Face Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Mother, I—”

  “So. You need to find out the truth for me. You do the investigative reporting, sweetheart. So investigate. And Lord knows if people are dying after cosmetic surgery, well, I’ll simply have to leave. Immediately. And that’s not all.”

  “But Mother, might that not be jumping to conclusions? Seeing the worst? There are a lot more reasons people might be hurrying. It’s a hospital.”

  “And what’s more,” Mom continues, “I know you spoke with Dr. Garth, of course. But now I believe we’ll have to find you another surgeon. I’m not going to be responsible for putting my own daughter in danger. I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  I blink, staring at my mother, who continues to talk as if I’m listening to her. I’m not. My mind is about twelve miles away, in a now-empty home in Swampscott. Where another mother, and another daughter, faced potential life-and-death decisions of their own.

  A knock on the door, and Mother’s mouth clamps shut. She narrows her eyes at me, then in a quick motion, pretends to be asleep. She quickly opens her eyes again, checking to make sure I’m in on the ruse. Then she goes back to “sleep.”

  I go to the door and open it quietly. The nurse is back, but I block his entrance to the room, sliding out into the hall and closing the door behind me.

  “Mother is napping,” I say pleasantly. “And she seems to be on the mend. Might I ask you a somewhat strange question? And forgive me, I’m sure everything is fine. But Mother seems to think, well, was there a problem? Was there some sort of bad outcome in someone’s procedure?” I’m expecting the nurse to hedge, or more likely, just deny there’s anything unusual.

  Surprising me, though, the nurse glances down the corridor. I follow his gaze. There are only closed doors.

  “I can’t tell you what’s happening,” the nurse whispers. Another furtive hallway recon. “It’s all private. You’re a TV reporter, you certainly know the federal privacy laws regarding hospital patients. But you know the center has an impeccable record, you can look that up. And I can have a doctor reassure your mother.” He purses his lips. “I can promise you no one died,” he finally says. “Or got into—trouble. If that’s what she’s worrying about.”

  He steps away from the conversation. “I’m on duty,” he says, turning away. “I’ll go check on your mother later.”

  He takes one step, then turns back with an expression I struggle to read. Like a teenager with a juicy secret. Dying to tell.

  “I’d tell you if I could,” he says. “Honestly, nothing’s wrong. I mean, would I be here if something was wrong?” And he pads away down the hall.

  My hand on the doorknob, I’m torn about which way to go.

  In? What if Mother’s in danger? What if there’s a big story here at the hospital?

  Or out? Because I think I have the answer to the murder of Ray Sweeney. I think I know who did it. And if I’m right, it’ll be the story of the year.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I can’t leave my mother. I don’t think there’s anything actually threatening her, but I can’t just run out when she seems to be so upset and fearful. I go back into her room, where she’s now sitting up, hands clasped, eyes wide open, staring grimly at the muted television. She’s changed the channel away from home improvement. Now she’s watching Forensic Files.

  “Mom,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “I did a little research with that nurse. You know, your chocolate guy?”

  Mom looks at me, waiting. Her stretchy white bandages, still wrapped around her face, make her look like an owl. An owl with two black eyes.

  “And you know, I really think you might have misinterpreted something.”

  Even in owl mode, Mom’s face sets, like it used to do when I was pleading to stay up later or explaining why I was reading Mad magazine instead of doing homework. Not what she wants to hear.

  I touch her arm, insisting. “Really, Mom. Don’t worry. And I’m sure I can find out what’s going on. If there’s something going on. But I’m convinced it’s nothing dangerous. Really. But I have to call Franklin, okay? I’ll stay with you as much as I can, I will, but I’m supposed to be at work. So I’ll have to explain where I am. And I can’t use my cell phone in here, so—”

  Mother waves at the vintage princess phone on her nightstand. “Perfectly good phone right here,” she says. “Is it not?”

  It is, but I’m going to be discussing murder. And dead husbands. And I don’t want to do that around her.

  I back out of the room, talking all the way. “I’ll be back in a flash,” I say. “Nothing is going to happen. Watch TV. Just stop watching those forensics shows. They’re making you paranoid. Watch something upbeat instead. Positive. You love Martha Stewart, right?”

  And before she can answer, I’m out of the room and down the hall. I pull my cell phone out of my bag as I almost run to the front entrance. By the time I power through the revolving doors, the phone is ringing.

  “Franko,” I say. I begin to pace the sidewalk in front of the surgery center. “It’s me. It’s the daughter. I mean, the daughter did it.” I gulp, knowing I’m talking too fast for Franklin to make sense of it. Still, I have to spill this. “Dorinda knows her daughter—Gaylen something? The one who was asleep at the time of the murder? You know. Did it. She’s guilty. Her mother is protecting her. We’ve got to track her down.”

  Silence on Franklin’s end of the line. I can almost hear his brain churning through the evidence we’ve uncovered so far. “Oh, man,” he says. “And that could explain why the tapes and the time sheets seem correct—they are. Dorinda was actually there. At work.” He pauses. “Okay, Charlotte. I think I’m with you. But devil’s advocate, okay? Why did the bartender and those witnesses pick her out of the photo lineup? Dorinda, I mean?”

  “Well, here’s the easiest answer,” I say. “They’re just wrong. A bunch of drunks, late night, dark bar. And you know people don’t really look at strangers, especially if someone’s arguing. They try to stay out of it. Pretend it’s not happening. And the photos weren’t even shown until the next day, remember? So they were probably hungover, too.”

  Still pacing, I flutter a little “no problem” wave to a curious security guard. “Still,” I continue, “someone didn’t want me to get those lineup pictures from the evidence box, that seems clear. Maybe it’s Tek. Maybe it’s Oz. There’s something wrong with those photos—and there’s something wrong with the witness ID. We just have to find out what it is.”

  “We should take the photos to Will and Rankin,” Franklin suggests.

  “But here’s the thing, the main thing,” I say. “Dorie is innocent. She’s protecting her daughter. She confessed to protect Gaylen. And that means our story would be revealing Gaylen’s guilt. No wonder Dorie doesn’t want to talk about it. Talking to us is the last thing she’d do. She doesn’t want us, or anyone else, to prove she’s innocent. Because it means sending her daughter to prison.”

  I can hear Franklin tapping on his computer. “I’ll see if I can find Gaylen,” he says. “And I’ll check our archive video again, see if there’s a recognizable shot of her on tape.”

  “And hey, I’ll call Will Easterly. Maybe he knows where she is.” I stop pacing, and plop down on a green wooden bench in front of the hospital. The security guy is eyeing me again, like no one talks on cell phones in front of hospitals. I grit out a smile, signaling there’s still no problem. Which, I realize, is completely not true. I’m supposed to leave for the Cape in—I look at my watch—four hours. I’ve got to explain to Mom that even though I’d love to, I can’t stay with her every minute. And I really, really want to check with Will Easterly about Gaylen’s whereabouts. My conscience is killing me and all I’m trying to do is the right thing. Whatever that is.

  “The little bitch,” I whisper to Franklin. “She knows her mother is protecting her and she’s letting her do it. Can you imagine? It’s because her mother gave her everything she wanted, probably. Her fath
er, too. Until he, I don’t know, did something. To alienate her. She’s so beyond spoiled and self-centered. She’s killed her father and is letting her mother take the fall. She leaves her own mother to rot in prison. And the mother accepts it.”

  “Daughter dearest,” Franklin answers.

  * * *

  The first thing I see is the fish. About a dozen of them, give or take, fluttering and diving in a massive turquoise aquarium. A cascade of bubbles fizzes to the top, past a stand of coral and a lace-like fan of whatever that stuff they put in fish tanks is. The hum of some ventilation motor and the flickering lights in the tank make Will Easterly’s office seem anything but lawyerlike. A psychiatrist’s office, maybe. Or guidance counselor.

  Or music teacher. Up against another wall, a modest upright piano, stacks of sheet music piled beside it. Will comes around from behind his desk, hand extended.

  “Welcome to my office,” he says. “And my home. Figured I might as well use one of the rooms for work. Not much call for me to join one of those big Boston firms.” A smile appears, then vanishes, on his face.

  He still has a haunted look; I think so every time I see him. But I guess I don’t know how he looked before. He goes to the fish tank and taps in a trickle of fish food flakes. Two orange-striped Nemo-looking fish ascend, silently, to the surface. I remember Penny and her new pets. Flo? And Eddy? Maybe I can get some secret fish info from Will, win her over with my fish knowledge. I check my watch. Darling Franklin promised to come babysit with Mom while I see what I can discover about Gaylen. I owe him big.

  “So as I said on the phone,” I begin. “I’ve started to wonder about Gaylen. Wonder if, you know, that’s why Dorinda won’t talk with us. Did you ever consider it? That she was trying to protect her daughter?”

  Will nods, still staring at the fish. “It did, at some point, cross my mind. That Gaylen might have done it. But then Dorinda confessed, and you know the rest. And it is kind of out there. I mean, Dorinda…” He turns to look at me. “She’s not crazy. She knows what prison means. She knows right and wrong. But she adored Gaylen.”

  “Adored?” I say. “Past tense? She doesn’t anymore?”

  “Won’t talk about her, not at all,” Will says. “She utterly refuses. It’s as if Gaylen doesn’t exist. And it’s sad. I gather, at one point—at least I’ve heard—they were very close.”

  “Well, where is she, anyway? And what’s she like? I mean, this is strange to ask, but do you think she could have killed someone? Her father?”

  Will shakes his head. “Wish I had an answer for you.”

  “And where—”

  “Wish I had an answer to that, too. I have no idea where she is.”

  We both stare at the fish for a moment. I’m watching their tropical yellows and blues flash though the waving seaweed and rising bubbles. Maybe fish will be good for Penny. Maybe I’ll go buy a goldfish toy, whatever that would be. Maybe we can bond over fish.

  “I have to talk to Dorie.” The words come out, though I hadn’t planned to say them so brusquely. “Especially now that Gaylen may play such a key role.”

  “Ah. About that. Dorie called this morning.” Will’s face sags and turns even more mournful. “She says no. And she told me to tell you, stop asking.”

  I consider my options. That takes about one second, since I don’t have any options.

  “Then let me tell you something to tell her,” I say, as pleasantly as I can. Sometimes you’ve got to make a bold move to get a big story. “Tell her I know what happened. I know Gaylen was not asleep the night of the murder. I know who really killed Ray Sweeney, and it wasn’t Dorinda. It was Gaylen. And if Dorinda doesn’t want to talk to me about it, fine. I’ll just have to do the story without her. But she’s not gonna like it.”

  * * *

  Everyone on the planet is driving to Cape Cod. The speed limit is fifty-five miles an hour. Which, of course, a real Massachusetts driver is going to ignore. Right now, however, all of us are going about zero miles an hour. Route 3 South is a parking lot. From here to the top of the next rise, I see an endless line of bikes, boats and surfboards bungee-corded to the cars beneath.

  It does make it safer to dial a cell phone, I think, searching for the positive. Mine of course is in the back seat, but with this traffic snafu, I put my Jeep in Park, twist across the seat back and sling my entire tote bag onto the front seat beside me. I always promise myself I’ll take out my phone before I start a journey and I always forget.

  I punch On. Just as I hear the dootle-oot warble signaling it’s powered up, a barrage of angry honking swells into highway crescendo. Startled, I turn to face the car behind me. In the front seat, a driver wearing wraparound sunglasses, face contorted, is apparently yelling. At me, from the way he’s pointing. And from the look on his face, it’s probably good I can’t hear the particular words he’s saying. I turn to look out my windshield and see why he’s so incensed. The jam is over. No one’s in front of me.

  Slamming the Jeep into Drive, I give a little so-sorry wave behind me, and head south. But I can still use the phone. I punch a few buttons, keeping an eye on the road, of course. Mom answers on the first ring.

  “Mamacita,” I say. I smile. I haven’t called her that since middle school, my first Spanish class. “How are you? Just checking in. I’m on my way to see Josh. Did Franklin come over?”

  “Yes, yes, he’s such a darling,” Mom says. “He brought me Bride’s Magazine, the sweetheart. We’re talking about my invitations. And your dress. Which, I might add—”

  The highway signs announce I’m almost at the Sagamore Bridge. The graceful steel-arch structure spans the Cape Cod Canal, the dividing line between the real world of the mainland and the vacationland beyond. It’s also a notorious cell phone dead zone.

  “Mom,” I interrupt. “I can’t wait to see. But I’m worried you’re still upset, and before I lose you, I want to make sure—”

  “Lose me?” Mother asks. “You’re not going to lose me, Charlotte. Don’t be silly. Franklin brought in Dr. Garth. Everything is fine. I was apparently wrong, can you imagine? Now. Franklin also told me about that daughter. Gaylen, is her name? What kind of a name is that?”

  “You know, Mom,” I say. I’m wondering if this conversation is going to be worth it, or whether it will end in some sort of battle. “Let me ask you. Do you think … would a mother go to prison to protect a daughter?”

  “Charlotte, dear, a mother would do anything to protect a daughter,” she says. “If you had a child of your own, you’d never have to ask such a question.”

  I sigh, regretting the whole topic.

  “It’s what I was telling you this afternoon,” she continues. I can tell she’s warming to her subject. I won’t have to say another word for miles. “If I thought you were in danger, I would do whatever was necessary. Franklin tells me you think that’s what happened? That this Dorinda person let herself be sent to prison to shield her daughter?”

  The traffic slows again, cars pacing themselves to enter the highway rotary, a confusing and ridiculous undertaking obviously designed by highway engineers on drugs. It looks like a grade-school experiment in centrifugal force. Drivers are supposed to wait their turn to enter a spin of circling cars, all going fifty miles an hour. Problem is, for Massachusetts drivers, taking turns is as foreign a concept as rooting for the Yankees. If you manage the rotary properly, you can get off at the exit that takes you over the bridge to Cape Cod or the one that takes you south toward the ferries to the Vineyard and Nantucket. If you blow it, you’re headed back to Boston. Or circling endlessly until someone takes pity and moves over to let you through.

  “Well, that’s what I was wondering,” I reply, trying to monitor the spiral of cars and assess my chances of getting in and out without going around five or six times. “But I mean, do you think—”

  “Charlotte, there’s no question—”

  There’s a hum and a buzz. And the connection is gone. Mom is probably still talkin
g.

  I take the last watery slurps of my no longer fizzy Diet Coke and, readying myself for the scariest part of the trip, I chant the mantra of Massachusetts drivers. “Vehicles already in the rotary have the right of way.” The moment there’s an opening, I blast the Jeep into the whizzing traffic.

  * * *

  Truro’s always a little bit father away than I remember. Every time I get to Orleans, one after another roadside emporium pushing taffy and T-shirts, I think I must have already passed it. And every time as I persevere through the touristy hustle-bustle of Eastham, I remember that means there’s half an hour to go. Which gives me some quiet time, finally, to think.

  Twisting open the new Diet Coke I got at the Pick ’n Pay, I’m thinking about Gaylen. So here’s the precious daughter, the result of a shotgun wedding. I picture the prom queen, sobbing quietly, being lectured by her world-weary mother. Being reminded her beauty would fade, and her only chance at happiness is to forget her high school Romeo and latch onto the up-and-coming Ray Sweeney.

  Poor Dorie had to break the news to her despondent but desperate sweetheart. Channeling some kind of made-for-TV movie, I see the red-eyed Dorinda. In my daydream she still has on her tiara, since that’s the only picture I carry around of her. So here’s Dorinda, tearfully explaining grown-up reality and maternal orders to her soon-to-be discarded Romeo. What’s his name. CC. Even knowing the futility of their teenage declarations, they bitterly vow never to part, and then heavyhearted but flaming with desire, they embrace, and then—

  The video in my head screeches to a halt.

  Maybe CC Hardesty was actually Gaylen’s father. Maybe that’s why CC left town so quickly. Enlisted, then exited. Maybe that’s why Dorie agreed to marry Ray with such haste. And that would mean Ray Sweeney is not Gaylen’s real father. So Dorinda knew it. And possibly CC. But did Ray? Does Gaylen?