Looking for Peyton Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  One look at Ron rushing in late, though, and I forgot all those things. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner. My source was right under my nose. Ron worked in the maintenance department at the mill. If anyone would know about mercury at the plant, he would. Right?

  Wrong. And wrong on two counts. But I had to wait until dinner was nearly done to learn that, because I couldn’t ask him point-blank when he walked in the door, any more than I could ask in front of everyone at dinner. Sabina would have hit the roof. So I bided my time as we ate, and I made a point of being open and agreeable. I answered the kids’ questions about Washington, Ron’s questions about Greg, Sabina’s questions about the herbs I had rubbed on the tenderloin. My opening came when we moved on to dessert. I had forgotten whipped cream for the shortcakes. Sabina offered to run out for some.

  She took my convertible and the kids. Phoebe returned to the porch, while Ron and I set to washing pots and pans, and I didn’t mince words. As soon as we were alone, I told him what I suspected and, outright, asked what he knew.

  “Not much,” he said, long arms up to the elbows in a sink filled with suds. “I work mostly in packing and shipping, over at the garage and the shipping docks. That’s way on the other side of the mill.”

  “Have you heard talk?”

  “We talk about cars and boats and sports.”

  “No one mentions the words mercury or pollution or regulations?”

  He didn’t answer, simply rinsed a serving dish and passed it to me.

  “Is there a pattern of ill health at the mill?” I tried.

  When he took a steel wool pad to the roasting pan, seeming content to let the matter ride, I asked if he would tell me if there was.

  He looked at me then, eyes filled with affection, though serious indeed. “I like you, toots. I always have. I’ve fought for you sometimes when I thought Sabina was being too hard. But this is different. This is our lives. Even if I did know, which I don’t, there’s too much at stake.”

  “Something more than life and death?” I asked in amazement. I would have thought nothing was more important than life and death. But that was just another premise of mine, in rebuttal to which Ron calmly offered TRUTH #5: More than life and death? You bet. My work and my wife. Without those, I’m dead anyway. You don’t understand the power the Meades have. They can ruin us.”

  “I do understand. I felt it once.”

  “When you were eighteen. It’s different for me, Annie.”

  “But what about mercury?” I asked, because that seemed the bottom line. “Yes, you have a family, but what of their health?”

  “Look at them. They’re fine. I’m a lucky man,” he said, and returned to the pan.

  Back at the house later that night, I was no more decided about where to turn next than I had been that morning. Discouraged and in need of a lift, I went online to commiserate with friends, but there was the usual spam to wade through first. I highlighted the immediate suspects—then paused. One stood out. The username was TrueBlue, and the domain was a common one. I didn’t know any TrueBlue, but the subject line caught me cold.

  I know about the mill.

  Could be advertising a coffee mill, I thought. Or a pepper mill. Or, sickly, a people mill. Could be carrying a virus, I warned myself.

  But if someone had information on our mill, I wanted it.

  As determined as I’ve ever been in my life, I clicked on.

  Chapter 11

  To: Annie Barnes

  From: TrueBlue

  Subject: I know about the mill.

  You’re snooping. I have info. Ask.

  There was no electronic signature, no information anywhere to suggest the identity of TrueBlue. I clicked on every possible spot, but found nothing beyond what I saw on my screen. On the plus side, my computer didn’t self-destruct, which meant that TrueBlue wasn’t lethal, at least not instantly so.

  I hit “reply,” but even when I right-clicked on TrueBlue in the address line, I learned nothing. So. What did I know? I knew that TrueBlue had my name and e-mail address, that he (or she—it could easily be a woman) knew I was interested in the mill, and that the e-mail had been sent at nine-thirty that night, roughly an hour ago.

  To: TrueBlue

  From: Annie Barnes

  Subject: Re: I know about the mill.

  Who are you?

  My finger hovered over “send.” I knew that in answering, I would confirm my own existence, which was a major no-no in fighting spam. But this wasn’t spam, as in a mass e-mailing that advertised something I didn’t want. TrueBlue knew I was curious; he (or she) had mentioned the mill. But our mill? Not necessarily. This sender could be an ecology buff responding to my research on mercury. I had visited enough sites; any one of them might be able to track its guests—and reply, if so inspired. Did that imply evil intent? I didn’t see how. Besides, it wasn’t like there were other volunteers lining up at my door.

  I sent the e-mail, then sat for ten minutes, clicking on “send/receive” every thirty seconds, until I realized the absurdity of assuming that TrueBlue was sitting in front of a computer just waiting for a reply on the odd chance I was at my computer at this particular hour.

  That said, the longer the minutes dragged on, the more I wanted to know who he (or she) was. On impulse, I picked up the phone and called my sister the computer expert.

  It did dawn on me while her phone was ringing to wonder if, given the subject matter, calling Sabina was such a great idea. But it was already too late; she had caller ID and would know it was me, or Phoebe, and in either event, she would call back. Then she answered, and the point was moot.

  “Hi,” I said. “You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

  “No,” she replied, audibly cautious.

  “I have a question. I just got an e-mail from someone with a username I don’t know. How can I track it down?”

  “Is it spam?” she asked, seeming to relax some.

  “No. It’s about work.” I clicked “send/receive” again. Nothing.

  “A fan?”

  “No.”

  “Is it threatening?”

  “No. I think it’s about some research I’m doing. I want to check the legitimacy of the source.”

  “You don’t recognize the domain name?”

  “Well, I do.” I told her what it was.

  “That’s not good,” she advised. “It’s a Web-based e-mail service, which makes it next to impossible to trace. Have you tried a reverse search?”

  “No. I just got the note.”

  “Well, try that. You could also Google the address. That might turn something up.”

  “On Google? A person who wants anonymity?”

  Sabina ignored my challenge. She was calm, clearly knowing of what she spoke. “Whoever it is may have used the address in a chat room or on a bulletin board. If it’s been picked up by a search engine, it could show up—not that you’d necessarily get a real name through that, but you’d have somewhere else to look. Try those things. If nothing works, I could snoop behind the scenes. I might be able to find code that would tell you something.”

  The offer would have pleased me had the circumstances been different. But I was suddenly feeling guilty for using Sabina to get information that might lead to my getting the kind of scoop she had warned me against. She would be furious if she knew.

  “Let me try these,” I said. “Thanks, Sabina. This is a help.”

  “Thanks for dinner,” she replied. “Now we’re even.”

  I hung up the phone thinking that tit-for-tat between sisters was sad, but I was instantly distracted when I clicked on “send/receive” again.

  To: Annie Barnes

  From: TrueBlue

  Subject: Re: I know about the mill.

  It doesn’t matter who I am. I know about Northwood Mill.

  I answered immediately.

  It totally matters who you are. How can I trust anything you tell me, if you won’t give me your name?For all I know, you�
�re an ex-employee who holds a grudge and will say anything to cause trouble. Only cowards hide behind anonymity.

  Besides, who says I’m snooping?

  And how did you get my e-mail address?

  And if you’re looking for money, forget it.

  As soon as I sent the note, I imagined Greg’s dismay. You have a potential source, and you’re calling him names? That’s a no-no, Annie. TrueBlue has something you want. Until you have it, treat him with kid gloves. Lose your source, and you’re up a creek without a paddle.

  Click as I might on “send/receive,” no reply came through. I was starting to think I was up that proverbial creek, when TrueBlue replied.

  Sorry, toots, but goading me won’t work. I already know I’m a coward. And I’m no ex-employee. I’ve been at Northwood awhile and plan to stay, so I don’t need your money. I know you’re snooping, because the whole town knows it.And e-mail addresses are a lot easier to find than to trace.

  His answer was telling—and, yes, I say his. A woman wouldn’t address me as toots. Not even Grace used that word, and she could be tough.

  My brother-in-law Ron had used it, barely two hours ago, but if you’re thinking Ron was TrueBlue, think again. Ron had meant what he said when we were doing the dishes. He wouldn’t risk his job or his wife by telling me mill secrets. Besides, Ron didn’t have a computer of his own, which meant that if he were TrueBlue, he would be using Sabina’s, and he was way too smart for that. He was also way too devoted to my sister to be out of the house using someone else’s computer at this hour of night

  No, TrueBlue wasn’t Ron. He could be any of the four men I had already pegged as possible moles. Or he could be one of hundreds of others. The mill employed that many in various capacities.

  Taking Sabina’s suggestion, I Googled the e-mail address. There was no match. Same thing when I ran it in a reverse directory. E-mail addresses are a lot easier to find than to trace. TrueBlue was right about that. So how had he gotten mine? Possibly, if he was hooked into the Northwood network and was computer savvy, from Sabina’s machine. Possibly, totally apart from Northwood but certainly vulnerable to a hacker, from Phoebe’s. Or from Sam’s. Unfortunately, to ask any one of them would mean tipping my hand.

  Actually, tipping my hand was also a problem with TrueBlue. For all I knew, he had no intention of giving me answers but was simply trying to find out what I was after. Aidan Meade, for one, wouldn’t hesitate to approach me under false pretenses; Lord knew he had done it before. Once he found out I was after mercury, he could make sure I got nothing.

  I typed my response this time with more care.

  Snooping sounds awfully negative for what I’m doing. I’m just trying to find the truth about my mother’s death.I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m just spending my summer vacation trying to explain her death.

  I don’t want to think she had Parkinson’s disease.There’s no villain there. I’d rather think she was exposed to something toxic. She didn’t work at the mill, so that’s a long shot.

  You say you have info. What’s it on?

  It was nearly eleven-thirty. Granted, it was Friday night, so TrueBlue wouldn’t necessarily have to be up the next morning for work. Still, I wondered why he was alone at his computer. So I added a question to that effect.

  And why are you awake and e-mailing so late? Too much caffeine? Scary movie? Guilty conscience?

  As I sent off the note, I realized that I had likely forgotten the most probable reason: confidentiality. TrueBlue wouldn’t want anyone else knowing what he was doing. That would include a wife, significant other, whomever.

  A reply came within minutes.

  Call it dedication to the cause. I ought to be sleeping. I have to be up in a couple of hours. What about you? Are you always a night owl?

  I typed quickly, the first of several rapid exchanges.

  Only when I get notes from strange people who say they have information for me. Why do you call yourselfTrueBlue?

  Now, if I told you that, I’d be giving something away. Why do you type in script?

  I’m an artist. It’s my prerogative. Do you share your computer with anyone?

  No. What about you? Are you at your sister’s computer?

  Definitely not. For what it’s worth, she does not condone this search. Nor does my sister Sabina, so if you’re thinking of ratting on her, save your breath.She would be furious if she knew I was corresponding with you. Do you people have to sign a loyalty oath or something?

  No loyalty oath. Not yet, at least. What have you come up with for possible toxins that might have killed your mother?

  If I told you that, I’d be giving something away—to quote you. But you’ve offered your services. No one else has approached me with that kind of offer. Why you? Why now? What’s your role here? What’s in it for you?

  A length of time passed without a reply, but I wasn’t sorry for the questions. For one thing, I felt they were important. For another, the pause gave me time to e-mail Greg. He would have flown from San Francisco to Anchorage earlier that day. He was carrying his Blackberry.

  I explained what was happening and asked his advice. To trust or not to trust—that was the question.

  It was nearly thirty minutes before TrueBlue e-mailed again. He didn’t answer any of my questions, simply asked one of his own.

  Are you writing a book?

  I’m always writing a book. But it isn’t about MiddleRiver. It takes place in Arizona and has to do with a family of packrats.

  Packrats? Is this a children’s book?

  No. Human packrats. They don’t say much of substance to each other, but they stash away all the little clues to their lives. My main character is the oldest daughter, who is struggling to figure out who she is and what she wants. When her parents suddenly die, she uses all those little things her parents stashed away to figure out her past. As my publicist puts it, the things that were hidden away become clues in a personal journey of self-discovery.

  Skeletons in the closet? There’s a novel idea.

  For your information, the only truly novel ideas that exist are those that have to do with new developments in technology or medicine. I write about human relationships. It’s all about painting an emotional picture that gives readers pause.

  Touchy, are we? But now you’ve told me your plot. Aren’t you afraid I might steal it?

  Are you kidding? Give the same plot premise to six different writers, and you’ll get six entirely different books. Are you thinking of trying to write?

  No. But if I was, I don’t know if I’d be as cavalier as you. Wouldn’t it bother you if someone was to up and write your plot?

  Only if he did it better than me.

  Ha ha. What are you doing while you wait for my replies?

  It appears that I’m plotting. It helps to talk a plot aloud, or in this case to type it to a friend, not that you’re a friend, but you know what I mean. I do a lot of my best thinking at night. Speaking of thinking, Ihave an idea. Want to call me on the phone? I could give you my cell number, so no one would be the wiser that you called. Or you could give me your number. This waiting for a few sentences to go back and forth is pretty silly. Do you IM?

  No. I don’t IM. I don’t have time for that. And no. No phone calls. This is safer.

  But you’re anonymous and I am not. What fun is that?

  I think it’s great fun. It’s nice to be free of who I am and whatI do. Are you working at a desktop or a laptop?

  I tried to decide which of my suspects might want to escape himself. Surely not Aidan Meade. He was too much of a narcissist to want distance. Any of the other three could want it, I supposed. Didn’t most of us want to escape our identities from time to time?

  Laptop. You?

  Same. In bed?

  No. In the kitchen. I need a phone jack. What about you?

  In bed. I’m wireless.

  Wireless? In Middle River? I’m impressed.

  I had no sooner said that when I r
ealized two things. First, if he was using his computer in bed, he was sleeping alone. And second, we were actually flirting.

  Here too, that ruled out Aidan Meade. Aidan didn’t flirt, he took. And I ruled out his brother James; no sense of humor there. TrueBlue could type—not a mistake yet—and was more articulate than I imagined, which made me think he wasn’t Alfie Monroe. Alfie was a large-motor, big-machine kind of guy.

  Tony O’Roarke was a possibility. I knew nothing about Tony, least of all whether he slept alone.

  And I would have included Tom Martin, except that he worked at the clinic, not the mill.

  Flirting. Interesting. I had never cyber-flirted before. Greg might not approve at all. But would it hurt to milk the thing? It was in that spirit that I added a quick line to my e-mail before sending it off.

  Are you male?

  Last time I looked.

  Ha ha. What do you do at the mill?

  Enough to know what I’m talking about. What are you looking for?

  Something to convince me that you’re legit.

  Try this. Paper mills like Northwood take wood and turn it into paper. Part of the process entails using bleach to make the paper white. Bleach, or chlorine, as it is more commonly called, is produced in a chlor-alkali plant. Northwood has a small one that fills its needs.

  Did you know that?

  I did not. Go on.

  Chlor-alkali plants use salt and electricity to produce chlorine. Traditionally, mercury was used to stabilize the product when electricity was passed through the salt. I say“traditionally,” because we now know that mercury is extremely toxic. When it is released from chlor-alkali plants as waste, it fouls air, ground, and water near the plant. Addflow patterns and wind currents to that, and you have serious pollution.

  Do we have serious pollution here?

  Northwood has complied with every state mandate. We no longer use mercury.

  So what’s the problem?