by Lisa Bork
Cory nudged my shoulder. “Jo, wake up. Your cell phone’s ringing and I can’t reach it.”
I jerked upright, fumbling for my purse. “Hello?”
“Jolene, it’s Isabelle. I don’t know what to do.”
I straightened up in the seat. “Why? What’s going on?”
“It’s Thursday. Every Thursday for the last two years, I’ve taken Cassidy to dance class at ten o’clock. This morning, Jack offered to take her. He said he knew I had an ad shoot and he wanted to help me.”
“That’s nice.”
“It would be if he didn’t offer right after he got off the phone with someone. I don’t know who. I heard him say he would try to get away this morning. I followed him.”
My brain still felt fuzzy from my dream. I almost thought this conversation might be a dream, too, but Cory looked too real in the seat next to me, maneuvering his sun visor to block the glare. Unfortunately, Albany lay southeast of Wachobe—the poor guy had been driving into the sun’s rays all morning while I slept.
I wiped a little dampness from the corner of my mouth. Had I been drooling, too? “Okay, what happened?”
Isabelle spoke quickly. “He dropped Cassidy off at dance class, then he drove to this new bed and breakfast in an early 1800s colonial. He went inside. He’s been in there for half an hour. What should I do?”
“I don’t know. Could he be showing someone a piece of jewelry?”
“No. He might be looking to buy an heirloom piece, though.”
I seized on that possibility, preferring it to other images in my head. “That makes sense.”
“Or he could be having a rendezvous with another woman.”
“Oh, Isabelle. Why don’t you just go inside and find out?”
“Be … cause … I don’t … want … to know.”
“You could look the bed and breakfast up on the Internet. A nice old lady and her husband probably own it.”
“May … be.” Isabelle hiccupped.
“Maybe he’s getting you a gift certificate. You guys love to go to bed and breakfasts.”
“Not … near here. This one’s only seven miles from our house.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Izzy. I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to catch you following him, though, in case you’ve got this all wrong.”
Isabelle blew her nose softly. “You’re right. You’re right.” She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. “I have a commercial shoot in half an hour anyway. I spent weeks begging all the local politicians, big business owners, and newscasters to participate in for free. It’s for the United Way campaign. I can’t be late. Whatever’s he’s doing, I can’t wait around to find out. I have more important things to do than worry about losing that man.”
That’s the Isabelle I knew and loved, more or less. I heard her car ignition turn over.
“I’ll call you, Jolene.”
I snapped my cell phone shut and looked at Cory.
He turned down the volume on the radio. “What’s up with Isabelle?”
“She thinks Jack might be cheating on her.”
Cory’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I thought they had the model marriage.”
I used to think that, too.
TEN
WE MADE GOOD TIME, due to Cory’s lead foot, and arrived at Elizabeth Potter’s parents’ suburban Albany home twenty minutes later, just prior to eleven o’clock. The home was a 1920s colonial with a tall, pointy roof, white siding and green shutters. Its trim needed to be sanded and repainted, and their blacktop driveway lay cracked and in chunks, tufts of grass waving in the gentle breeze. A lone bedraggled pot of red geraniums decorated the front steps, which creaked as Cory and I mounted them. The garage door stood open, an enormous collection of junk inside, including what looked to be a wheelchair and a walker.
Cory hit the doorbell. No one responded. I hadn’t heard a doorbell ring on the other side of the door.
“I think it’s broken.” I rapped my knuckles on a pane of glass next to the door.
Moments later, a sixtyish woman in a pink velour jogging suit shuffled into the hallway. She squinted at me through the window and opened the door halfway. I noticed she had fuzzy pink rabbit slippers on her feet. One rabbit had lost half his ear. The other, his plastic eyeball.
“Can I help you?”
Cory took the lead, naturally. “Are you Mrs. Potter?”
“Yes.”
Cory held out the yearbook, face down, most likely because Brennan’s name was embossed in gold on the front cover. “Elizabeth’s mother?”
Mrs. Potter wrinkled her brow. “Yes.”
“Excellent. My name is Cory and this is Jolene. Elizabeth’s twentieth class reunion is coming up soon, and we’d like to speak with her. The alumni association is forming a committee to plan the reunion. We wondered if she might like to get involved.”
She opened the door up all the way. “Elizabeth lives in Binghamton now. I can give you her address and phone number if you like. You could call her.” Mrs. Potter sounded doubtful, as though calling Elizabeth wouldn’t do much good. “Wait here.”
She scuffed over to a table, extracted a sheet of paper and pen, and jotted down the information.
I accepted the piece of paper when she returned to the door. “Does Elizabeth have a family?”
Mrs. Potter rubbed her chest. “Married and divorced. Twice. She’s dating a boy now.”
I smiled as though that were wonderful news. “Do you think Elizabeth would enjoy working on the planning committee?”
“Honestly, honey, Elizabeth doesn’t even like to come to visit. This town has bad memories for her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.”
Mrs. Potter nodded. “We kept it quiet. Elizabeth had a car accident after your class’s five-year reunion. It took her years to learn to walk again. She had to have all kinds of reconstructive surgery.” She pointed to the book in Cory’s hand. “She’s not that girl in the yearbook picture anymore.”
I tried to smile sympathetically. “Now that you mention it, I remember something about that crash. Wasn’t Brennan Rowe the driver in that accident?”
She stiffened. “It wasn’t his fault. He was a good boy.”
I exchanged a look with Cory. “I would have thought you’d be angry with him. Didn’t the police think he was driving under the influence?”
Mrs. Potter waved the suggestion off. “Elizabeth was asleep when the crash occurred, but she said none of them were drunk.”
Hard to know if her statement was true or if the “kids” had kept their vices hidden from their parents. “Does Elizabeth still see Brennan?”
“No, he moved away years ago. He sends a Christmas card every year, though.”
A dog barked and snarled behind us. Startled, I turned to find a miniature brown and black Doberman straining at its leash, held by a white-haired man in a navy jogging suit and white sneakers.
“Bill, this is …” Mrs. Potter broke off, frowning.
“Cory.” He shook Mr. Potter’s hand.
“Jolene.” Mr. Potter’s hand felt like ice. I wondered how long he and the dog had been walking, but now I knew who had eaten Mrs. Potter’s bunny slippers. The tiny monster looked ready to take a chunk out of us, too.
“They were looking for Elizabeth. Her twentieth class reunion’s coming up, and they wondered if she wanted to be on the planning committee. I told them I didn’t think she’d be interested.”
Mr. Potter eyed both Cory and me up and down. “Not likely.”
I gestured to his wife. “Mrs. Potter was explaining about Elizabeth’s accident. We didn’t know.”
Mr. Potter brushed by us, yanking the dog away from our ankles, and entered the house. “We don’t like to talk about that. What’s done is done.”
“Yes, of course. We won’t intrude on your time anymore.”
Nor would that be an option. Mr. Potter had closed the door right in our faces.
Wayne Engle’s childhood home lay four miles from Elizabeth’s parents, a large blue colonial with black shutters, a red door, a three-car garage, and a white picket fence. The well-manicured lawn covered at least two acres, a covered in-ground pool visible in the backyard.
I glanced at Cory over the roof of the BMW as we climbed out. “We’re moving on up.”
He grinned in response. “It is the eastside.”
A woman around Cory’s age answered the doorbell. She had blond
hair and light brown eyes as well as a distinct resemblance to Wayne’s
yearbook picture. His sister? Again, Cory took the lead. “Hi, I’m Cory and this is Jolene. Is Wayne Engle home?”
“Wayne doesn’t live here anymore, not for years.” Her gaze swept over the two of us, measuring, assessing then dismissing.
“I see.” Cory waved the yearbook. “His twentieth class reunion is coming up. The alumni association is looking for volunteers to plan the event. Any idea if he would be interested?”
“I doubt it.” She moved to close the door.
Cory stepped forward. “Would you have his current address or phone number? I’m sure he’d at least like an invitation to the reunion.”
She hesitated.
I spoke up. “We’re trying to locate the whole class and make this the best-attended reunion ever.” With my smile, I tried to channel pep rally spirit, flying in the face of my true long and happy history of nonparticipation.
The blond frowned, perhaps not a school spirit kind of girl either. “He lives in Binghamton. He owns an insurance company, Wayne Engle Insurance. You could try him there.”
For the second time that day, a door closed in our faces.
“Friendly, wasn’t she?”
Cory didn’t seem phased by the woman’s behavior. “We got what we came for, maybe more. Don’t you think it’s weird both he and Elizabeth live in Binghamton?”
“It’s a big city, close by. I like it better than Albany. Maybe they do, too.”
Cory glanced at his watch. “Should we swing by his office on the way home?”
We’d driven across the state and approached Albany from the north this morning. It would be easy to return home to Wachobe from the south, driving through Binghamton and Watkins Glen on the way.
“We could, but it’s definitely weird for us to drive all the way there to tell him about a class reunion. We look like hometown cheerleaders here in Albany. But there, we’d look like fanatics, tracking down the man to discuss a reunion that’s more than a year and a half away, especially after his sister said he wouldn’t be interested. I think he would expect to get a phone call or a letter about the reunion, now that we’ve talked to her. If she calls him to say we stopped by his parent’s house, he’s going to be suspicious.”
“Okay. Let me think.”
Back in the car, Cory fiddled with the GPS, typing in Wayne Engle’s company name and city. The street address popped up on the screen and the system plotted a two hour and twenty minute drive for us. At least it was in the general direction of home. He repositioned the GPS on his dash and turned to face me. “I got it. Wayne Engle sells insurance. We sell cars. Cars and insurance go together.”
“That’s true, but how are we going to segue into talking about Brennan’s crash? How are we going to ask him why he wasn’t in the car at the time of the accident?”
Cory slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “I don’t know, Jo. We may just have to tell him the truth. He was Brennan’s best friend. Don’t you think he’d want to help him, if he could?”
“It’s hard to say. If he thinks, or worse, he knows that Brennan was drunk that night, he might not want to help him. He might want to see him punished, even if it is all these years later.”
Cory swallowed. “Maybe he knew Brennan was drunk, so he didn’t get in the car.”
“I hadn’t thought that far through it, but that makes sense. Imagine the guilt if you’re the only one who didn’t get in the car. Imagine the survivor guilt after learning Monica Gleason died in the crash. Imagine if he knew Brennan was drunk and did nothing to prevent him from driving those two girls home.”
The stricken expression on Cory’s face made me stop. His imagination was pretty damn good—what actor’s wouldn’t be? My words horrified him.
I laid my hand on his arm in comfort. “Then again, we don’t even know if he was supposed to be in the car. He could have a different story altogether. Why don’t we go with telling the truth and see what he says?”
Cory nodded and turned the key in the ignition.
I thought I’d reassured him, but as the estimated drive time on the GPS inched upward with each passing mile, I realized Cory was no longer in such a hurry to find out the truth.
ELEVEN
A TINY CAPE COD on a rabid thoroughfare housed Wayne Engle Insurance. The road had one of those irritating meridians dividing the eastbound and westbound lanes, and Cory had to make a U-turn at a busy four-way intersection in order to swoop back around to the company’s driveway entrance. Four other cars occupied the lot: a Civic, an Accord, and a Geo—all popular economy cars—and a brand spanking new Mercedes convertible.
I offered to bet Cory that the Mercedes belonged to Wayne. He passed.
Inside the office, the phone lines rang incessantly as two women tried to keep pace with the volume of incoming calls. Both women wore heavy makeup, short skirts, high heels, and less than adequate tops revealing plenty of cleavage. It was impossible to determine their age, but quite obvious what they were selling. Two other desks sat empty, but leftover coffee cups with bright red and pink lipstick indicated women had occupied the desks earlier in the day. Each desk had a name placard. Pam and Missy answered the phones; Beth and Silvia were missing, perhaps still at lunch?
Cory and I waited for a couple minutes while the women dealt with their callers. Finally, Pam placed her call on hold to greet us. “Can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to Wayne Engle, if he’s available.” Cory flashed his pearly whites, turning on the charm.
Pam glanced at the closed office door. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m sorry, we don’t. We’ll only need a minute of his time.”
Her lacquered fingernail pressed a button on her phone. “What can I tell Mr. Engle it’s regarding?”
Cory glanced at me.
I shrugged. “Go for it.”
“Brennan Rowe.”
_____
Wayne Engle opened the door of his office five minutes later. Dressed in a navy business suit, a white shirt, red tie, and wingtips, he looked spiffy enough to be running for president. His handshake was firm, but his eyes wary as he ushered us inside the office, which held an oak desk, multiple chairs, a credenza, bookshelves, and a conference table. A single photograph of a teenaged boy with blond hair and blue eyes adorned the top of the credenza. Diplomas, certificates, licenses, and registrations covered one wall. I spotted a S.U.N.Y. Binghamton business administration diploma among them, which explained his connection to this city.
He offered us a seat at the round oak table and sat, legs crossed, with his profile to us.
Something about his face seemed familiar. Maybe it was because I’d seen his yearbook photo, although his face had aged and his hairline receded. His hair color seemed a bit sandier. Maybe Wayne colored it now to hide some gray. No, I’d definitely seen him somewhere more recently than that. I wondered if we’d sold a car to him or if he frequented our tourist town.
He got the conversation rolling. “You’re friends of Brennan’s?”
Now that we’d made it into the inner sanctum, Cory didn’t seem inclined to engage. Wayne looked between us, politely waiting.
I took the lead this time. “Mr. Engle—”
“Please, call me Wayne.”
“Thank you, Wayne. Cory and I are friends of Brennan Rowe’s, and we’re very concerned about him. Have you spoken to him recently?”
I decided to charge ahead.
“Did you know Brennan is in jail?”
Wayne’s head jerked ever so slightly. “No. Since when?”
“Friday. He’s accused of pushing a man in front of a car.”
Wayne licked his lips. “What man?”
“James Gleason.”
Wayne shot forward, shifting to face us. “What?”
“On Friday night, we all attended the Vintage Grand Prix in Watkins Glen. Are you familiar with it?”
“Quite.”
“Brennan and James ran into each other there. They argued over Monica Gleason. Apparently James thought Brennan was responsible for the crash and her subsequent death. When the two stopped arguing, they separated, but a few minutes later, Gleason was killed on impact by one of the cars as they raced through town. A witness says Brennan pushed Gleason in front of the car. Obviously, we think the witness was mistaken, but the news reports say the two men had a long history with James angry and threatening Brennan over his sister’s death. We’re wondering what, if anything, you remember about the crash.”
Wayne rubbed his forehead. “Did Brennan send you?”
“No.” I looked at Cory, who wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Brennan is in jail and unable to make bail. We thought because you two were best friends in high school, you might be able to help us.”
Wayne leaned back in his chair again. “In what way?”
“The news reports have had a couple of your fellow alumni on camera, stating everyone was drinking at the reunion and implying Brennan might have been driving drunk. Do you know if he drank at the reunion?”
“He had a beer or two over the course of several hours. He was not drunk.”
A sound exploded from Cory’s mouth, like a cutoff sob. Wayne gave him the once over and narrowed his eyes.
I tried not to lose momentum. “Did you tell the police that at the time of the crash?”
“No one asked me.”