Drive Time

Chapter Twelve

“Chocolate chip cookies for breakfast? You totally rock, Charlie Mac.” Penny, today in an Annie-clone outfit of knee-length heather-blue sweater, black leggings and bright orange plastic clogs, plops herself onto a kitchen stool and props her elbows on the counter. Botox follows her into the room. The cat has, somehow, been won over. Even sleeps in Penny’s room sometimes. I suspect Penny is sneaking her tuna. “It smells yum.”

“The chocolate cookies are not for breakfast, my darling child,” I say, closing the oven door. I set the timer for five more minutes. I turn to her, smiling. “I’m taking them to someone later this morning, but I’ll save some for you. What time is Annie coming? You two got big plans? Cheerios or Special K?”

“Coo-kie. Coo-kie,” Penny pounds both fists on the counter, making the Monster face, and performing a perfect Sesame Street voice. “How come you’re not in TV clothes, anyway? You have a day off?”

“Chocolate chip cookies for breakfast?” Josh sniffs the air, then tucks a quick kiss behind my ear.

I shiver, every nerve ending on high, and can still feel his touch even after he takes his place next to Penny.

“Hey, baby girl. Charlie Mac’s making cookies. And she’s wearing an apron. Think she’s been taken over by aliens?”

Today’s Bexter tie is navy blue. On anyone else I’d think his wardrobe was a bit overprepped. But on Josh? Pinstripes and tweed, oxford and corduroy, bring it on. Also, take it off.

Penny points to the trash can. “They’re refrigerator things. The kind where you cut the dough. See the plastic wrapper?”

I cross my arms, pretending annoyance. “Hey, gang. Easy on the new kid, huh? Guess that means you don’t care if I take all the cookies with me. If they’re the gross refrigerator things. Speaking of the trash can, Penno, what’s the deal with all the cans of tuna?”

“Cookie, cookie,” Penny begins her chant again, and Josh joins in. Botox sits by the trash can, wrapping her tail around herself.

I place three boxes of cereal on the counter, then yank open a bag of dry cat food for Toxie. She sneers at me. And flounces out of the room. “I’m working the late shift today, remember, guys? So I’ll be home really, really late tonight. You okay for dinner?”

Home, I called it. And I’m making sure Josh and Penny are set for dinner. Huh.

“Pizza!” Penny crows. “And Annie’s coming. And school is almost here. And Annie says I’ll love it. AndAnnie says the seniors are going to rock the prank this year.”

I glance at Josh. I know we’re thinking the same thing. Seems like Annie knows about the senior prank. Was Alethia somehow a victim? Is the prank phone calls?

Josh shrugs, telegraphing “go ahead.” He pours cereal into red ceramic bowls, one for him and one for Penny, and adds milk.

“The prank?” I ask. I feign innocence to see if I can lure Penny to tell me more. Then I almost laugh. I’m using my reporter techniques on a nine-year-old.

“Yes,” Penny pronounces. She chews a spoonful of cereal, then sits up very straight, honoring the significance of her knowledge. She points to me with her spoon. “You know the prank, Charlie Mac. Every year the seniors do it. It rocks. It’s just a thing to freak the teachers out. And Annie says this year it’s going to be the best. Annie says it’s going to be-”

She stops. Claps a hand over her mouth. Then she puts both fists on her waist, her spoon dripping milk onto the tile floor. “No way. I can’t tell you. It’s a big fat secret. And I promised to keep it.”

“Good for you,” I say. I check the cookies, then Josh, then turn back to Penny. “Of course, you know it’s not good to keep a bad thing secret, right? We’ve talked about that.”

“Puh-leeze,” Penny says.

“I remember one year, someone put a baby pig in the cafeteria.” Josh puts his bowl in the sink. “Just tell me one thing. Does this year’s prank include farm animals?”

“Oh, Daddo, that’s gross,” Penny says. “I guess it’s okay to tell you. It won’t have animals.”

“So, the prank hasn’t already started?” I ask. This is what we really want to know.

“No way.” Penny shows me her now-empty cereal bowl. “One little cookie?”

The chocolate chip cookies are arranged on a white china plate and covered with a delicate white cloth napkin, embroidered and pristine. I’m hoping my Martha Stewart presentation gets me some points. I’d asked Millie Wirt if I might come over, sort of half indicating it was Professor Gelston’s fiancée paying a condolence call after her sister Dorothy’s “accident.” And Millie said yes. Now I’m standing on the brick front steps of Dorothy and Millie’s tiny white colonial house on Tindall Street. Waiting for a bereaved sister to answer the doorbell. I wonder if Millie gets to keep the whole house now.

The door to the garage where Alethia discovered Dorothy in her car is closed now and there are no remnants of the yellow crime-scene tape. It’s been eight days since Dorothy’s death. Everyone knows Alethia will not survive. I’m suspicious that two best friends will die within days of each other. I’m suspicious that people insist it’s a coincidence.

I feel a tiny rush of guilt over using someone’s grief to get answers. I reassure myself it’s for the greater good. Just what I said to convince Michael Borum. I hope he believed it. I guess I do.

The door opens. I hold out my cookies like a peace offering.

“Miss McNally. How kind of you.”

Millie Wirt, cropped steel-gray hair, elegant but delicate with a touch of blush and palest of lipstick, accepts the plate with a gentle nod. A gold-linked bracelet dangles from one slender wrist. I know Dorothy’s younger sister is some sort of business consultant, travels constantly. I can tell she’s sad, yet she’s chic and confident, a perfect exemplar that sixty-five is the new fifty-five.

“Please.” Millie’s voice drifts a bit as she waves me into the hallway. Several arrangements of fading flowers line a narrow table set in front of a tall gilt-framed mirror. A brass-and-glass light glows above. The Wirts’ home smells a bit of lilac. Or lavender. Something gracious. Something refined.

In the living room, all chintz and needlepoint, I see a silver tray, flowered china teapot and two cups. But brown cardboard book boxes are flaps-open in front of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Behind the couch, a door is open to a little office. I see a desk crowded with picture frames. More books. More boxes. And through an archway into the dining room, even more sturdy brown packing boxes marked Can-Do Movers line the floor.

“Forgive me,” Millie says, taking my coat and gesturing me to the couch. She puts the plate of cookies on the coffee table next to the tea tray. “I’m packing, of course.”

I perch on the edge of the couch, not quite sure about my next move. How do you ask someone if they think their sister was murdered, and if so, why? But if she’s packing, that means she’s leaving. And everything she may know will soon be out of reach.

“I’m so sorry,” I begin.

“Yes, it’s Bexter property, of course,” Millie misunderstands my regrets. “Bexter provided housing for Dottie for all those years. She invited me to live here with her, so much easier, my work and all. And she was getting on, even though she did love her job. We were the only ones left of the Wirts. It was lovely to be together. But of course, now…” Millie takes a breath, and pours a cup of pale green tea. “Well, I’ll be moving, and Bexter will move someone else into the Tindall house. That’s what we’ve always called it, the Tindall house.”

“Is there anything I can do?” I try again, accepting my teacup. She seems grateful for someone to talk to. Fine. Talk to me.

Millie pours another cup. “The Bexter people have been lovely. The Head. Harrison Ebling. Bursar Pratt. You saw the flowers. And the students, of course, poor things. Dorothy knew every single one of them. And all about them. They were her family, you know. She’d been at Bexter for thirty-some years, poor thing. And now with Alethia, of course.”

Millie places her spoon on a square linen napkin.

“And that’s why you’re here, am I right?” She smiles ruefully before I can respond to her very surprising question. “I know you’re a reporter, Miss McNally-”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie. I’m Millie. And I would have called you, very soon, had you not contacted me. I’ve seen you on television. I know what you do. Thank you for the cookies.” She pauses, staring at her tea. “What I’m really looking for is information.”

Wait. Isn’t that my line?

“Information?”

“Yes. Information. Do you think I believe Dorothy fell asleep by mistake in her car? Boozed up on brandy from the Head’s affair?” She shakes her head. “And Alethia just fell? I simply refuse to believe that. No matter what that medical examiner says.”

She sighs. “Of course, there’s nothing I can do about it. Police say the case is closed. But I’m just so…” She purses her lips, considering. “I’m just so…Charlie. I know Dottie told your Josh about the phone calls. Did he tell you?”

Uh-oh. I rewind through the promises I’ve made, what I told people I would and wouldn’t tell. What the police know and what they could have told me.

“I gather from your silence he did.” Millie smiles. “And probably had you promise not to tell. Good for you. Let’s go from there. Let’s say I just told you about them, shall we? The anonymous telephone calls she received, disturbing and threatening, asking if she knew where the children were? Absurd. Nothing ever happened. But she was terrified. She was too involved in everyone’s lives for her own good. I always told her that.”

“So was she afraid? After the calls?”

“She couldn’t sleep. And that was unusual. Dottie never had trouble sleeping. She came home one day with sleeping pills and started taking them religiously. Spent a lot of time in her study.”

I take a sip of tea, considering. “Would she have made any notes, maybe? Kept records? Did she have a diary? A journal? Anything like that?”

Millie waves toward the little office. “I just don’t know. A Bexter custodian delivered all her things. All her papers in those boxes in her study. I’ll throw it all away, I suppose.” Her voice catches.

She attempts a smile. “Forgive me. I just can’t bear to go through them right now, and the movers will be here in the next few days. I’m still a bit off center. With it all.”

It’s still before noon. I don’t have to meet Franklin and J.T. for hours. “Millie? If, maybe, there is something in her papers. Would you like me to look?”

Millie nods, and I follow her into the study. But my search turns up nothing. No diary. No ledger. No file of incriminating letters. So much for my revealing investigation of Dorothy Wirt’s secret life. If this is all there is, her life was an open book, centered on everything connected to Bexter. Letters from the bursar to the Head, asking to be in charge of the current push for money. Letters from a board member, somebody named Joan Covino, recommending “successful” consultant Harrison Ebling to lead the donation drive. Memos announcing Ebling. Memos outlining the fundraising campaign. The dean of boys demanding a bigger office. I write it all down in my notebook, names and dates. Boring, boring, Bexter inside baseball. You’d think there’d be more about education and less about money. All I’ve gotten from this search, so far, is a nasty paper cut.

Sitting at her desk in a needlepoint swivel chair, I try to make myself be bad Dorothy. What would I do if I had incriminating information? Where would I put it? If I were embezzling from Bexter bank accounts? Where would I keep the records? Extorting hush money from worried parents? With Alethia as accomplice? Where would we keep track of our victims?

Much as it would make a great story to cast Dorothy as the bitter and vengeful Joan Crawford-y schemer, I just can’t make it fit. Dorothy was a beloved member of the Bexter community. Her desk is crowded with photographs of her with students and parents and babies. Silver-framed graduation ceremonies. What looks like a Christmas pageant. A tiny infant swaddled in a flowered blanket. Dorothy, smiling, holding a bouquet of daisies, surrounded by students. Bexter was her family. Why would she decide to rip them off?

“How are you doing, Charlie?” Millie now has a pale blue smock covering her gray sweater and pants, and a scarf tied over her hair. “Forgive me, I’m packing up a bit. Any luck?”

“Nothing, so far at least. It’s just run-of-the-mill paperwork. Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. The photos are lovely, though. She was obviously very devoted. And everyone seemed to love her.”

I hold up my right forefinger. “May I use your restroom, though? Before I finish up? I’ve got a little paper cut I want to wash.”

Millie frowns. “Oh, dear. The powder room down here is cleared out, I’m afraid. Do you mind going upstairs? I apologize for the clutter.”

The carpeted stairway is stacked with more boxes. I can see the rectangular discolorations in the paint where someone has taken down pictures or photographs. The upstairs hall is emptying, too. It smells of dust and bleach and change.

The cheery bathroom, blue-sprigged white wallpaper, yellow towels, seems almost sad. I stare into the medicine-cabinet mirror. Tell me something, Dorothy.

Silence. My finger throbs, reminding me I wish I had a Band-Aid. I look at the medicine cabinet again. Why not?

I swing open the mirror. I stare at the jars of pills. Do I dare? Millie asked me to help. And Dorothy is dead. I reach out a hand and swivel the bottles so I can read the labels. Patient’s name: Dorothy Wirt. Temazepam, 10 mg. Take once daily for insomnia. Patient’s name: Dorothy Wirt. Nifedipine. 5 mg. One each day for high blood pressure.

According to the date on the label, the sleeping stuff, thirty pills, was dispensed…I calculate on my fingers. About fifteen days ago. Dorothy died…I calculate again. Exactly a week ago. So there should be more than twenty pills here, even if she took one every day she was alive. Gingerly, I pick up the amber plastic container. The label covers the whole thing, so I can’t see inside. No refills, it says. I slowly turn it upside down, listening. Click. Click. Click. This bottle is nowhere near full.

Maybe she took too many by mistake. But when? Maybe she took too many on purpose. Maybe she did kill herself. But why?

Millie will be wondering where I am. And suddenly I realize I’m an idiot. I touched the pill bottle. Should I wipe my fingerprints off?

“Charlie? Are you all right?” It’s Millie. Her voice, inquiring, rises up the stairs.

I have to go.

Using the back of my hand, I push the medicine cabinet closed.

Millie meets me at the bottom of the stairs. Her once-composed face is blotched and red. Her eyes are teary.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie. I started looking at Dorothy’s things, packing.” She sighs, pulling herself together. Gives me a wan attempt at a smile. “I think I might just take a short nap. Put my feet up. Before I tackle the rest of the boxes. I have a whole week, so they tell me. So no rush, I suppose.”

A week. And she’ll pack up the bathroom last. I may have some time, so I’ll wait and see what happens. And if the pills prove Dorothy killed herself, accidentally or not, maybe better that her sister never knows.

“Of course,” I say. “My coat?”

“Is in Dorothy’s study. And please, Charlie. Do finish going through Dorothy’s things, if you like. You may find something. And besides, then I won’t have to face those boxes again. I would be forever grateful.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll call you if I find something.”

Millie starts up the stairs, her blue-veined hand holding on to the polished wooden banister. Suddenly she seems like the old sixty-five. “Just let yourself out, dear.”

The only box left is marked “5 of 5.” Helpful. I slit open the packing tape with a letter opener. Inside, wrapped in newspapers, what feels like a vase. Under that, a desk blotter. Under that, a couple of Boston Globes. Whoever packed this must have just thrown in everything in sight. I put the already yellowing newspapers aside. Under that, a ream box of paper, all blank. And next to that, the last thing in the box is a pamphlet with glossy covers, legal size, stapled on the spine. The title is in bold-faced embossed gold. Bexter Fundraising Report. On the cover, three noticeably diverse Bexter students stride cheerfully across the tulip-filled Bexter yard.

I page through it, half concentrating, and then flip back to the front cover, ready to put the booklet back in the box. The cover is dated March. But it’s not March yet.

Odd? I lean back in Dorothy’s chair, musing. Or not so odd. Maybe this was just printed and they were getting ready to send it out. Donations lists. Which reminds me. Wen and Fee Dulles made a big deal of how much they’d contributed. Randall Kindell, too. Might as well find out just how much. Or if it’s even true. I open it again, searching.

And, I see, someone else has apparently done exactly the same thing. Fiona Rooseveldt Dulles. I find her listed on page 22 under Patrons. She’s easy to find because her name is circled.

Circled? Why?

On page 24, in Benefactors, I find Randall Cross Kindell. Circled in pencil. Faint, but unmistakable. Wenholm Dulles. Circled. And then I see a few more. Names I don’t recognize. Most names aren’t circled.

Why did Dorothy mark these names? As targets? As suspects? As allies? Or enemies?

After carefully writing the names in my notebook, in order and by category, I close the pamphlet, and put it back into the cardboard box. Nothing more to look at. I’m done. I shrug on my coat, tying its woolen belt and flipping up the collar against the chilly afternoon. I pick up my tote bag. Done.

The little study is quiet. Millie is probably deep into her nap. A tiny shaft of sunlight struggles through the gauzy curtains, glinting briefly on the picture frames lining Dorothy’s desk.

What if there’s something I missed? What if something is marked or checked or underlined, and I didn’t see it? What if that’s the key to the whole thing-whatever it is?

I can’t stand it.

I take the fundraising report and slide it inside my bag. Who will even know it’s gone?