Drive Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  J.T. flips open the lid of a clear plastic cassette box and dumps the tape into his hand. “Yeah. Your car is going for a ride. Without you.”

  “Hand me that box. It needs a label,” Franklin says. He’s busily pressing narrow stick-on strips to each tape and cassette box. From my vantage point across the room, I can see they’re somehow numbered and color coded. Only Franklin understands how. “Wish we could record audio.”

  “You know state law,” I say. “No can do with a hidden camera. Doesn’t matter though. A picture is worth—”

  “Yup, usually,” J.T. says. He pushes Play, then points to the little screen. “But look at this picture. This one’s worth a million words. That’s the VIN number, see? And there’s a guy’s hand, writing it down on a piece of paper. Man. That close-up lens above the dashboard rocks.”

  The piece of paper and the man’s hand leave the frame. And then we see nothing but the dashboard and a snippet of windshield. Doesn’t matter. We got the money shot.

  Suddenly the screen gets darker and darker. We see shadows moving, nothing we can recognize. The screen finally goes dead black.

  “The garage door,” I say. “This is when they closed it. This is when the cops arrived. There’s not enough light for the camera now.”

  “It’s rolling, though,” J.T. says. “The counter’s moving, so it’s not broken or out of tape. But we won’t be able to see any more till the lights come on again. So let’s look at a cassette from my camera, okay? Check what we got from inside our car.”

  J.T. pops a tape into the player. He pushes Rewind. And when the tape clicks to a stop, he pushes Play. The tape whirs to a start. The video is grainy from the darkness. But perfect. This cassette, which Franklin has already labeled DT5, includes the trip back to the Longmore. We’d followed No-Hat and the Explorer out the garage door and down the highway, chronicling the entire return trip. Far as we can tell, he never had a clue.

  “Check and mate,” J.T. says. “The car’s back at the hotel. Like nothing ever happened. And we got the whole thing on camera.”

  “And there’s you, Franko,” I say. “Coming to get the car. Who’s that with you? Must be waiting for his car, too. Bet he was annoyed. Still, you both look very hip for two in the morning.”

  “Two-twenty in the morning,” he corrects me, holding up his watch and pointing to it. “I had to pretend I was angry that they took so long to return the car. The guy you’ve so cleverly named No-Hat told me they were ‘busy’ and that I should have asked for the car sooner. Like it was my fault.” He’s now lining up the cassettes in a corrugated-cardboard box which, in blocky and symmetrical black Magic Marker letters, he’s labeled “Drive Time.”

  He holds it up. “See? All our tapes. Organized and ready to log. We can come in early tomorrow and do it, okay?”

  “Drive Time?” I say. I don’t even try to stifle my yawn. It’s pushing four o’clock. The need for sleep is slowly and surely suffusing all my brain cells. And tomorrow is going to be an extremely gratifying day. Our story is a go. Kevin will be thrilled. Next step, we have to track down out who’s running the scam. “T and T may not appreciate you ripping off their—”

  “Charlotte. I told you to remind me,” Franklin interrupts. “And I was using that as a working title. It’s supposed to be funny. Irony, you know? What I wanted to tell you, the replay of tonight’s Drive Time was on the radio when I was driving back here.”

  I blink at him, then again, my weary brain trying to battle its way toward understanding.

  “So?” Is the best I can do. Then the fog clears. “Oh. Is it the blue Mustang? Or are they already selling the clone of our Explorer?”

  “Good call,” Franklin says. “And we’ll have to listen for the Explorer if we’re right about this. But no, it was the Mustang.”

  “And?” J.T. says.

  “And?” I say. I grab my coat and muffler from the rack. I’ve got to go home—to Josh, who’s safely in bed and not in custody for murder—and get some sleep. Was that just this morning? No wonder I’m bleary. “Did you get the right number?”

  “Well, apparently you remembered it correctly,” Franklin replies. He pulls a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and holds it up. “See? Isn’t this it?”

  “Five-five-five,” I begin to sing. “Zero-one—”

  Franklin holds up a hand, wincing. “Yes. But please don’t sing. It’s late.”

  “But that’s…” I pause, trying to fathom exactly what it is. “That’s ridiculous. Whoever’s trying to sell a car isn’t going to be terribly successful if there’s no way for a potential buyer to reach them.”

  “Like I said, it’s not a phone number.” Franklin shrugs.

  “Sure it’s a phone number.” J.T. waves him off. He zips up his jacket and pats the pockets for his gloves. “It’s just the wrong phone number. A typo or something.”

  “Idiots,” I say. My brain is about to give out. And I don’t want to fall asleep on the drive home. “So much for that lead.”

  “Mmmff?”

  “Fine, sweets,” I whisper, translating. Hanging my terry robe over the closet door, I slide carefully between the striped yellow sheets, trying not to disturb a sleeping Josh. He has school tomorrow.

  His eyes flicker, a valiant attempt to wake up and welcome me home, and he turns over, draping one bare arm around me, pulling me close. His body is sleep-warm, and melts, spooning, fitting comfortably into mine. “Missed you,” he murmurs into my ear. “How did it…?”

  His voice, drowsy and pillow muffled, trails off into silence.

  “Tell you in the morning,” I say. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

  He already has. But I can’t. Botox pads onto my stomach, then turns around twice, swiping her tail across my face each time. She finally nestles into place, purring.

  “Comfy?” I whisper to her. I’m not. Everyone’s asleep. But me.

  I have crossed the line into exhaustion insomnia. My brain will not turn off. I squint at the glowing green numbers on the nightstand clock. Doomed.

  In two hours, Penny will start her second day of school. I smile, a little sleep-deprivation humor. She has no idea of the panic and chaos her father and soon-to-be-stepmother endured on her first day. Penny had lunch with pals, didn’t even notice her dad wasn’t there. Annie had brought her home, Josh had made their dinner—or, purchased it, if the flat white boxes on the kitchen table are any indication—and all is now well at 6 Bexter Academy Drive.

  But tomorrow, Penny has to go back to Bexter. Josh, too. Will the cops still be there? Why? What do they know? Who else will be brought in for questioning? Have there been any more phone calls?

  The damn phone calls.

  Dorothy got one. She’s dead. And Alethia. And now she’s dead. Randall Kindell got one. And Wen and Fiona Dulles.

  I close my eyes, trying to think.

  Kindell and Dulles. I picture all of the names circled on the donations list in Dorothy’s pamphlet. Why did she circle them? Did she know them? She certainly knew their kids.

  I rearrange my pillow, trying not to disturb Josh or the deadweight of calico cat on my chest. Maybe someone else circled them? Maybe Harrison Ebling because they were prime candidates to give even more money to Bexter? He and the bursar were certainly on the money hunt at the Head’s party. I struggle to keep my eyes closed, hoping I can trick my mind into agreeing I need to get some sleep.

  But if it was someone else’s book, why was it on Dorothy’s desk?

  I’m wide-awake. I can’t keep my eyes closed one more second. When I open them, Botox is staring at me.

  “Why are the names circled? And who did it, Toxie?” I mouth the words as I stare back at her.

  And then I realize. The cat’s not the one I should be asking.

  “Have you ever seen this?” I take the fundraising report out of my battered canvas briefcase and hold it up, showing the cover to Fiona Dulles. She’s sitting beside me on a maple-leaf red damask love seat in her Wellesley li
ving room. Two silk plaid throw pillows are tucked behind her, her posture ballerina perfect, her ankles properly crossed. Her charcoal trousers and muted gray cashmere twin-set cost at least twice as much as my own workaday sweater and skirt. And her pearls are real. Fee’s balancing a white ceramic cup of tea on a flowered saucer. The expression on her composed face does not change as I hold up the pamphlet. She does not reach out to examine it.

  “Why, no,” Fee says. She takes a careful sip of tea, looking at me from under her lashes as she tilts her cup. A gold disk on her intricately linked charm bracelet clinks against the china. “Is that the new Bexter fundraising report? When you called, Miss McNally, I thought you wanted to talk about Tal and Lexie. I had hoped you might have some news.”

  I put the report in my lap, turning to a certain page as I listen to her. It’s true I had been a bit ambiguous when I called Fee this morning, asking to come for a short visit. She’d assumed it was about the threatening phone calls. And it is. In a way.

  Apparently, we’re alone in her Currier and Ives white clapboard suburban mini-mansion. No maids. No animals. No kids. I wonder who laid the fire in the flag-stone fireplace. Fee had carried in her tea herself. I brought my own Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, the paper cup out of place in the Dulleses’ formal residence.

  I’m running on empty, sleep-wise, but I’m consumed with getting some answers about the Bexter names. And this may be my last chance for a while. Franklin and J.T. are meeting me at the station this afternoon. We’ll have the fun of telling Kevin about last night’s success. Then we have to focus on tracking down the owner of Beacon Valet and getting our story on the air.

  I’m spinning a lot of plates. And I’m trying to make sure they don’t all come crashing down. But the phone calls are haunting me.

  “Look at this list,” I say, keeping my tone mild and un-threatening. I find the page I’m looking for and fold the report so it’s showing on the front. “See how your name has a circle around it? You were Fiona Rooseveldt, isn’t that right?”

  Fee still makes no move to take the book. I shift my weight, inching a bit closer to her on the love seat. She backs up into her pillows ever so slightly, politely but distinctly keeping her distance.

  I turn to another page, pretend not to notice.

  “Let me show you this,” I say. “On the benefactor page. Here’s your husband’s name. It’s also circled. Randall Kindell, see? There’s a pencil line around his name. And Alice Hogarth. See them? And these others?” I’ve studied the names so many times, I know them by heart.

  Leaning forward, I invade her space a millimeter more.

  “Do you know why that might be? Do you know these people? Why you might be connected to them?”

  Fee moves a gold-embossed coaster into place on the varnished walnut coffee table, then carefully puts her cup and saucer on top of it. She stares at it for a moment. Then, slowly, looks back at me.

  I’m still holding up the list. I’m not saying a word. Fee’s deciding what to answer.

  I can wait.

  The fire crackles, an ember popping against the ornate brass screen.

  “I have no idea why the names are circled. I know Wen, of course.” Fee offers a fleeting smile. “But I’m not acquainted with the others.”

  She pushes back the cabled sleeve of her sweater, making a show of looking at her thin-strapped watch. Then she reaches one manicured hand toward the cordless phone that’s tucked under an arrangement of shaggy golden mums on a lacquered end table. Is she planning to call for help? Or expecting the phone to ring?

  I’m not going to let her stall with any phone tricks. She’s lying. And that changes everything. Now I’m not sure whether to be afraid for her—or afraid of her. Is she in danger? Or dangerous? And I have to handle this carefully. No one knows where I am, I remember.

  I shake off my paranoia. I could take down the diminutive Fee Dulles with one whap of my purse. She has secrets, just as I suspected. And I bet they have to do with the missing year at Bexter.

  “Fee?” I slide the pamphlet back into my briefcase. It’s my only evidence of—of whatever it’s evidence of. “Forgive me, but I know that’s not true.”

  “Of course it’s true. You’re mistaken,” Fee replies. She takes her hand off the phone and holds out both palms, imploring. Her eyes are wide and direct, her expression innocent and earnest.

  Like a child who’s practiced lying.

  “You were in the same class as Randall Kindell,” I say.

  “I was not.” Her voice is clipped.

  “I’ve seen the BEX, Mrs. Dulles.” Keeping my voice calm. “This is a silly thing to lie about. It’s so easy to check.”

  “I—”

  “And if you’re not telling the truth about that,” I say, gently interrupting, “it makes me wonder about the phone call you told me you received. Whether you were telling me—and your husband—the truth about that.”

  “Of course I was telling the truth.” Fee sits up even straighter, if that’s possible, and lifts her chin. She looks away from me and reaches toward the phone again.

  Time to play my full hand.

  “You missed a year at Bexter,” I say.

  Her hand stops, and she turns back to me.

  “And you have children there now,” I continue. “What if Tal and Lexie are in danger? Whoever called you knows where they are. Every day. You don’t want to put them in harm’s way by lying about whatever is happening to you. Don’t you care about protecting them?”

  “I am protecting them,” she says.

  “Protecting them from what, Fee?” This is harsh, but she needs to know I’m serious.

  Her haughty expression is unchanged. But her hands are clenched into fists.

  “Why are you asking me this?” she says. “If you already know?”

  “If I already know what?”

  She doesn’t answer. We sit, silent and face-to-face, in the glossy living room. Fiona Dulles’s past is about to become part of her present. Best to let her tell me in her own way.

  “I’m a bad mother,” Fee Dulles finally says. She looks down at the plaid pillow now clenched in her arms. “But back then, I had no choice.”

  She looks up at me, tilting her head, her eyes pleading.

  “‘Unwed mother.’ An absurd label, isn’t it? But that’s what we were called so many years ago. A completely different world. Yes, I was fifteen. Yes, we were young and in love. Yes, I left Bexter. Yes, I had the baby. Yes, I gave her up for adoption. At the Services.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Like nothing ever happened. They whisked me away. Told everyone I was ‘trying a new school.’ I came back the next year. Started over. Just like that.” She flips a hand, like, poof. “My past was erased. And my daughter? Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder about her. Worry. Regret.”

  She shakes her head again, drops her eyes, lays the pillow back beside her. “I’m a bad mother. I should never have listened to anything but my heart. I should have made my own decisions.”

  “You had no choice then,” I say. I try to be reassuring. “And it was a long time ago.”

  “No one knows.” Her voice lowers, but her eyes flare. “Not my husband, not my kids, not my friends. My husband would—” She crashes to silence, putting both hands over her face. I see her chest rise and fall in a body-wracking sigh.

  “He doesn’t know? Are you sure?” This must be so difficult for her. Keeping such a heartbreaking secret. And maybe it’s unnecessary to keep it. “Maybe he’d be supportive. Grateful to hear the truth from you.”

  Fee holds a hand out, palm up, to stop me.

  “No. Never. Ever. I can’t bear to tell him. Or anyone else. Never. This is my secret. Mine. So how could someone call and threaten to do it for me?”

  She stops, her face set in fear.

  “So, that’s what the phone call was actually about?” I get it now.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. The caller threatened to tell Wen about my baby. After s
he was born, I saw her for barely a moment. I kept my eyes shut, tight shut, so I wouldn’t have to see her face. Or remember it. I don’t know where she is now. The whole procedure was sealed. The birth. The adoption. Confidential. They promised. It’s impossible to trace.”

  “Apparently not,” I say. But I’m still not clear on the blackmail. “So what did the caller say?”

  “He said, ‘Do you know where your children are?’ Then he—or she—laughed. Disgusting. And then went on to say I should tell my husband there was a drug scandal. Make up a story that Lexie and Tal could be involved. He said I had to insist so Wen would pay. And that was the only way I could keep my secret. It’s terrible. Terrible. Wen would do anything to defend Tal. And I had nowhere to turn.”

  “Fee? You said you couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman on the phone. Do you think it’s your daughter calling?” This seems like the obvious answer. Many adopted children search for reconciliation. Maybe this one wants revenge. “She’d be, what, in her thirties?”

  “How could she know?” she asks. Her voice rises and I see tears come to her eyes. “Did the law change? Can confidential records be opened?”

  “Let me ask you this,” I say, trying to think it through. This is a pretty risky venture, depending completely on Fee’s need for confidentiality. “Was Dorothy Wirt at the school at the time you left? Working at the office?”

  “She was.”

  “Could she have known the reason you left?” I’ve suddenly realized one disturbing way this all might fit together. Could Fiona have killed Dorothy? Because she knew her secret? Or maybe Fiona made the calls to the school. To give credence to the blackmail story.

  Fee blinks a few times, considering. I can’t read her expression.

  “I suppose she could have known,” she answers. “But she’s dead now.”

  And so is my theory. And my Fiona-as-murderer idea can’t be true. Because if she’s the bad guy, who called her? I don’t think she’s making that up.

  “There’s no one to help me.” Fee’s voice is brittle and trembling. “No one. And I know whoever’s calling me will never stop. Wen will find out. My marriage will be over. My children will never forgive me. How could they? I can’t even forgive myself.”