I think about those clippings—and that tape—tucked into my bag. The potentially innocent woman trapped behind bars, expecting us to help her. The persuasively confident Rankin assuming we’re on his team. The great and powerful Oz expecting to win the governor’s race. My news director and his glossy hired gun Susannah, expecting a blockbuster story in less than a month.
The nail polish girls get off. As the door closes behind them, I suddenly realize what makes this complicated mix not only more volatile, but even potentially dangerous.
“Listen, Franko, there’s one more thing,” I say. “Getting Dorinda Sweeney out of prison? Of course, it could be off the charts. But here’s what else.”
“How they got that confession,” Franklin begins. “That’s—”
“Right,” I say, interrupting. “But listen. Ortega’s staff and the Swampscott cops investigated the killing, right? And if Dorie didn’t kill her husband, someone else did. Someone else was in Dorie’s home that night. And that same someone else bashed Ray Sweeney on the head with an iron, and pushed him down the stairs. Question is—who? And why didn’t anyone know that?”
CHAPTER FOUR
What do you wear to interview a convicted murderer?
I’m almost late. I know I should be getting dressed for this morning’s mandatory “hear Susannah’s strategy to win the ratings” meeting at the station. I know I can always figure out what to wear to interview Dorie when the time comes. But thinking about Dorie is so tempting. She’s just six years younger than I am and I’m overwhelmed at how different our lives are.
I open my closet door, flip on the light, and plop down in the curvy white wicker chair in the corner. You don’t need three bedrooms if there’s only one of you, so I converted the one across the hall into my office and this one into a closet. My contract includes a clothing allowance. If you don’t spend the money, you lose it. That means twenty years of purchases—minus, of course, the few years’ worth of unfortunate shoulder pads and irreparably short skirts that faced a quick demise—that need to hang somewhere.
I park my mug of coffee on a shoe box next to the chair and retie the belt of my terry-cloth bathrobe.
Dorie. I imagine the interview to come, the innocent and unfairly imprisoned woman sitting across from me at a battered table, bleak daylight attempting its way through the prison’s barred windows. She’ll be nervous, maybe, at first. Or defensive. Tears will well up, as she reveals—what, I wonder? Anyway, soon after our story airs, she’ll walk out of Framingham State and into the sunshine, probably in one of those prison-issue jumpsuits. Our cameras on the scene catch the dramatic moments, as—I come out of my daydream and frown, picturing it. We’ll need one camera on the door, to shoot the critical video of her as the doors open. And one camera on me.
I pick up my mug just in time to prevent Botox from knocking it over. My neurotic calico jumps onto my lap, demanding attention, as I scan the closet’s “on the air” section. Black suit. Then, black suit. Black suit. Black suit. Okay, then. Another life decision successfully made. And easier than I thought.
I’m mulling over shoe selection when I hear my desk phone ringing. Sliding in my stocking feet across the hardwood hall, I slip my way toward my office. Botox scampers after me, then hops up to her spot on the windowsill.
“This is McNally,” I say, grabbing the receiver and landing safely in my swivel chair. I can never remember how to answer the phone at home. “I mean, hello.”
“Hey Charlotte, it’s me. I’m at the station. We’ve got a…”
Franklin pauses, so of course I interrupt. “Hey Franko, what’s up? Do we have a photog for today? After we hear from our no-doubt fabulous new consultant, we should head right out to Swampscott. Get exteriors of the Sweeney house. And the high school. And the bar where Ray was last seen. Maybe we can get some neighbors to talk. And we can see if—”
“Charlotte,” Franklin says. “Stop. Listen to me. We’ve got a situation.”
I hear something in his voice I really don’t like. “Yeah?” I say. I lean forward in my chair, elbows on the desk, and realize I’m clenching the phone. “You’re scaring me here, Franklin. What situation?”
I can hear Franklin take a deep breath. For a moment there’s only silence on the line.
I wait. As long as he’s not saying anything, I’m not hearing anything bad. The silence doesn’t last long.
“She’s not going to do the interview,” Franklin says. “She’s not talking. Period. End of story. I just got off the phone with Will Easterly. Apparently Dorie got back to him early this morning. And she told him to tell us two words. Drop. Dead.”
* * *
Kevin O’Bannon claps his hands once, twice, and calls out to the newsroom full of Channel 3 staffers. “Gang? Hello?” the news director pleads. He takes off his trademark navy-blue double-breasted suit jacket as he speaks, hanging it over the back of a nearby computer monitor, loosens his paisley tie, turns back his cuffs. I watch him in amusement. He’s so management school. This is supposed to telegraph he’s one of us. He so isn’t.
“Can we settle down, please?” Channel 3’s news director taps on the microphone clipped to a stand in front of him, but all we hear is a tinny thunk. It’s dead. The tawny blonde seated beside him, ropy pearls and multi-hued bouclé announcing her allegiance to the Chanel mother ship, crosses one toned leg over the other, and pretends not to notice. Susannah Smith-Bagley. The newest darling of news-consultant world. Waiting for her chance to bestow her cutting-edge wisdom and change our lives.
Franklin, Maysie and I are among those leaning on the mezzanine railing that overlooks the crowded newsroom below, watching Kevin continue his struggle to get his troops to stop chatting with one another and pay attention to him. So far, the news director is failing, and the three of us railbirds aren’t helping.
“So how much you think that suit set somebody back?” Maysie whispers, pointing to the newcomer at Kevin’s side. “Not to mention the boob job?”
“Queen Susannah wears what she wishes,” I answer softly. “We, her subjects, must do as she bids. You hear anything about what she’s gonna say? Besides, of course, that we should all come up with more on-the-air cleavage.” I look down, doomed. “Somehow.”
“You’re the brains of the operation, Charlotte,” Franklin puts in. “No one is looking at your…” He pauses. “Anyway, I hear from my sources in San Fran, Susannah’s all about the brand. Give a bad story a good title and it sells. Who cares about the content? Give a story a good title, and ka-ching. Ratings gold.”
“Speaking of suits,” I say, turning to look at Maysie. “What’s up with you? I can’t remember a time I’ve seen you in anything but black jeans. Suddenly now, you have legs. And lip gloss.”
“Well, I just found out,” Maysie begins. “I tried to call and tell you this morning but your line was busy.”
An ear-splitting squeal fills the room, as an embarrassed-looking tech guy adjusts Kevin’s microphone. Everyone snickers. A few cynics applaud.
“You’d think a TV station could get the mic to work,” Franklin comments.
“Tell me what?” I turn to face the ponytailed sports reporter beside me. Maysie and I have been pals since we bonded years ago while divvying up the junk food left in the station’s cafeteria during a sudden blizzard. I’m like her older sister. I can read her better than anyone, except (maybe) her husband Matthew. I can tell she’s holding back.
Kevin claps his hands again. Now there’s no way to ignore him. As he begins his introduction of Susannah, I give Maysie a wide-eyed entreaty. What? I silently mouth the word, trying to look as beseeching as possible.
Maysie points me to Kevin and Susannah, then her watch. Later, she pantomimes.
The only sound now is the jingle of Susannah’s multiple charm bracelets clanking against the mic stand as she confidently adjusts it higher, instantly proving she’s taller than Kevin. She gives him a seemingly apologetic shrug, which serves only to underscore her promin
ence, and claims center stage.
“Hello, all,” she says. “Get out your calendars, folks.”
Flipping open a logo-covered folder, she holds it up in front of her. I guess it’s a calendar; I can’t see details that far away. Every eye in the newsroom follows her, as she pivots, surveying us. She waits until we’re all silent. “July? Is the new November. The ratings holy grail. We’re gonna milk those demos till the other stations can’t see straight. You’re age twenty-five to fifty-four? A woman? We want you watching Channel 3. And we’ll do anything to get you here.”
The murmuring buzz picks up again as a roomful of newsies begin individual calculations. How will that affect me? Am I in? Or out?
“Dollarwise, Envirobeat. We’ve discussed your roles,” Susannah continues, pointing to the franchise reporters and producers of those segments. “Now. Charlie Investigates.” Susannah scans the room, apparently looking for me and Franklin.
I give a tentative wave. “Up here,” I call out.
Every face in the room turns up to look at me and Franklin. I can feel my face tighten as I stoically keep smiling, pretending I know what’s coming next. Susannah consults her folder again, then looks back up at us, too.
“I’m simply thrilled to announce that Charlie and Frank have come up with another…” she pauses “… very important story. We’re keeping the details under wraps, because those investigative types are such secret squirrels! But we want you to know we’re going all out to promote their superdynamite July scoop. We’re counting on it for big, big numbers.” She taps her folder. “You’re the first to know. We’re branding it Charlie’s Crusade.”
Susannah nods, self-satisfied, as if she’s just invented alliteration and now expects someone to applaud.
I give Franklin a tiny kick in one ankle. “Nice one, Frank,” I hiss. “We’re screwed. She doesn’t know about Dorie’s ‘drop dead’ decision, I imagine.”
Franklin, frowning, opens his mouth to answer. I wave him off, as below us, Susannah continues to outline her grand scheme.
“Now, one more agenda item before it’s time for the noon news,” she says. “With the Red Sox grabbing such a huge fan base this season, I’m happy to announce a decision made just last night. We’re starting a new weekend show. We’re branding it—Red Sox Nation. And it will feature our newest anchor, Maysie Green, the Sports Machine.”
I turn to Maysie, shocked, my jaw slack. Franklin has lost it and is laughing uncontrollably. His reaction is all the more difficult because he’s trying, unsuccessfully, to hide it from the room below. “Ma-chine?” I hear him say.
Susannah must be wrapping up the meeting, but I have no idea what she’s saying. Maysie’s good news trumps everything, even the impending doom of losing our story.
“So you’ve got your own show,” I whisper, grinning. “Hot stuff. A little TV face time for the queen of radio.” I give Mays a hug. “Congratulations,” I say. “Ignore Franklin. You deserve it. Now I understand the suit and lips, video girl.”
“And it’ll keep me home this season, too,” Maysie says. Her brown eyes shine, and there’s a satisfaction—or something—in her expression I haven’t seen before. “No more two-week road trips with the boys of summer. Matthew is so psyched.”
“The Sports Ma-chine,” Franklin repeats. He adds a dancing little hip-hop move now that the meeting is over. “Ma-CHINE.” He looks at Maysie, his dark brown eyes twinkling teasingly behind his glasses. “Did you come up with that? Or did old Susannah?”
“Like I said, ignore him,” I tell Maysie, laughing. “But listen, it’s so funny. I thought you were pregnant. That’s what I thought you wanted to tell me. You know me, Miss Suspicious, anything to make the day weirder. Just what you and Matthew need, a sibling for Max and Molly.” I hurry to reassure her. “Not that there’d be anything wrong with that.”
“Yeah, well.” Maysie replies. I detect the beginnings of a blush, and that satisfied expression returns. “Good thing. Because—yeah. That is what I was trying to call you about. Baby Green number three is on the way. Don’t make plans for New Year’s Eve, okay?”
* * *
The car window beside me powers down by itself, letting in a blast of salt air and a faint stench of something as we drive up the North Shore Parkway. We’re half an hour out of Boston, destination—at last—Swampscott.
“Smell that?” Franklin asks. He has one hand on the steering wheel of his Passat and the other on the window controls. “Welcome to the north shore of Massachusetts. The good news—you get to live by the ocean. The bad news—every summer, some disgusting algae stinks up the beach.”
I sniff, then buzz my window back up, nodding. “Never fails,” I agree. The Parkway is taking us straight to our destination as the expanse of Atlantic Ocean, white-capped and sparkling, stretches endlessly beside us. Above a weather-beaten boardwalk, gray and white seagulls swoop between skateboarders, diving at remnants of leftover clam rolls. “But it’s so beautiful here. You probably get used to it.”
Franklin makes a dismissive face. “I suppose it could happen,” he says. “Turn right after the ball field?”
“Yup,” I say, confirming. We’d put in multiple and increasingly urgent but unanswered calls to Will Easterly and Oliver Rankin, then realized we couldn’t just stay at the station and worry. We decided it couldn’t hurt to check out Dorinda’s hometown, even though we have no camera with us. The assignment desk Nazi informed us he couldn’t spare a photographer except for breaking news, so today we’re on our own. Cross fingers we don’t miss out on some once-in-a-lifetime interview because Channel 3 refuses to provide the resources we need.
“This takes us to Swampscott. The Sweeney house is off Humphrey Street,” I continue. I tip my new red-striped reading glasses into place from the top of my head and check our map. “Alden Street, then turn onto Little’s Point Road. It’s number three twenty-seven, but the clerk at town hall said it was for sale again, so I’m thinking we can just look for the sign.”
We drive through the seaside neighborhood, patches of ocean grass and hydrangea keeping houses politely private, and pull up in front of an unpretentious two-story white-shingled cape with dormer windows, weathered shutters, gray front door. A bright yellow For Sale sign flaps silently in front, the yard’s only color. Someone’s mowed the lawn, but the garden is suffering, azaleas parched, splay-petaled tulips defeated by the June sun. The bad vibes surrounding the place are just my imagination, I know, but I hesitate to get out of the car. I wish Will or Rankin would call.
“So now what?” Franklin asks. “You want to check with some neighbors? See if anyone knows anything? Remembers anything?”
I check my watch, back-timing, frustrated that we have to hurry. Franklin insisted we have lunch, and I wasn’t going to argue with that. But it’s now two o’clock. I’ve got to meet Josh and Penny at six, a kid-friendly dinnertime. Before that I’ve got to change clothes. And before that I’ve got to stop by the Center for Cosmetic Surgery and check on Mom. This workday feels over before it’s even started. “I wish Will or Rankin would call,” I complain, staring at the house. “And I figure we still have three hours or so. Well, two, since we have to drive back to Boston. We could—” I stop mid-sentence.
The Sweeneys’ front door is opening.
CHAPTER FIVE
Poppy Morency, oversize black-rimmed sunglasses holding back her snowy-white pageboy, pulls a jangling ring of keys from a navy-strapped canvas boat bag. Where there’s usually an embroidered monogram or a sailboat name, Poppy’s bag says Morency Real Estate. Franklin and I approached her as she locked the Sweeney’s door. We convinced her to unlock it again. And take us inside.
“House has been on the market for two years?” She tilts her head, calculating. “Three? We sold it once, after the—well, of course you know.” She focuses on the keys, choosing. “Anyway, the buyers never moved in, and asked us to sell again. So it’s still furnished, pretty much the same as it was when—well, of course, you
know that, too.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. No pictures, Poppy has insisted. So much for my cell phone idea. Maybe our luck is changing. But it stinks that we don’t have a camera. “We won’t be long,” I assure her.
Poppy finds the key she’s looking for, inserts it into the front door lock. “You do have a point,” she says, turning the key. “If you were in the market for a house, I’d let you in to look around. So, as you say, there’s no harm. And I’ve always admired your work, Charlie.” She stops and looks back at me. “And I do remember Dorinda Sweeney, of course. Little snip of a thing. Ray. It was all very sad. You know…”
She pushes the door open, and gestures Franklin and me inside without finishing her sentence. “We have a service that keeps it tidy, in case we have to show it,” she explains, all real estate business now. “Personal items, someone took most of them away. They had a thorough cleaning done of certain, um, areas, of course, after the, um, incident.”
“We know,” Franklin says, crossing the threshold.
I follow him, stepping into Dorinda’s life. Poppy leads us through a tiled entryway, empty coat hooks establishing more emptiness to come, and into the living room. Square, white-walled, silent. Dorinda’s house is—was—standard issue, unimaginative, matching. Seems like the Sweeneys’ money wasn’t spent on style or comfort. Straight-armed, dully plaid couch that matches stolid side chairs. Walnut coffee table that matches unhappy end tables. Ashtrays. It’s stripped of all personality, no photographs, no art, no mirrors. A curtain rod, empty, stretches across the wide rear windows, a strip of ocean visible just at the top. A home—now just a house. Waiting to see what will happen next.
Poppy looks at her watch, an oversize clock face tied to her wrist with a preppy green ribbon bow, and begins flipping through what looks like an appointment book. I get the message. Hurry.
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