engagements I called off as well as my recent dead-end relationships with a judge and a corporate headhunter—all of whom grew too needy of attention, too demanding of my time and too jealous of my celebrity. She’s tirelessly curious about Sweet Baby James, my first (and only) husband, and constantly prods me to Google the latest on my ex. She’s hoping that somehow there’s still a happy ending in my future. To her, that means a husband, no matter how often I assure her I’m over it. Probably over it.
“Whatever,” Maysie allows. “You know we love you.” She stands up, brushing off her trademark black jeans. “How’re you doing on your ratings stories?”
I give her a thumbs-up, nodding eagerly. “Got a good lead, actually,” I begin. Then I stop, superstitious. “I’ll explain when we get it nailed down.”
“You’re nuts, Brenda,” Maysie replies. “I predict your usual Emmy. You live for this journalism stuff.”
I turn to the lighted mirror on the wall, suddenly serious. “You know, Mays, Brenda Starr is a fictional character—that’s why she looks the same after thirty years. I—don’t. Maybe solid journalism isn’t enough anymore.” I turn to face her, frowning. “And, is it hot in here? Do you—”
“What happened to Miss Forty-six And Not Fighting It?” Maysie interrupts. “Maybe you just need a little more caffeine this morning. Or maybe…” she narrows her eyes “…you need to get laid,” she whispers.
“I had a date,” I retort. “Last, um, two weeks ago. With that real-estate guy. You remember.” A date that ended, mercifully, about 9:00 p.m., after an extensive monologue about cost per square foot. But Maysie doesn’t need to know that.
“Did you—do it? Did you even kiss him?” she asks. She waves a hand, preventing me from answering. “Of course not. You probably made him watch Frontline with you. I’m just warning, girlfriend, you’re going to get out of practice.” Maysie’s phone interrupts, tinkling a perverse version of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” She hits Mute without missing a beat. “Anyway, remember we’re sneaking the kids off to Disney today for the break between baseball and football—leaving right after my afternoon show. I’ll send postcards, as usual. And maybe you can ‘practice’ while I’m gone.” She does a suggestive little shoulder shimmy. “You’re still hot as hell, Murphy Brown, if you’d just let yourself go for it.”
I give her a quick hug, deciding not to mention that the award-winningly tough Murphy Brown, though not a bad journalism role model, is also a fictional sitcom character. “All I’m ‘going for,’ Mays, is my next story. And now, I’ve got to hunt for a mysterious e-mail,” I say. “Have a great trip—I’ll be missing you. You know you’re the only one I can talk to.”
“Oh, honey,” Maysie says as she adjusts her cap and gathers her tote bag, “don’t be a drama queen. We’ll only be gone two weeks. What could happen?”
Chapter Four
F
ranklin and Melanie, shoulders almost touching, are standing at an old-fashioned dark walnut desk. I hear the rustle of papers as the two of them, engrossed, pull out file folders and pamphlets and page through them. I still can’t believe Melanie let us come back to her Lexington home, but the e-mail from her husband I found referred to “paperwork” that he wanted to “share.” Even though, as Melanie explained, Brad’s will specified no funeral, it seemed like a decree from the grave, impossible to ignore. I wonder if Melanie is feeling that, too. “This is the box Brad brought home from the office,” Melanie explains. “I suppose—” she sighs, glancing at me “—this is what he wanted you to see.”
I’m sitting on one end of a chestnut leather couch, ready to check through the files I pulled to examine. “The e-mail I found didn’t specify,” I reply, shaking my head. “It just said he worked at Aztratech, and wanted t
o talk to me. It didn’t even include his name. He just told me to reply by e-mail. I’m so sorry, Melanie,” I add. “His letter wasn’t terribly revealing.”
Brad Foreman’s office, shadowy and masculine, looks as if it’s on hold, waiting for him to come back. Franklin and I are invaders, strangers now prying though private documents Brad apparently meant to hide here.
This is all for the good, I attempt to reassure myself. Melanie suspects Brad was on the trail of…something. Now the three of us are going to continue his quest, and if we’re lucky (as we often are), we’ll dig up the journalistic treasure at the end of the trail. Brad would have wanted it that way. After all, he sent me that e-mail. And it must be important to Melanie, too, or she wouldn’t have let us come back to her house on the very day her husband’s body was found.
“So—I have a question,” I say. If she’s this resilient, she must need answers as much as I do. Closure. “If these documents and files are from your husband’s office, Mrs. Foreman, how did they get here? And why?”
She looks up with a wan smile. “Melanie, remember?” She puts a finger between some files to hold her place. “Brad brought them home, piles and piles of papers. I did ask him what they were, but he was unusually dismissive. Just said, ‘Oh, nothing, honey.’ I should have—”
Melanie’s voice catches in her throat. “I should have—” she tries again.
I’m so focused on Melanie’s anguish, when the phone rings I almost fall off the couch.
Melanie flutters a pale hand to her throat and picks up the receiver.
“Hello?”
I’m not sure how I can avoid listening. After all, it’s probably a private condolence call. I pretend to be looking at files, but I can’t resist sneaking a peek at Melanie.
She looks perplexed, and holds the receiver out in front of her as if she could look inside and see who’s calling. She brings it back to her ear. “Hello? Hello?” She listens again briefly, then places the phone gently back in its cradle. “One of your colleagues?” she asks with a wry smile.
Franklin laughs, too, as I answer, “Probably a telemarketer, or wrong number,” I correct her. “A reporter would never hang up.”
The little terrier trots into the room and jumps onto the couch. She gives me an appraising glance, then curls up on the cushion beside me. I reach out to give her a pat, but withdraw my hand when I hear Melanie’s voice.
Her smile has evaporated. “Banjo,” she snaps. “Get down.” The dog leaps from the couch, scampering away. “She’s not the same,” Melanie explains, her voice softening, “since Brad…”
“I know how skittish pets can be,” I reply, letting her know I understand. “My cat’s at the vet. Apparently there’s some feline flu going around and…” I stop. I’m trying to be sympathetic, but she must be so fragile, so on edge. I can’t help her by sharing pet stories. I can only help her by looking for answers.
Melanie and Franklin, Banjo forgotten, have gone back to the documents, but I realize I’m more than a little unnerved. Dead guy’s office. Mysterious phone call. Purloined documents.
Shake it off, I tell myself. This may be TV, but it’s the news, not The Twilight Zone.
“So?” I ask. “Anything interesting?”
“Hard to tell.” Franklin seems perplexed. “There are some Aztratech accounting ledgers. There’s a big file of what looks like copies of the newspaper stock tables, all marked up. And this is a stack of 10k’s, annual reports from two dozen or so corporations.”
“Anything that looks personal? Or confidential? You said—stock tables?”
Franklin hands me a page from the top of the pile. It looks as if it’s copied from a New York Times stock market page, blurred so much that maybe it’s a copy of a copy. There are blue dots and red dots in various places, apparently marking companies someone was interested in.
“Here’s an idea,” I say, handing the page back. “Melanie, do you know if your husband had a stock market theory? Was he playing the market?”
Melanie frowns. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about my question, or if I’ve offended her. Savvy move, Charlie. Ask about the dead husband’s finances again. I hope for the best, and keep talking.
Because now I think it’s possible our whistle-blowing idea is wrong. Maybe Brad was thinking about quitting Aztratech and going into the market. That’s why he brought all his stock research home.
“I mean, if you could predict the market, you could rule the world. But if he proved it worked, obviously, he couldn’t let anyone know.”
The e-mail. I pull it from my pocket, checking again for some clue I missed. “Which, of course, means I’m wrong.” I shake my head and refold the paper, running my fingers along the crease. “If he couldn’t tell anyone, he’s not going to e-mail a reporter.”
Franklin raises one eyebrow and stacks up another file. “Yeah,” he says mildly. “That’s kind of what I was thinking.”
“Could I just say,” Melanie breaks in softly, “I’m sure Brad didn’t have a ‘beat the stock market’ idea. But I do think something—or someone—was worrying him.”
“You do?” Franklin and I say this in unison. We may have worked together too long. “Why?”
“And, Melanie,” I add, mentally replaying this morning’s interview, “you told me everything was fine. You said he wasn’t depressed or upset.”
She sinks into the desk chair, briefly puts her head in her hands. When she looks up, her eyes are filled with tears, and she seems to be struggling for words.
“I know, and I’m sorry if I misled you, Charlie. But I was afraid. I thought if Brad knew something he wasn’t supposed to know, maybe someone would think I know whatever it is, too. And I don’t know anything.”
Franklin puts down his papers. “Why do you think he knew something?”
Melanie fidgets a little in her chair. Brad’s chair. “Well, he was just behaving strangely. He came home later than usual, or earlier. He spent a lot of time reading the newspaper.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I sound ridiculous. Neurotic wife, overanalyzing…” Her voice trails off.
“No, no…” Franklin and I, in unison again, rush to reassure her.
“That’s why we’re here,” I say. “To try to find some answers.”
The room is quiet again. I guess we’re all thinking about Brad. Whatever he had in the works, things did not go as he planned.
And now, what are we missing? I get up to take another look through Brad’s file box.
“There’s all that Aztratech stuff, then a series of green folders with a company name on each,” I say, moving the files on their metal rack. “Looks like—corporations. Rogers Chalmers. Electrometrics. Then, let’s see, Fisher Industries.” I turn to Melanie, questioning. “Ring a bell?”
She looks doubtful. “No.”
“They’re all different kinds of companies,” Franklin muses, looking over my shoulder. “Agriculture. Chemicals. Construction. Only a couple of pharmaceuticals. Why would he have all these?”
We pull the files forward, one at a time. Each appears to contain the same kinds of documents: an annual report, stock research and market performance information, and advertising materials. The Aztratech file is especially plump.
After a few moments, Franklin steps back and sits down in a smoky-striped wing chair.
“Okay, this is not so mysterious,” he says. He starts to put his feet up on the coffee table, then stops. “He was job hunting. He’s researching opportunities. This is unquestionably the collection of someone scouting for new employment.”
I tilt my head back and forth, considering. “But didn’t he like his job at Aztratech?”
“He never said he wasn’t happy with his job,” Melanie says. “So I really don’t think…”
I glance at Franklin, my eyes signaling our tactics. He gives the tiniest of nods—he understands. I’m going for it.
“Um, Melanie,” I begin. “What if…Could your husband have b
een researching, say, price fixing of some kind?”
“Does he have other documents? That could be his, well, ammunition?” Franklin adds, moving in for the follow-up. “Evidence he was going to use as proof of corporate collusion? Or something like that?”
Melanie slicks back her hair, stares off into the distance.
Damn it. We may have pushed too hard. Lost her. Franklin’s giving me a worried look. I raise a hand, signaling again. Hang on.
Melanie sighs. “I suppose it’s possible,” she says softly, still looking away. “He never told me anything about—anything like that.” She turns to us, eyes moist. “But as I said, it’s possible.”
She opens a maroon lacquered box on the desk and takes out a thin cigarette. She holds it up silently, and when we don’t object, she lights it with a heavy silver lighter and puffs out a narrow stream of gray smoke.
“We did have money problems,” she says finally. “Bradley was desperately trying to refinance. This house used to be my mother’s. She gave it to us when she moved to her condo.”
The jangle of the phone interrupts us again.
Melanie tilts her head back and her shoulders drop. She looks exhausted and overwhelmed. She picks up the receiver. “Hello?” she says quietly.
This time there must be someone on the other end. I watch Melanie’s face register emotions: recognition, confusion, annoyance, concern. And then, do I see fear?
Melanie regains her composure, but I still think she looks uncomfortable. “No, nothing at all,” she says, glancing at the stack of ledgers and paperwork, and then at Franklin and me. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
She hangs up and takes another drag on her cigarette. I wait, figuring if she wants to explain, she’ll explain.
“That was someone from Brad’s office,” she says. “Asking if Brad had brought anything home.” A puff of gray smoke. “I said no, because it just didn’t seem right. What business is it of theirs if Brad brought papers home?”
“I suppose if they’re Aztratech property,” I say slowly, “they legally belong to the company. If Brad took them without permission, you may be obligated to give them back.”
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