Drive Time (15 page)

“Declan Ross,” I say.

“He didn’t do it,” Franklin says. “Not even possible. He doesn’t even know Michael Borum’s car was the one that ran him off the road.” He pauses. “I mean, did he? What if he found out about the car? Like we did. And decided to do something about it.”

“I suppose.” I play out the scene in my head, closing my eyes to envision a scenario where Declan Ross turns from victim to murderer. “But hunting down and killing someone over a car accident in a rental car? Killing someone to get car insurance money? Seems, well, counterproductive. To say the least.”

“Maybe the killing part was an accident,” Franklin says. “He was awfully angry in that interview, remember, Charlotte? Said someone should ‘hunt that guy down,’or something along those lines. Remember, we don’t really know anything about Declan Ross.”

Declan Ross rented a car from the Rental Car King. If our theory is correct, he was forced off the road by someone driving Michael Borum’s car. And it couldn’t have been Michael Borum. Was someone trying to kill Declan Ross? Frame Borum for the “accident”?

“I’m trying to figure out where Borum fits,” I say slowly. “Let’s go back to square one. Say he’s completely innocent. He just happened to park his car in the wrong valet parking lot. The bad guys take his car and don’t get back in time. He’s angry, but doesn’t suspect anything. So later, if the bad guys killed him, swiped his car and set it on fire…why? They could easily find him, of course. All they’d have to do was copy his personal info, from his registration and insurance stuff, when they took the VIN. But why kill him? Why Borum?”

“To cover up,” Franklin says.

“But why him?” This is the puzzle piece I can’t click into place. “Our theory is that they’re swiping VINs—”

“And air bags.”

“And air bags, from desirable cars that come into valet parking. It’s quiet, quick and untraceable. The whole point, the whole key that makes their scheme work, is that they don’t call attention to themselves.”

“So you’re thinking—it
was
a carjacking? And Borum was once again in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“I don’t know, Franko. And I don’t know how to find out. And what do we do about Declan Ross?”

Silence again.

“You know what I think?” I have an idea. “We need to find something that connects Michael Borum and his
car to the VIN scheme. I think we’ve got to find that blue Mustang they’re selling on the radio. See if it has Borum’s VIN. Did you get that phone number from WWXI?”

“I called this afternoon, but it was after five. Story of our lives, I got an answering machine. Left a message, but I predict no one calls me back until Monday. No one works on weekends except—”

There’s a click on the phone.

“Charlie?” Franklin says. “I think someone’s calling you.”

The call-waiting click interrupts again.

We both pause. What if this is Michael Borum? Safely home, Mustang untouched, saying he’d been out of town, and just watched the news.

“I’ll call you back,” I say. “If it’s him.”

Whoever was calling hangs up before I can get there. No message. Of course, someone could have been calling Josh, since this is his house. Now, star 69 to the rescue.

“The number of your last incoming call was…” I’m too impatient to get up and get some paper, so my pencil is poised over a
New Yorker
I grabbed from the coffee table. The techno-voice begins to recite the phone number of the person who called. After I hear the area code, I put down the pencil and the magazine. I don’t need to write anything. I already know this number by heart.

Mom.

I flop my head against the back of the couch, deflated. The air, and the hope, gone out of me. I guess I had really believed it was going to be Michael Borum.

A flare of worry. Why would Mom be calling me? It’s past midnight. What can’t wait until morning? What if—

I’m not even finished with my own thoughts as I punch in her phone number, curling myself up into a corner of the couch. I pluck the fringe on a plaid throw pillow. She has to die someday, I think, and if she has bad news of
some kind, maybe she’s waiting until now to tell me. Or maybe it’s Ethan. Maybe something is wrong with her new husband.

“Mom?” I say, even before I hear the second syllable of her “hello.” “It’s me. What’s wrong?”

“Well. Charlotte. Where have
you
been? And what have you been doing?” Mom, ignoring my question, sounds like she’s interrogating fifteen-year-old me after some teenage transgression. I hardly ever transgressed, since there wasn’t much transgression territory for geeks and bookworms. I still recognize the tone.

“Nowhere. And nothing.” The time-honored teenage answer comes out before I can stop myself. I regroup, attempting to find a response befitting a forty-seven-year-old. “Is everything okay?”

“I’ve been leaving messages for you hour after hour,” Mom says, ignoring my question again. “Miss Tolliver from the Paramount Hotel has called me several times, wondering why you’re not contacting her about your wedding choices. I told her you were busy, but, Charlotte, it’s somewhat embarrassing. She told me their desirable dates are already being booked. And now there are no openings available until next year. Unless there are cancellations, of course. Honestly. Most girls, in times like this, would—”

“Mom? It’s after midnight. You’re freaking me out a little here.”

“Well, it’s only a little after eleven here in Chicago, dear,” she replies. “Why on earth didn’t you call me back? I finally decided to call Josh to track down where you were. Now I know.”

Forty-seven, I chant silently. I’m forty-seven and I can be anywhere I want. I go for a triple play: cease-fire, pacification and childhood nicknames.

“I’m so sorry,
Mamacita.
You’re so right, I have been
busy, and thank you for talking with Miss Tolliver. I promise I’ll call her. But messages? Are you sure you called the right number? I’ve checked my cell, several times in fact, and there’s no message from you.”

“Your cell? I never called your cell phone,” she interrupts. “I called your home, of course. Isn’t that where you live?”

What’s that line about trying to hold two opposing thoughts in your head at the same time? I wonder after Mom and I promise to talk soon, and finally say goodnight. Right now, I’m hoping there are more messages than Mom’s on my home phone. At the same time, I’m hoping there aren’t.

Another pitfall of trying to live in two places at one time. Out of habit, I gave Michael Borum my cell number, my office number and my home number. I never gave him Josh’s number.

I can’t punch the codes in fast enough. “You have five new messages,” the flat computer voice reports.

Message from Mom. Delete. Another message from Mom. Delete.

“Message three. Received today at 7:00 a.m.,” the voice drones.

From the first syllable, I know this one’s not from my mother.

“Charlie, this is Michael Borum. It’s Friday morning, early, I’m figuring you’re home. Listen, I just got a registry citation in the mail. For blowing the tolls. It’s bull. Those valet parkers are riding around in people’s cars. I’m getting my air bags checked, then I’m telling those jerks I know exactly what they’re doing. I’m not paying this ticket. They are. Good luck with your story.”

And he hangs up. I sit, motionless, still holding the phone to my ear.

He just couldn’t keep a secret.

M
y latte is too hot to drink, especially in a moving car, but some things I can’t resist. The morning newspaper is propped on the dashboard. My cell phone is clamped to my ear. I’m reading the story on page two of the “Metro and Region” section out loud to Josh, since he can’t read while he drives. Franklin’s following along with the story from his house, silent on the other end of the line.

Carjacking Goes Wrong: Ends in Flames and Death, the headline says.

Underneath that, smaller print: South End Resident Murdered?

And there’s a photo of Michael Borum.

Keeping the newspaper in place with my knee and elbow, I balance the plastic-topped coffee cup in one hand and my cell phone between my cheek and shoulder.

I risk a tentative sip of coffee, wince and continue reading out loud.

“‘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? Inter
viewing 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.”