Prime Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  But I can save myself. All I have to do is say I made a mistake. I’m in the wrong place, forgive me, I thought this was someone else’s service. I’m so sorry, big adios, and exit.

  But, I hafta know….

  I look up, and a dark-suited attendant is waving me into the next spot. I follow his directions, lock my better judgment in the glove compartment and get out of the car.

  Staking out a spot behind the rows of folding chairs, I try to stay hidden by an ancient maple tree. No one seems to notice me, but problem is, I can only see backs of heads, which is no help at all in my search for suspects.

  The minister looks up from his Bible, scanning the group, squinting with stern disapproval. The mourners look at each other, concerned and upset. I suddenly hear why—someone’s cell phone is trilling, muffled slightly but still a disastrous breach of etiquette for some poor—

  I dive for my purse, whirling to put the tree between me and the service. It’s my phone. I plow through my bag and smash the off button without even looking at my caller ID. Good work, I congratulate myself. Subtle.

  I lean against the tree, holding my breath. A moment’s pause and the minister continues. I wait, envisioning some black-suited funeral-home goons picking me up by the elbows and throwing me head over heels out of the cemetery. I see my entire life savings, including my plastic surgery fund, heading into the coffers of first amendment lawyers and going to pay huge trespassing fines.

  I tentatively creep out from behind my tree, peering around the edge to see if any goons are on the hunt. But the minister’s head is bowed again, and it sounds as if he’s nearing the end of the service. The mourners seem to be focused on their sorrow and not some misfit with a cell phone. No goons in sight.

  I echo their murmured “Amen,” and then watch the group move to pay their final respects as the casket is lowered. I’m almost in the clear. No lawsuits, no headlines. I’ll just hang here until the funeral is over and pretend the whole thing never happened. I admit I still haven’t seen anyone I recognize, which is a bummer, but on the bright side, no one has recognized me, either.

  “Charlie McNally?”

  Someone’s benign-looking grandmother is headed in my direction, walking carefully in the damp leaves that have fallen on the browning grass, and she’s calling my name.

  “Charlie McNally, the reporter for Channel 3?” she repeats.

  I knew it. Now she’ll tell me how much better I look in real life than on camera, how the camera adds ten pounds and ten years, like I don’t know that. I appreciate fans, but let me out of here.

  “Yes?” Ten seconds. I’ll give her ten seconds.

  She’s still smiling, but two dark-suited factotums seem to materialize at her side. Disturbingly like those funeral goons I worried about. The men hover, one on either side of her, like bulked-up robots programmed to protect and defend at any cost.

  The woman loses her grandmotherly look. The swath of her black scarf barely reveals her gray hair, and that’s what fooled me at first glance. But now I see her telltale over-lifted eyebrows, her too-taut skin. Her cosmetically revamped face hardens into brittle, her eyes narrow, sizing me up.

  This is no fan.

  “Ms. McNally,” she says, her smile now icy. “I’m Andrea Grimes Brown.” She doesn’t introduce the robots.

  Think, think, think. Andrea Grimes…

  She continues. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mack Briggs.” She pauses, waiting for my answer.

  Andrea Grimes…Know it. Can’t place it. I edge toward my Jeep, but Brown and her wingmen edge right along with me.

  Then I regroup. Who the hell is she and why is she allowed to ask me what I’m doing? I’m the reporter. I’m the one who gets to ask the questions. I have a perfect right to be here. In a way. And the best defense is a good offense.

  I stop and face her down. “May I help you with something?” That doesn’t really mean anything, but it’s all part of my never-fail system to put her off guard and get her to tell me what she wants.

  It fails.

  She plants herself in my path and repeats her inquiry. “So, do you know Mack Briggs? And how do you know him?”

  Two can play this game.

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, though I’m not, really. “Ms…. Brown, is it? Are you a friend of Mr. Briggs? I’m so sorry for your loss. But I’m wondering if you might like to comment for my story.” I whip out my notebook and pencil, as if I’m going to take notes. “Any thoughts on his untimely death?” I figure that’s how people think reporters talk.

  She smiles again, like that snake in The Jungle Book, and taps her little prayer book against her leather-gloved palm. For some reason, this looks incredibly menacing, and I can’t believe I ever thought this viper looked like someone’s grandma.

  “You don’t want a quote from me, Ms. McNally,” she replies. “In fact, I’m certain you never want to see me again. But I want to let you know there’s no story for you here. No story in Mack Briggs. No story in your friend Brad Foreman.”

  I open my mouth to ask how she knows Brad Foreman, but her hand goes up to silence me.

  “Ms. McNally, let’s make this brief. I don’t know what you think you know, but you know nothing. And may I remind you, I’m on very close terms with the owner of your station, and I can assure you, my relationship with Mr. Maxwell Stern Denekamp is more important to him than one reporter’s job.”

  I try once more, ready to protest, but there’s the hand again.

  “We’re done here, Ms. McNally,” she says. With that, she and her goon squad about-face and march away.

  That’s pretty harsh, I decide. And kind of misguided psychology. If you’re trying to threaten my job and tell me something’s not a story—that only tells me it’s got to be a pretty damn good story. When my ship comes in on this one, I’m going to—

  Ship.

  Now I see the name on Brad’s documents. A. Grimes Brown. CEO of Rogers Chalmers Enterprises. And co-owner of the Miranda. Andrea Grimes Brown. So nice to meet you.

  I do my own slow and satisfied viper smile, carefully threading my pencil though the spiral of my notebook. If I’m right about what’s going on, and I think I am, there are just two little words for this situation: Gotcha, Grandma.

  Walking back to the car, I pat myself on the back for what I now assess as my gutsy decision to attend the funeral, even though I’m left with a huge bunch of questions. Were there other Miranda owners at the cemetery? Scanning over my shoulder, I blink in disbelief. There—past my tree, past the folding chairs, past the back poles of the canopy—I see a face I recognize.

  It’s Josh.

  I catch my breath and turn my back to him, hiding. Why is he at Mack Briggs’s funeral? He told me he didn’t know Mack Briggs. I was right. He’s a scheming, conniving rat.

  I whirl around, head high, ready to let him have it with both barrels—biting wit and dismissive nonchalance. I’m totally on to him.

  “So,” I begin, as haughty as a salesclerk at an exclusive boutique, “I see…”

  He’s gone.

  I would burst into tears of frustration if it wouldn’t make my eyes puffy. “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” I mutter, turning back to the car. I’ve been threatened by a sinister grandmother, deceived by a scheming schoolteacher, I’m confused, I’m disappointed and I have to drive all the way back to Boston by myself.

  And now I’ve gotten a ticket. A ticket? This is the last frigging straw. I yank the paper out from under my windshield wiper, ready to crumple it into a wad and toss it into the black hole of my backseat.

  But then I realize. They don’t issue parking tickets at funerals. I look more closely. It’s not a ticket. It’s a note from Josh.

  Biting my lower lip, I speed-read the scrawled message.

  Recognized your car. Got a moment to spare? Carno’s Café? 135 Main St.? I’ll wait for you. J.

  Well. That settles the question of whether he saw me. Not a chance I’m going. Even though it mig
ht be interesting to hear how he tries to explain himself. I slam my Jeep’s door closed and dive for the map book. Maybe I’ll go just for a minute.

  As the engine revs and the heat powers on, I’m flooded with memories—Josh and I sat in this very car, talking for hours, looking at the stars. I ram the gearshift into Reverse to erase the moment. Maysie’s latest “inspirational” postcard—a photo of Cinderella’s castle, with the scrawled Someday your Prince will come!—is clipped to my visor. Not likely that’s gonna happen. Men. I hate them all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  C

  arno’s Café is an adventure in time travel. Turquoise plastic booths, brightly labeled 45s glued to the walls, newspaper headlines of Ike Elected, Nixon and Checkers, the moon landing, J.F.K. and Jackie. Waitresses in crewneck sweaters and ponytails tote trays weighted down with milk shakes and French fries. I see Josh in a back corner, holding up a hand to get my attention. He looks almost—contrite. A tiny sprout of hope struggles to emerge, but I stomp it before it can grow. He misled you. He deceived you. And now he’ll try to convince you he didn’t.

  I hang my coat over a hook on the side of the booth and slide in across the table. “Got your note,” I say. “What can I do for you?” I ooze nonchalance, telegraphing this is just business and I’m being polite.

  Josh seems bewildered, looks at me questioningly. “Charlie, is something wrong?” he asks. “I was so happy to see you at the funeral. But I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with whoever that was, so I just left a note on your car, hoping you could meet me here. It’s so great to see you again, and…”

  There’s a pathetic opening gambit. Happy to see me? I doubt that, Prof. If you wanted to see me, you might have used that little thing called the telephone.

  A waitress interrupts, asking for my order. I see Josh already has coffee, so I gesture at it, asking for the same thing.

  “So anyway,” Josh continues, “I was on my way to the Jordan Beach Road house—remember my place in Vermont? No classes this week, just a weekend by myself. But after the e-mails I got from Brad Foreman, and your questions about them, and then what you told me about Mack Briggs, I just thought maybe I could sniff around at his funeral and see if there was anything to be learned.”

  He stirs his coffee, and I notice he’s left-handed. Like I am. Supposed to be a sign of intelligence and sensitivity. And he has such nice hands. I remember how they felt when…I yank myself back to reality. Trouble is I can’t understand why Josh is acting like nothing is wrong.

  “Charlie?” He reaches out to touch my hand. “You seem…angry, I guess. What’s up?”

  Very clever. He’s trying to switch the focus to me. As if I’m the one with the problem.

  “Nothing’s ‘up,’ as you put it,” I respond, moving my hand away. “You said you wanted to talk to me. So talk.”

  “Okay,” Josh continues. “If you say so. Anyway, guess who I saw?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me?” I reply, taking my coffee from a Sandra Dee look-alike. I rip open a pack of Splenda and tap it into to my cup. “But, before you do,” I add slowly, “let me ask you a question.”

  Josh waits, eyebrows raised.

  “A few days ago,” I continue, putting down my spoon and staring coldly into Josh’s eyes, “you told me you’d never heard of Mack Briggs. How is it, now, suddenly, amazingly, you know he’s died and you know when and where his funeral is?” Got you now.

  Josh doesn’t look that “gotten.” He reaches into the briefcase he’s tucked into the corner, pulls out a newspaper and hands it to me.

  I see it’s the Vermont Independent, according to the masthead, published in Montpelier for southern Vermont. And on the front page, a huge obit for a favorite son. The reclusive but beloved ex-SEC chief, McKenzie Briggs.

  “I get the Indy sent to me at Bexter,” Josh explains, “just to keep up on what’s happening around here. So I saw the obituary.” Josh takes the paper back.

  That’s a pretty good answer, I suppose.

  “I see,” I reply, as if that hadn’t really been a very important question. “So you were telling me—someone you saw at the funeral?”

  “Well, yes,” Josh says, eyes sparkling now. “And I just knew you would be interested. I was going to call you with the news the instant the funeral was over, but then there you were!”

  I can’t figure out why Josh is acting like everything is still cozy between us. Shouldn’t he be more defensive?

  “Anyway,” Josh continues. “I saw—Wes Rasmussen. Isn’t that intriguing? What was Rasmussen doing at Mack Briggs’s funeral? You knew Foreman and Rasmussen were connected of course, at Aztratech. And you knew Foreman and Briggs were connected because of the e-mails. But I thought you’d be interested in what seems to be clear proof Rasmussen and Briggs were connected.”

  I’m too stunned to answer, and but Josh goes on, gesturing with his spoon. “I know, I know. Leave the research to the experienced reporter. But one more thing,” he says. “Don’t be upset, but I approached Rasmussen and told him we had a mutual acquaintance in Brad Foreman. Just to see what he’d do. And here’s the fascinating part—he knew I was an English teacher. Who could have talked to him about me? And why?”

  Oh, he’s good. This Josh is really good. But I predict his elaborate cover story is just about to crumble under the weight of its own clumsiness—and now I’ll just give his little house of cards the final push.

  “So you went up to Wes Rasmussen,” I say. “Interesting. How did you know who he was?”

  Josh has a baffled look again.

  “I never told you about him,” I continue, crossing my arms in front of me. “So you already knew him, didn’t you? That long conversation we had in my car, when you were oh-so-interested in my story. You were just trying to figure out how much I knew.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks. He leans toward me, elbows on the table. “Of course you told me about Rasmussen. Don’t you remember? You told me about the Miranda, and all of the owners.”

  “I…” I start to answer.

  “What’s this all about, Charlie?” Josh’s eyes harden. “Why are you behaving as if I’ve done something wrong? How the hell would I know Wes Rasmussen if you didn’t tell me about him?”

  I can’t possibly be wrong here. I’ve got it all figured out, and I’ve just got to be tough enough to play out my hand.

  “From the dinner party he gave!” I retort. “That’s how you met Brad, right? At a dinner party—Wes Rasmussen’s dinner party. And you’ve been reporting back to him ever since you got Brad to confide in you. And when you found out I was asking around about the spam, you got me to spill the beans, too. What are you getting in return, Aztratech stock options or something?”

  For some reason, Josh doesn’t look dismayed that my brilliant analysis has revealed his true motives. He takes another sip of his coffee, then picks up a spoon and slowly stirs what’s left in the cup.

  When he finally looks up, his face is unreadable. He takes the napkin from his lap, places it on the table. “I don’t know what to say to you, Charlie,” he says slowly. “This is not how I hoped today would turn out.”

  Josh puts some change on the table, the coins clinking on the Formica.

  “I had a wonderful time with you, in my office and at the play. I didn’t want to crowd you—I know you’re busy with your sweeps reporting and I don’t really know much about the rest of your life. So frankly, I was hoping we’d somehow see each other again, and I admit part of the reason I came to the funeral was that perhaps you’d be there, too.”

  He gives a bleak smile. “I’m still headed up to the house on Jordan Beach Road for a few days, and had thought, maybe, that you could come up and visit. No phones, no e-mail, just rural solitude. That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  I know my mouth must be hanging open.

  “But I guess that’s not going to happen,” Josh finishes, reaching over for his briefcase. “Wes
Rasmussen?” he says, sliding across the plastic booth. “He certainly was not the host at the dinner party where Brad and I met.”

  He starts to get up, stops. “I realized it was Rasmussen because I heard someone else call his name. A lucky coincidence, I thought at the time. I thought you’d think it was—” he pauses with a wry smile “—cool.”

  He shakes his head ruefully. “Anyway, whatever you think I’m involved in, I’m not. I admit, I was just so taken with you…” Josh stands and puts both hands on the table, leaning down to face me.

  I’m still staring up at him. My mouth has stopped working altogether, and my brain is struggling in emotional quicksand.

  He suddenly changes gears.

  “I can’t imagine,” he says, with a trace of bitterness in his voice, “what it is that you’ve concocted is going on. You seem to be implying I’m playing the nefarious villain in some complicated journalism plot. That’s absurd. I would have thought you, of all people, had better instincts than that.”

  He pauses, tense, and I can feel his anger. Something has gone terribly wrong and I don’t know how I screwed up.

  “I was just trying to be part of your life,” he says. “And have you be a part of mine. So much, apparently, for that idea.”

  And, as I watch in despair, he walks out of the restaurant. He’s gone. And I’m left with cold coffee, welling tears, and utterly confused.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I

  trudge up the basement steps to the station lobby, thinking this day just couldn’t get any weirder. Wrong again.

  Sitting there, in one of the lobby’s puffy oyster-colored, fake leather chairs, is Melanie Foreman.