I guess.
I choose a maple-red corduroy blazer and crisp white shirt, and pull a pair of black pants from the rack. I stare at the outfit, each piece pristine on its padded hanger, as if it could reveal some answers. And then, it does.
It means safe. Serious. Boring. And, I decide as I hang it all back in place, it might as well be body armor. Am I protecting myself from something? I wonder, as I scour my closet for perfection, if this might be the night to go for it. My almost-too-tight black turtleneck dress beckons from its back-of-the-rack spot. If not now, when?
Maybe Maysie has a point. Maybe I’m out of practice.
I purse my lips…and dare myself.
“Marjorie?”
“Here.”
“Margaret?”
“Here.”
Josh Gelston, holding a clipboard in the backstage darkness of Bexter Auditorium, confirms his “Gold-Bug” cast is complete. Two teenaged actors, heads bent close together, softly rehearse their lines for a final time. The younger kids, seated in a row on a fraying couch, whisper and giggle, unable to keep still. Perched on a high stool in a corner, I watch the swirl of precurtain chaos, the backstage performance a show in itself. Especially, I notice, my charming and charismatic leading man, looking very off-Broadway in a black T-shirt and tweedy blazer.
A wide-eyed little girl, all ruffles and laced-up boots, comes up to clutch Josh’s hand as he continues his preshow preparations. She can’t be more than six years old, and looks at her teacher adoringly.
“Five minutes to curtain,” Josh whispers and then kneels to face the girl beside him. Giving a final adjustment to the silky bow on her bonnet, he points her to her mark onstage. She turns to go, then apparently changing her mind, comes back to give Josh a quick hug. He smiles after her as she trots away to take her place—then he looks up at me.
“Okay?” his eyes ask.
I clasp my hands in front of me, pantomiming delight. This is beyond charming.
And so is Josh.
Someone starts a fog machine, and gray puffs float across the stage. Suburban teenagers somehow become Victorian townspeople, as Josh pulls up a high stool next to mine and holds up crossed fingers. At that moment, the mysteries of the spam and expensive yachts and pharmaceutical prices and documents to arrive tomorrow by overnight mail evaporate. Applause fills the theater, the stage lights go up and the curtain opens on the Bexter School production of “The Gold-Bug.”
The night is clear and the sky is cascaded with stars. Our words puff into clouds of cold as we slowly walk from the auditorium. Even in the splotchy parking-lot light, I can see the engaging crinkles around Josh’s eyes and read the enthusiasm in his smile.
“And did you see what a tough cookie our little Amy turned out to be? Even when the curtain…Charlie?” Josh stops mid-sentence, turns questioningly to make sure I’m listening.
“I know,” I agree. I can listen and dream at the same time. “And she obviously worships you.” I take a chance and tuck my gloved hand through Josh’s elbow. “All the kids do. And the cast party afterward—everyone was so proud and happy.”
I can feel Josh tighten his arm over my hand. And then, just as I’m wondering how I can make this evening last a little longer, we arrive at my car.
Moment of truth. “Anyway, thank you so much,” I say. “I had a terrific time. This is my Jeep.”
Josh pats my hand, the one I still haven’t removed from his arm. “I hoped so,” he says, “since it’s the only car here.”
This stops me. He’s right.
“But—where’s yours?” Suddenly there’s hope for more time with my handsome professor. “Can I…May I give you a ride home?”
“Good idea,” Josh says. “I don’t live far from here.”
Josh reaches over to open the driver’s side door, which of course doesn’t open because I have the remote key.
“Chivalry is dead,” I say, beeping the remote. “Killed by technology.” After I hop in, Josh goes around to the passenger side.
I quickly chuck my used latte cups and old newspapers onto the floor of the backseat and pump the heater to high. Time for a high-level decision. At some point someone will have to make a move. If he asks me in, will I go? I don’t have a toothbrush. Do I need a toothbrush? Isn’t dating supposed to be fun? When did it turn into an emotional chess match? Do I even know the rules anymore?
Josh clicks on his seat belt. “Left out of the lot,” he says.
I turn the Jeep down a quiet tree-lined street. There’s no way to know what will happen until it happens. And you can’t win if you don’t play.
“Here we are, number 11,” Josh says with a smile. “That’s me. As I said, thanks so much.”
“You live—here?” I say, laughing. I turn off the ignition, but flip the key to keep the heat running. “Some drive home.”
“I do have a house up by the Vermont border,” Josh replies. “A little place on the Jordan Beach Road. I’m usually there on weekends, especially on my Penny weekends because it’s closer for Victoria to drop her off up there. But school days, I stay here at Bexter.”
I wasn’t surprised to learn he’d been married before. I might have been worried, actually, if he hadn’t been. We’d sipped contraband wine in a corner as the cast party of his chattering students flowed around us, and we swapped love-and-war stories about our divorces—Josh’s at age fortysomething, from an ambitious doctor-wife who calculated it was more beneficial to latch on to a doctor-husband. His only regret, he’d told me, was Penny, the sweetly sad eight-year-old daughter he misses every day, but only sees every third weekend. I’m crossing my fingers I get to meet her.
Josh unhooks his seat belt, but still makes no move to get out of the car. He turns in his seat to face me and unbuttons his thick navy pea jacket, loosening his tweedy scarf.
Taking his cue, I unhook my seat belt, too. Just a cozy midnight tête-à-tête in my toasty little Cherokee. Not exactly a dream date, but it’ll do. And Josh seems to want it to continue.
“So?” he asks. “Any update on the spam saga? When last we met, you were in reporter mode, remember?”
Before I know it, the whole story pours out. The call and e-mail from Mack Briggs, the impending arrival of the documents, the bogus Bible verses, the sloop Miranda.
“So you must have been intrigued with that,” Josh says. “Miranda. Sounds like a clue, doesn’t it?”
I don’t understand. “You got me,” I admit. “A clue?”
Josh waggles a finger. “I thought you were Miss Shakespeare,” he says teasingly. “Miranda?”
“It’s so very late.” I go for the sympathy play. “My brain is so very tired. It’s…” I look at the dashboard clock and surprise myself. “It’s two in the morning, did you know that?”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Ms. McNally.” Josh smiles, pretending to be strict. “Miranda. A main character in the play quoted in those e-mails. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on’—remember? The Tempest.”
“So you think,” I reply slowly, the connection sinking in, “the person who named the boat also sent the spam?”
“It’s kind of a funny coincidence if they didn’t,” Josh says. “You’re the reporter, but could that be Wes Rasmussen? Or what’s his name? Mack—Briggs?”
I stare at Josh, speechless, and then turn to stare out the windshield into the night sky. My brain is churning, consternation at not having made the Miranda connection myself mixing with excitement over Josh’s idea.
“So you think…hey! Did you see that?” I say.
Josh is looking out the windshield, too. “A shooting star,” he says. “Yes, I saw it.” He pauses and turns to me, a smile playing around his eyes. “And you know what they say you’re supposed to do when you see a shooting star?”
I do. “Make a wish,” I reply quickly. “You’re supposed to make a wish.”
“Wrong,” Josh responds.
He reaches over and takes my hand, and my heart explodes
like a galaxy of shooting stars. “Not make a wish,” he says quietly, drawing me closer to him.
I’m nervous. I’m eager. But part of me’s confused. Of course it’s make a wish. I open my mouth to protest, but Josh interrupts, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his finger gentle against my cheek. I almost gasp at his touch, and I think my eyes briefly close, my body responding despite my brain.
“When you see a shooting star,” he says, his voice softening, “you’re supposed to kiss the person you’re with.”
“No, that’s wrong….” My brain takes hold, and I begin to argue again. Then, in an instant, as Josh pulls me even closer, my body wins. And I realize, as the stars and the car and the old latte cups and the hum of the heater somehow disappear, and our layers of coats and gloves and scarves force us to keep a tantalizing distance, you’re always supposed to do what the teacher says, especially on a school night.
Chapter Ten
I
’m taking a grateful sip of my third latte of the afternoon when Franklin appears at our office door. He’s carrying a corrugated cardboard box covered with “Deliver by COB Friday” stickers. It’s got to be the documents from Mack Briggs. Usually I’d want to open it myself. After all, it’s addressed to me. But I’m the tiniest bit tired from last night and I’m trying to hide it because Franklin will be relentless for details. For now, I want to keep my memories of Josh—and my hopes—to myself. Franklin can focus on the box.
As I watch him peel back the tape, though, I grow increasingly uncomfortable. We have no way of knowing what’s actually inside. It comes from someone we’ve never seen or even talked to in person. Our only connection has been by voice mail and e-mail, and we don’t know if it really was Mack Briggs on the other end. It could be someone pretending to be Mack Briggs, someone who knew we were looking for him. And the files.
Someone who wanted to stop us. I’m an idiot.
“Franklin?” I need to stop him. “What if the box isn’t from Mack Briggs, and…”
I hear the last of the tape ripping off the box, and then the snap of the top cardboard panels being pulled apart. I wince, waiting for the explosion or the puff of white powder.
“Cool,” Franklin says. “Here’s a note from Mack Briggs, and a stack of papers, and it’s all on top of…Whoa.”
I uncoil myself from my terror-defense position and go see what Franklin’s looking at. I knew it would be fine.
“Read this note,” Franklin instructs, handing it to me along with a stack of papers, “and then look what’s in the box. E-mails.”
I easily recognize the e-mails Mack Briggs sent us. They’re copies of the exact same Bible-looking citations I got. The note is handwritten in black fountain pen on creamy stationery, monogrammed MXB.
Ms. McNally, I read, here are the e-mails Brad sent me. He asked: Why would Aztratech and the others be sending spam about refinancing? Before we could talk further, I learned he was killed in a car accident.
It’s signed with initials.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Aztratech is a pharmaceutical company. It isn’t sending out refinancing spam.” I pause. I guess we don’t really know that.
“It gets stranger. Look what else he sent,” Franklin says.
I feel like that kid in Home Alone, palms pressed to my cheeks, mouth open in surprise. Inside the cardboard box I see a metal file-holding frame, and hanging from the frame are green file folders. Aztratech, then Rogers Chalmers…I look back at Franklin. “These are exactly the same, right?”
Franklin sits back in his chair, nodding, his hand still on the box. “This box of files is just like our box of files, his e-mails are just like our e-mails. Brad was certainly on the trail of something.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, remembering again what happened to Brad.
“Hang on,” I interrupt our reverie. “It’s about what’s not in here.”
“What’s not…?” Franklin replies.
“What’s not in the stuff from Mack Briggs,” I explain, the realization dawning more fully even as I say it out loud, “is one word about pharmaceutical prices, or price fixing, or Brad as a whistle-blower or anything like that. Not one word.”
“You’re right,” he says, flipping through the paperwork. “You think this means we’re on the wrong track with the ‘whistle-blowing Brad’ story?”
I hear a distant gurgle, as my career swirls down the drain. November, no story, no job…No.
“Time out,” I say, making the signal with my hands. “The e-mail Brad sent me. If it wasn’t about him being the whistle-blower, what was it about?”
“And what’s more,” Franklin replies, “why did he also send all this to Mack Briggs? Why Mack Briggs, specifically?” Franklin looks at the note again. “The monogram is MXB,” he says. “What if we…”
He turns to his computer. “Remember when we searched his name?” Franklin asks. “I’m thinking, I never searched just M. Briggs.” He hits Enter. “Did you?”
I think back while the computer whirs. “Nope,” I say. “Just Mack.”
The monitor flashes and a whole page of entries appears. The first one says McKenzie Xavier Briggs.
Franklin and I exchange looks.
“Spelling,” he says dryly.
I pretend to shoot myself with a finger. “I should have thought of that.” I’m so exasperated. “We stink. They should fire us.”
Franklin nods in pretend acquiescence, then reads the rest of the entry out loud. “Chairman, United States Securities and Exchange Commission, 1993 to 1996.”
“Chairman of the…” I begin.
“What would he know,” Franklin asks slowly, “that no one else could know?”
“Here’s a concept,” I say, hitting my forehead with the heel of my hand. “I’ll just call and ask him.” I start to punch in the number I have in my calling log. The area code is Vermont. “We should have called Briggs as soon as we got the box.”
The phone rings and this time I’m hoping it’s not the answering machine.
“Hello?” I hear a quiet voice. A woman. I give Franklin a thumbs-up.
“Mack Briggs, please,” I say, nodding with the good news. Any minute now, I’ll be chatting with the man of the hour.
There’s silence at the other end.
“Hello?” Maybe she didn’t understand me. “May I speak to Mack Briggs, please?”
Another silence, then I hear the woman’s voice again. “One moment, please.”
This is great. This proves it was actually Mack Briggs’s number, which I had secretly harbored a few nagging doubts about.
I hear the hold button click off, and a gruff voice says, “Who is this?”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Briggs,” I begin.
The voice interrupts me, insistent. “I said, who is this?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I start again. “This is Charlie McNally, from Channel 3 TV? And—”
This voice interrupts again. “This is Officer Veloudos, State Police, miss. Why are you calling here?”
I can feel the warmth drain from my face. Why is a state trooper answering the phone? I look at Franklin, and he must recognize my confusion and bewilderment.
“What?” he asks, leaning forward. He’s frowning, concerned. “What?”
“Miss?” the trooper says. “Are you a reporter? If so, you’ll have to call our public relations department. We’re not giving out any statements here this afternoon.”
“Not giving out any statements—about what?”
“Like I told you,” the trooper says. “Talk to PR.”
And then he hangs up.
I’m unable to put the receiver back in the cradle. I look at it, as if somehow I could retrieve some answers.
I turn to Franklin. “It was a state trooper. He told me to call PR. And then he hung up.”
The phone begins to quaver its irritating “hang up or else” signal, but I’m too flummoxed to follow instructions. “What on earth,” I begin over the beeping,
“could be going on?”
Franklin pushes the phone button, breaking the connection. “Time to find out,” he says, flipping through his Rolodex. “I think our Mack Briggs, sender of mysterious documents, has been arrested. And we need to know why. He’s the former SEC commissioner, after all. This may be a lead story.”
He rips out a Rolodex card and hands me the number of the police press office.
“You could be right,” I say. “Maybe Briggs is the target of some secret special prosecutor investigating SEC fraud. Or something. If that’s true, it’ll take hours for word to trickle down from Vermont to Boston. And we’ll have an exclusive. Love it.”
I hum “Ode to Joy” in my head as I punch in the number and briefly wonder—where did that tune come from? Then I remember just a few days ago, in a certain professor’s office…
“Vermont State Police,” a reedy voice answers the phone. “Detective Bogetich. Is this an emergency?”
I always hate that question. It would certainly be an emergency to me if some other reporter got this before I do.
“No,” I answer. “This is Charlie McNally, TV3 in Boston.” I turn on my serious investigative voice. “I’m calling for the status of the arrest of one Mack Briggs earlier today. Can you give me an update?”
Nothing.
Oh, come on. “Detective?” I prod.
“Miss McNally,” the detective answers, “you’re calling about McKenzie Briggs? From Cullodon Harbor? Mack Briggs is not in custody, miss.”
“He’s not…?” I’m thinking fast and now I’m talking like myself again. “But…how come you guys were at his house? And how come, when I called there, your officer answered the phone? And hey, how come he wouldn’t tell me anything, and told me to call you for a statement?” I take a breath. “So now, I’m calling you for a statement, okay?”
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