Face Time

CHAPTER 8

Ethan Margolis has sent Mom even more peonies. I can see she’s had the newer ones placed on her nightstand. The older ones, still in full pink-and-white glory in their frosted-glass vase, have been relegated to the dresser. A suburbanista in tight jeans hosts some interior decoration show Mom has on, volume off, brandishing paint swatches and gesticulating mutely at a lineup of couches. The chrome-and-glass heart-respiration monitor beeps softly as Mom gives me a play-by-play of her day.

Tiny welts of blue-black bruises now underscore her brown eyes. Even the frozen peas haven’t successfully held down the unavoidable puffy eyelids, overplumped cheeks and angrily red still-healing lips.

“Does it…hurt?” I have to ask, taking my assigned seat by her bedside. “It looks like it might.”

Mom shakes her head, wincing after her first motion. She carefully pats the pink blanket covering her, indicating where her thigh would be. “A little,” she admits. “The lipo. And the tummy thing. Those, I must admit, are making me a bit more uncomfortable than I might have expected. But you know, they’re making me take these pills, four every four hours, and so it’s not so bad.”

Then she holds up her left hand, waggling her fingers and points to the multi-carat rock sparkling dazzlingly on her ring finger. “Here’s my secret,” she says. “Every time I feel like complaining, I simply think-it’s all for Ethan and me. It’s all for the wedding, and our honeymoon. Then I ask myself, is it worth it? And, of course, it is.”

She pats the blankets again. “Hello, size eight,” she says, almost to herself. “I can’t wait till they let me have a mirror. And when all the bruises are gone, Ethan will get his first look at his bride-to-be.” She looks up at me. “Your appointment with Dr. Garth is soon, right? This week?”

I’m happy to see her happy, of course. And Ethan is a perfectly nice guy. It would be silly for her to be alone the rest of her life. I wrap my arms across my chest, stopped, for a moment, by the realization that unless I can untangle the Josh and Penny situation, it’s more likely that I’ll be alone the rest of my life than she will.

“When do I get to meet your Josh?” Mom asks. “And his little daughter?

She’s reading my mind, of course. I’m not even surprised. Maybe she could explain to me how I’m supposed to turn sullen into sunny, and bread balls into domestic tranquility.

“Have you ever seen him drunk?”

Now I’m surprised.

“Drunk?” I ask. I can’t even imagine where she’s going with this. “Him? You mean-Josh?”

Mother nods. Even puffy, I can see she’s wearing her “pronouncement” expression. Like Rumpole. She who must be obeyed.

“Before you marry anyone,” she says, reciting gospel, “you must see him drunk, sick and with his mother. If not mother, then offspring.”

I can’t help it. I’m fascinated. Where does she come up with this stuff?

“Drunk?” I repeat. “Sick. And-offspring? Offspring?” I’m about to laugh, but I know Mom will not be amused.

“Drunk, so you can see whether he becomes affectionate. Or angry. It’s undoubtedly going to be one or the other,” she says. “Drunk reveals your true personality, without any filter. Sick-same thing. Is he needy? A complainer? And how they treat their mothers and children is how they’re going to treat you. They can’t hide or pretend, that’s their true colors.” Mom reaches over, and almost pets the petals of one fluffy white peony. Peonies are her wedding flowers. I know she’s thinking of Ethan. And maybe, Dad. “Trust me on this, Charlotte.”

Reluctantly, I admit-to myself, of course-she may have something here.

“Well, Moms, is this your own philosophy? Or something from your pal Oprah?”

“It’s from your Gramma Nell,” Mother says, flickering a glance heavenward. “I promised her I would pass it along to you when I thought you needed to know it. And from the look on your face when you speak of your Josh, I decided it’s time for you to know it.”

I wonder if Dorinda Sweeney had ever seen Ray drunk, or sick, or with his mother, before she married him. I wonder if her mother, Colleen Keeler, cared as much about her daughter’s future as my mother seems to about mine. By all accounts, she forced Dorie to marry him. For money and security. What if Colleen hadn’t felt pressure to make sure her daughter made the “right” decisions? What if Dorie had said no? And no question, Dorinda saw Ray with their own daughter. Maybe she didn’t like what she saw, somehow. What if that’s when Dorie finally fought back? Took action to protect her only child? But from what?

“You know the story we’re working on about the woman who supposedly murdered her husband?” I say. “Protecting her daughter-if he was inappropriate, or something-that would be a motive, mightn’t it? From a mother’s perspective, I’m wondering, how far would one go to keep a daughter safe?”

Mom reaches out her hand, placing it gently on my arm. The lines of the heart monitor attached to her wrist and finger stretch along with her movement. “Charlotte, sweetheart, I’m surprised you’re even asking. A mother-”

Bing bong. A bell rings and the door to Mom’s suite swings open. “Hello, Mrs. McNally. And-hello, Charlie.” A white-coated attendant pushes a wheeled tray into the room. On it is a single white rose in a vase, several china plates with steam spiraling though the holes in their silver covers, and a white cloth napkin wrapped with a twist of pink and white ribbons.

“Dinner for one, I’m afraid,” the attendant says, his face concerned. “Did we order for two?” He pulls a pad from a shirt pocket, checking.

I stand, gesturing no problem. “I was just going,” I say, leaning down to give Mom a careful kiss on the one silvery-blond patch showing through the bandages stretched around her head. I gather my tote bag and purse, then turn back to Mom as the obviously moonlighting movie star begins to remove the plates’ covers.

“Drunk, Josh passes the test,” I say with a smile. “We all had a lot of champagne last Emmy night. But don’t tell him I told you. Sick? Not yet. And with Penny?” I pause, remembering. “She idolizes him, that’s for sure. And he’s wonderful with her. Adores her. He’d do anything for her.”

I stop, realizing what I’ve just said. What if Dorinda’s guilty?

“GUILTY. OR NOT GUILTY. It just makes the whole thing more interesting,” I say, trying to believe it. Franklin and I are in my Jeep, on the way to Swampscott again. We’re headed for The Reefs, the bar where Ray Sweeney had his final tequila. If we have time, we’ll hit the nursing home to check out their taping system. My turn to drive.

“So Dorinda turned down our request for an interview. We can ask again.” I go on. “I refuse to give up on this story.”

The morning sun disappears as we enter the narrow gloom of the Callahan Tunnel, fritzing our all-news radio station into static. I snap it off. The tunnel is not my favorite. I finally remember to remove my sunglasses, which allows me an even clearer view of the cracking and soot-streaked Cold War era tiles lining the tunnel walls. I keep picturing the billions of gallons of Boston Harbor sloshing menacingly above us. I would have preferred taking the bridge, where at least you can see the water. What makes this trip even more unpleasant, I’m beginning to envision Franklin and me as victims in a pretty diabolical political plot.

“Just a thought,” I say. I’m trying to make sure I know where the emergency exit doors are located without letting Franklin know I’m doing it. “What if-what if this is all some sort of a trick? By say, Oscar Ortega and his cohorts? To make the Constitutional Justice Project look bad and his campaign look good? See what I’m getting at? You know they loathe Oliver Rankin and all the CJP stands for.”

I’m also monitoring the life-threatening zigzag of a pack of teenagers, all wearing Red Sox caps, who seem to think their convertible deserves both lanes of the tunnel. As a result, I can’t see Franklin’s face, but his voice sounds skeptical.

“You mean, trying to lure Rankin and Will Easterly to champion Dorinda’s case-then lower the boom later? Prove she’s guilty and make the CJP look soft on crime? That’s quite a conspiracy theory, Charlotte. And how about that surveillance tape?”

Still watching the teen-mobile, I lift my latte from the cupholder in the console, and take a lukewarm sip. The more I think about this, the righter I am.

“That could be part of it. Let’s just play out the scenarios, both ways. First, say the tape is fake. Doctored, somehow. Planted. It didn’t cross your mind that it was pretty darn-convenient?-that just as Oz announces his candidacy, a blockbuster piece of evidence shows up in Rankin’s hands? And remember, those people in the bar identified her from the police photos. If she was in the bar arguing with Ray, she wasn’t at the nursing home. Dorinda’s actually guilty. The CJP looks like idiots, backing a guilty murderer, and Ortega looks like a winner.”

“On the other hand,” Franklin says, “if the tape is real, Dorinda is innocent. Oliver Rankin and the CJP come out heroes, and Ortega-”

“Not to mention you and me, Franko,” I interrupt, putting my latte back. The teenagers swerve to the other lane. “Here’s the potential disaster. If the tape is fake, and we fall for it? Put something wrong on the air? We’re going to look like idiots, too.” I shake my head gloomily, imagining it. “Oz takes down the liberal do-gooder lawyers and the liberal do-gooder reporters, all in one election-sweeping swoop.”

We finally come up out of the tunnel, thankfully back into sunshine and fresh air. I buzz down my window to hand my money to the toll taker. A lanky-haired woman with sagging shoulders looks up, languidly, from a tiny black-and-white television that’s flickering Regis and Kelly inside her glass-booth domain. She does a double take, then slides the half window wide open, leaning head, shoulders and both arms outside to accept my three dollars. She holds on to the three bills without taking her eyes off me.

“Aren’t you-that McNally? On television?”

“Yes, I-”

“I had Danny DeVito in my lane once,” she says with a face-crinkling smile. “And that cooking lady. But you’re one hundred per cent my favorite. You always get the bad guys. And you still look one hundred per cent terrific.” She pulls a piece of paper from a drawer and hands it through the window. A Bic pen follows. “Sign this for me? Put, from Charlie McNally to Edythe. With a y and an e.”

I takes me a second to figure out how to spell Edith with a y and an e. By that time, several cars have pulled up behind us and are honking their impatience at whatever is stalling the flow of traffic. Which is us.

I hand her the paper, properly autographed, and she waves us through.

With a glance in the rearview mirror and a newfound determination, I yank the Jeep across two lanes of highway. Instead of heading north, I turn right into the twisting streets of East Boston, planning my strategy for a U-turn. Not only of our car, but of our morning plans.

“Forget about Swampscott,” I say. If I have to go back into the damn tunnel, so be it. That toll taker expects me to get the story, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Franklin’s grabbed what he calls the “Charlie strap” as the Jeep careens around the cloverleaf exit. “Good Lord, Charlotte,” he says. “This is why I don’t like you in the driver’s seat. Mind telling me what’s going on in that brain of yours?”

“The bar can wait. The nursing home can wait,” I say. “We need to find out if Dorinda’s innocent. We need to find out whether Dorie was really in the bar. And I know one way to do it.” The more I think about his, the righter I am. “We need to go to Oscar Ortega’s office. Into the lair of the Great and Powerful Oz.”