Drive Time

Chapter Six

The plastic crime-scene tape loops around the three old maple trees in front of Dorothy Wirt’s home, garish black and yellow fluttering in the afternoon chill. Two Brookline police cars, front wheels on the curb and rear wheels on the street, cordon off the sidewalk. Their sirens are silent, but spinning blue lights reflect, harsh and unnatural, on the snow. Four black-jacketed officers stand sentinel, blowing into their hands, their breath puffing white. An ambulance, rear doors toward the garage and a uniformed EMT beside it, blocks the driveway. The garage door is closed. The front door is closed. No one is hurrying. But me.

I trot toward the murmuring knot of onlookers, my mind racing for explanations, scanning for a familiar navy wool overcoat. Josh turns, sees me, just as I get close enough. A blue light flashes across his face.

“So it’s true. Is it true? I got here fast as I could,” I whisper, tucking both arms through the crook of his elbow. I look around. “Penny?”

“She’s home with Annie. The kids don’t know yet.”

“Who’s here?”

“The Head’s inside, so’s Dorothy’s younger sister, Millie. She’s just back from a business trip. What a horrible-they live together. Lived.”

His face is red from the cold. His eyes are also red. He stops, shakes his head.

“Anyway, Alethia found her. Espinosa, the dean of girls? Remember? In the garage. In her car. When Dorothy didn’t arrive for work at Bexter this morning, we all thought maybe she’d had too much to drink at the Head’s last night.”

I wrap myself more tightly against him, fitting myself behind him, my face buried in his back, my eyes peering over his shoulder, watching the house.

“So then?” My voice is muffled in his navy overcoat.

The sound of metal on metal. Every head in the crowd turns, transfixed, as behind the ambulance, Dorothy’s old-fashioned wooden garage door creaks open, inch by inch. The EMT leaves his post at the ambulance and ducks underneath as the door gets waist high.

The door slams back to the ground. I flinch as it hits. I feel Josh flinch, too.

“She’s inside?” It still feels better to whisper.

“They think it’s carbon monoxide, that’s what the Head told me,” Josh replies. “An accident. Maybe she did have too much brandy. Made it home safely, then fell asleep with that old car of hers still running and the radio on. Maybe she was listening to something. Who knows.”

Part of me, the wife-to-be, wants to take Josh home and comfort him. Explain to Penny, somehow, that sometimes life brings sorrow and sad surprises. And these are times that remind us to cherish those we love.

The other part of me, the reporter, wants to whip out my press card, get past that yellow tape and see if I can wrangle some answers.

The reporter part emerges, carefully. All the local cops here are in uniform. Certainly, in a death like this, state police homicide detectives must be on the way. And we know something the police don’t know.

“Sweetheart? Did anyone ever report those ‘do you know where your children are?’ calls to the police?”

“I know where you’re going,” Josh says, shaking his head. “No.”

One more step. Carefully.

“Maybe the caller wasn’t targeting the school. Maybe whoever it was-was targeting Dorothy. Personally.”

Silence from Josh.

“The Head said police think it was an accident,” he finally answers.

“We’ll see, I guess.” I close my eyes, resting my forehead against Josh’s back. “We’ll see.”

It’s a good thing my cell phone is on Vibrate. Through Dorothy Wirt’s entire memorial service, it buzzes my thigh through the side of my purse. During the minister’s somber introduction; through the Bexter choir’s Ode to St. Cecilia, sweet and sorrowfully sung by mournful teenagers; during the heartbreakingly tender eulogies from Millie, her old friend the bursar, and confidante Alethia; during the stiff-upper-lip benediction from the Headmaster. I know it’s Franklin who’s covering for me back at the station this morning. But I don’t understand why he keeps calling. At least no one can hear it.

The tolling bells in the historic Bexter Carillon signal the end of the ceremony. A muted organ begins an un-adorned version of “Danny Boy.” Millie, clutching the Headmaster’s arm, steps from the maroon-carpeted dais, past masses of pink-and-white lilies, down the carpeted aisle past carved wooden pews of mourners. Parents, teachers, administrators, some local semicelebrity faces familiar from newspapers and television. A few, mostly students, reach out a hand to touch her arm.

“You okay, sweetheart?” I whisper to Josh. We’re edging out of our pew, waiting as students and parents, teachers and administrators silently take their leave, row by row. Some of the mourners I recognize from the Head’s party. The last time Dorothy was alive.

Josh just smiles, a sorrow-tinged expression I’ve grown used to over the past twenty-four hours. We told Penny what happened. Our first experience, Dad and almost-Mom, explaining the unexplainable. Penny didn’t know Dorothy, of course. But she’s uncomfortable when people-as she puts it-“go away.” Divorce is never easy. Leaves a mark.

My phone is vibrating again. I let it go to voice mail again as we file outside toward the receiving line forming in the entryway. It’ll be Millie. Alethia. Bursar Pratt. Minister Ashworth. The Head.

“Josh?” A voice behind us. “A moment, please?”

The Head, acknowledging me with a nod, draws Josh aside, across the nave and into a tapestried corner. Josh turns, briefly waving me outside. “One minute,” he mouths, holding up a finger.

Now I’ll be able to check my voice mail.

One hand is already in my tote bag, searching blindly for my cell as I follow the congregation out the massive oak-and-stained-glass double doors and onto the steep stone steps of Bexter Chapel. Got it.

“Charlotte McNally?”

My hand comes out of my purse as I turn, facing back now toward the chapel doors. On the step above me stands an elegant gentleman in a charcoal coat, one gloved hand on the railing. Perfectly tailored alpaca sets off his snow-white temples and clipped beard. A paisley silk-and-wool muffler is knotted around his neck. I recognize him from pictures in the newspaper.

“Mr. Fielder?” I’m surprised. Loudon Fielder, the owner of WWXI radio, has children at Bexter? More likely to be grandchildren.

I reach out to shake his offered hand. “So sad about Dorothy.”

“A very special person. Always remembered everyone’s name,” he replies. He looks down the steps, apparently recognizing someone. “Ah, my apologies. Someone I need to speak to. But I am looking forward to your fill-in appearances on Wixie. Lovely to have you on our air while our Maysie is tending to her baby. Perhaps radio will become your second career.”

“Thank you, that would be-”

And he’s gone. I shrug. I suppose he was just being polite. Time to check my voice mail.

“Sweetheart. I have news.” Josh is behind me, his voice is close to my ear. “Let’s walk, and I’ll fill you in.”

My phone goes back into my purse.

“The Head says it was an accident,” Josh tells me, keeping his voice low as we walk, arm in arm, down the church steps. “She had too much brandy, or whatever she was drinking, maybe fell asleep with the car running. Way too much carbon monoxide in her blood. The medical examiner is going to sign the death certificate. Accident.”

“So that’s that,” I say. We come to the bottom and stand on the Chapel Road sidewalk, looking out over the Bexter Common. The organ has changed to Bach. Milky sunshine glints off the snow still sticking to the lofty evergreens.

“Yes,” Josh replies. “That’s that.”

“How many times did you have to call? I probably lost weight in my left thigh from all that vibration.”

“I only called you twice. Maybe three times,” Franklin replies. “Anyway-”

“Never mind,” I interrupt. Maybe it was only three times. I called him back without even checking messages. I’m huddled, facing the wall, in a corner of the lobby of Landman Hall. It’s called Main since it’s Bexter’s main building. Long tables, covered with damask cloths and the lilies from the chapel, offer tiny lemon cookies and delicate quarter-cut sandwiches. Everyone from the memorial service is here. I’m feeling guilty. I should be at work. “What’s up?”

“Michael Borum.” Franklin savors the syllables, drawing them out, as if saying the name is a pleasure. “B-o-r-u-m. Mr. Blue Mustang. The owner. The registry came through. It’s a real break for us. J.T. and I are headed to his house in the South End right now. So. Can you meet us there?”

Now what am I supposed to do? I have to be here, for Josh’s sake. I have to be with Franklin, for our story’s sake. I lean my forehead against the dark paneling, trying to make an impossible decision. How can I be two places at once?

I delegate. “You guys go. Check it out, see if the car’s there. Get some shots of it. And get the VIN if you can. Don’t trespass. Too much. Then let me know.”

“Will you answer your phone when I call next time?”

“If you’re lucky.” I glance toward the room behind me. Josh is waiting, alone, over by the silver tea samovars. He catches my eye and signals, hurry up.

“What if Borum comes out?” Franklin persists. “What if he wants to talk? Or what if he gets angry, yells at us? It would be terrific video. And so much more compelling if you were in it.”

Like I don’t know this. Why is Franklin pressuring me now of all times?

“What’s more, we’ve got to be at the rental-car place by two. The health unit is demanding the hidden camera, they need it by five. For some story on deadly hot dogs.” Franklin’s voice is a sneer. “Big journalists, those health people.”

Josh. Dorothy Wirt. Threatening phone calls. Mr. Blue Mustang. Our story. Our wedding. New York. The rental-car investigation. VIN numbers. Dangerous cars. New York. Deadly hot dogs?

I’m just about in over my head. I struggle to stay afloat.

“Franklin. Just go, okay? Then call me. I’ll meet you at Rental Car King in plenty of time. It’ll work. All of it. One thing at a time.”

“I certainly hope so,” Franklin says. The phone goes dead.

Josh is heading toward me. Thumbs flying across my cell phone’s keypad, I open the text messages to erase all of Franklin’s calls. And see if there were really only three.

Ha. I was right. There were four. But I was wrong. One wasn’t Franklin. It was Maysie.

New baby arriving. Tonight? Cross fingers.

“You there, Franko? I can see you guys perfectly.” My laptop, my cell phone and I are once again stationed in the back of the surveillance car. I’m in a strip-mall parking lot and this time I’ve got binoculars. Last time it drove me crazy to be so far away.

Score one for me and for delegating tasks. Michael Borum wasn’t home. And his car wasn’t there. Therefore, I didn’t miss anything. As I said to Franklin, Borum’s probably hiding himself and his car from the police. We can try again later and hope we find him before the law does. Odds are in our favor, since we know the law isn’t looking.

Now we’re back to our recall story.

“Charlotte? Can you hear me?” Franklin’s voice bristles through my cell phone. Acting like pals who want to rent a car, he and J.T. are heading across the street. J.T.’s job is to go to the main office of the rental-car agency, where he’s supposed to distract the clerk. I’m hoping the clerk is female. J.T. will be in his James Dean element.

“Loud and clear,” I say.

Meanwhile, Franklin will stay in the parking lot with a tiny hidden camera lens sticking out of what looks like an ordinary black nylon shoulder bag. The camera guts are inside the bag. His job is to pretend he’s just waiting around, casually checking out the rental cars.

Thinking about Declan Ross’s accident, I’d wondered if rental cars also had unrepaired recalls. So this afternoon, after my quick change into jeans and a black turtleneck, we’re hitting the budget-priced agency where Ross rented his car. It’s a franchise preposterously named Rental Car King.

“Ready, Charlotte?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

No one watching would ever know. But Franklin’s getting video of each car. And of their VINs.

“One, FTRX, 18W, 17, CA, zero, 1212,” Franklin says as he peers through the windshield of a sporty red convertible. He takes a step or two back, obviously getting a wider shot of the car. “So when is Maysie’s baby arriving? Is she okay?”

I flop against the seat, exasperated. I just forgot half the numbers.

“Don’t wreck my train of thought. I told you, Maddee or Malcolm is probably coming tonight. Crossing fingers. Maysie’s fine, in the hospital, Matthew’s with her, kids have a babysitter, she’s going to call. Okay? Now read me that number again. We don’t have much time here.”

I type the VIN into our database, then grab my binoculars as Franklin moves to the next car. If we find a car that has an open recall, we’ll come back tomorrow and rent it. Rental Car King is mostly a car lot, with a squat yellow faux-brick office building planted in the middle. I focus my binocs through its plate-glass front windows, trying for a glimpse of J.T. and his quarry.

Frowning, I focus again. I can see J.T. pretty well, the back of his leather bomber jacket. And a fuzzy-faced but clearly female figure behind a long counter. But I can also see…? I squint, trying to read the blocky words on the poster. It says Rental Car King. But even squinting, I can’t make out the face beside them.

Franklin’s Bluetooth voice squawks through my phone. “Here’s another one. Ready?”

I put down the binoculars and type in the next VIN. We manage to get at least a dozen more before J.T. and a big-haired clerk in an unfortunate polyester tunic, complete with a king’s crown on the back, come strolling out the door.

“It’s all fine and we’re coming back here tomorrow,” J.T. says to Franklin. “Kelsey says we can choose any car we want.”

I love technology. I can hear everything. J.T. turns to the clerk, gesturing toward Franklin. “Told you he’s fussy about cars. But tomorrow, when we pick up our rental? I’m bringing my older sister.”

By the time the boys get back to the car, I’ve moved the front seat up so far it’s impossible for them to squeeze in. At such short notice, it’s the only way I could think of to pay J.T. back for the older-sister crack.

“Funny girl,” J.T. says. He scoots the driver’s seat back into place. “And after I risked my life doing all that dangerous reconnaissance.”

“Some danger,” I say. “Maybe from hair-spray inhalation. Young Kelsey starting a fan club?”

“She’s the owner’s niece, I’ll have you know. And Miss Kelsey Kindell knows her cars. When your uncle is RandallC. Kindell, the Rental Car King, you’ve got to-”

The picture on the poster. Now I recognize it. And that’s a problem. “Randall Kindell?”

“He’s the owner, Charlotte,” Franklin chimes in. “Owns a string of RCK franchises. Didn’t you read the e-mails I sent you this morning? It’s all in there.”

Franklin twists around and glares at me over the back of the seat. Frowning. “Can’t know it if you don’t read it.”

It was much easier when my job was my whole life. I was lonely sometimes. But I never missed an e-mail.

“The memorial service,” I explain. Lame excuse. But thinking again, maybe it was lucky I was there. Kind of. I mentally review the faces of the mourners. “Thing is, I’m sure I saw him this morning. Randall Kindell. He was at the service, too.”

We pull out of our parking place, J.T. heading us back to Channel 3. I was hoping we’d be able to prove rental cars from RCK were unrepaired, and potentially dangerous. But now, it seems, if we wind up going on the air with that, we may face an unexpected roadblock.

“Really? Does Kindell have a kid at Bexter?” Franklin asks.

“Wouldn’t that be something?” I say.

“Well, you can’t let that stand in your way,” Franklin replies. “And clearly, if we think a Bexter bigwig is renting dangerous cars, you certainly can’t warn anyone there about what we discovered. And by anyone, I mean Josh. We have to follow the story, no matter where it goes.”

He’s lecturing me about journalism ethics? I’m instantly seething.

I’ve never yelled at Franklin. Not even close. And wouldn’t consider it, much less with J.T. in the car. As I do a calming mental count to ten, I sinkingly realize that part of my anger is directed at myself. Feeling guilty for missing the Borum reconnaissance. Guilty for not reading my e-mail. Guilty because it crossed my mind that maybe-if Randall Kindell is a Bexter bigwig-we could leave him out of our story. And that is unacceptable. There are no divided loyalties in TV.

“Lighten up, Franko,” I say, making my voice cheery. “Think I’d let anything get between me and our next Emmy? No way.”

I hope I’m telling the truth.