Face Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Susannah gasps and puts a hand to her mouth. Even Kevin looks concerned. But I’m skeptical. “Wait a minute,” I say. “That’s impossible. The case is three years old; certainly CC left town afterward. Where was he? And how on earth could he know, from wherever he was, that we were working on this story?”

  “There was only one person in Swampscott Hardesty kept in touch with. She didn’t know he was reincarnated as Tommy Bresnahan, of course, and he hadn’t seen her for years. They just communicated, sporadically, by postcard, then e-mail. And a phone call on her birthday.”

  “Who?” I ask. I run through the list of possibles in my head and cannot figure out who might have been CC’s confidante. “Everyone thought he was dead.”

  Oz continues as if I hadn’t interrupted. “But when you asked her about him, she e-mailed right away. He had told her he wanted to disappear. Asked her, years ago, to keep his secret. Very dramatic. And she did. Of course it was all innocent on her part. She had no idea he’d killed Ray Sweeney, and she told him everything you said. Which wasn’t much, but enough to let him know you were working to exonerate Dorinda. And that brought him right back into town. He wasn’t on your tail every second, he told us, said he didn’t need to be, once he found out where your mother was.”

  “Who?” I demand. Not Poppy. Pink-fingernailed Myra Matzenbrenner? Not Rosemary at the shelter, certainly.

  “Marybeth—” he checks a file “—Gallagher. Remember her?”

  It takes me only an instant to remember that day at Swampscott High, the day I was searching for the yearbook.

  “The librarian,” I say. I rewind my brain, trying to recall what she told me. Was there anything I should have suspected? But, from what I can remember, she never even hinted she was still in touch with CC. I mean, he was supposed to be dead. I shake my head. “She’s the last person…”

  “She’s been the librarian forever,” Ortega says. “And back when CC and Dorinda went to Swampscott High, she was also the drama coach. She was the one who picked the two of them to play Romeo and Juliet, she told us. Apparently that was the beginning of a ‘special relationship,’ she called it.”

  Romeo and Juliet. Of course. And in her mind, perhaps, the librarian was playing Friar Laurence, the confidant who kept Romeo’s secret. Like Romeo, CC was not dead, just pretending. Marybeth Gallagher probably thought it was romantic. But she should have remembered how that story ended. A tragedy.

  Oz is still talking, outlining their investigation. “But once Hardesty realized the case was under scrutiny…” He shrugs. “He had to come back and make sure the coast was clear. And that no one could identify him as the person who was bartender that night.”

  The puzzle pieces fall into place. “DeCenzo,” I say, solemnly. “Claiborne Gettings.”

  “Hardesty came into DeCenzo’s bar right after you did,” Ortega says. He sighs. “And too bad Gettings picked right now to come home for a visit. Hardesty nailed him, too. We think he tracked him to some bar, got him drunk, and, well … we’re still investigating that one. But—”

  Kevin picks up his phone and starts punching in numbers.

  I’m, suddenly, flaringly, mad as hell. “My mother,” I say, glaring at Oz. “And me.” My mouth is dry and my fists are clenched. I stand up, though I didn’t plan to, and point to Oz. “Franklin and I told you Dorinda wasn’t guilty. Will Easterly knew it. Rankin knew it. We told you there was someone else out there. But you just dismissed us. And threatened to report us to the FCC. For what? Reporting the truth?”

  Kevin looks up, concerned. “Charlie?” he says. “This is the attorney general…”

  I’m aware that I’m crossing the line, but I’m too enraged to be polite. I plop back into the chair just to appease Kevin, but I’m still furious.

  “You and Tek decided it was more important for you to protect your reputations as crime busters, right? Make your way to the governor’s office? So you law-and-order types allowed two more people to be killed. Actually, almost four. Why aren’t you guilty of murder, too?”

  Kevin and Susannah stand up, and start talking at the same time.

  “Charlie,” Kevin says, making the time-out sign. “We need to talk about this like reasonable—”

  “She’s upset,” Susannah interrupts, her ropes of pearls clanking against her notebook. “She doesn’t mean—”

  Oz waves them both off and shifts his position on the desk. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look defeated. “We have to make decisions, the best we can,” he says. His voice has lost its luster. It’s hollow and grim. “Law enforcement is not an exact science. It’s evidence, and instinct. And in this case…”

  I know what he’s going to say next. I wish I could put my fingers in my ears so I don’t hear it.

  “She confessed,” he says.

  There’s a tap at the door. It’s Franklin, notebook in hand. Kevin waves him in. “Kevin, you called?” Franklin says. He looks between me and Ortega, then to Susannah, then to Kevin. Then back to me, his forehead furrowing. “What?”

  “It’s big,” is all I can think of to say. “CC Hardesty, boy Romeo. Jealousy, obsession, rage and murder.”

  “Susannah,” Kevin begins.

  “Right,” Susannah replies. She’s clicked on her cell phone, and speed-dials a number. “It’s me,” she says into the phone. “I need promo studio C, asap. New Charlie promos, airing tonight.” She snaps the phone off, and points to Franklin and me, back and forth. “You’re both working late, correct?”

  You bet, I say silently. “And we’ll need a camera,” I tell Susannah. “For the exclusive interview with Mr. Ortega.”

  I look at him, challenging. “Correct?”

  EPILOGUE

  I never imagined I’d see them all sitting in the same place. In rows of white and gold chairs, festooned with puffs of white tulle and nosegays of white peonies, one after the other, my friends and family and familiar faces. Some who have been happy for a long time. One who thought she’d never be happy again. My sister Nora and her husband Bix. Franklin and Stephen, heads together, reading the sleek white wedding program. Next to Stephen, Gaylen Sweeney. Next to her, Will Easterly. And though I can’t see his face, I can see his arm. It’s draped protectively and lovingly across the shoulders of the person sitting next to him. Dorinda Sweeney.

  I don’t have a seat. I’m waiting, standing in the back of an impeccably white canvas tent set up in the hydrangea-filled garden of the Endicott Estate. The rambling colonial-style mansion is big enough for an inside wedding, but when this August morning dawned fair and sparkling, we knew the tent had been the right decision. I’m waiting, in my actually not-so-terrible maid-of-honor dress, and watching through the French doors as Mom and her hairdresser fuss with some last-minute changes.

  A tuxedoed string-and-flute quartet, stationed in one corner, quietly plays music of hope and love and possibilities.

  And there’s Josh.

  He steps through the tent’s flowered entranceway, then steps back, pantomiming a whistle. He gives me the spinning-finger signal to twirl. “Yet again, you dazzle me, Charlie McNally,” he says. “Is that the dress you said you were ‘destined to loathe’? The nightmare in Pepto-Bismol chiffon, I think you called it?”

  “Yes, well, it wasn’t so bad, as it turned out. Watch.” I twist a little, and the tiers of pale gossamer fabric swirl gracefully around my ankles. “Kind of Ginger Rogers, maybe. And since you’re very Fred Astaire in that black tie, maybe we can—” I pause, concerned again. “But do I look like cotton candy?”

  Josh takes my hand and pulls me closer to him. “I adore cotton candy,” he says softly. “It’s deliciously sweet, and it melts in your mouth. And it always leaves you wanting more.” He slides an arm around my waist. “You sure you can’t leave right now?”

  “Daddy!” Penny, wearing a miniature of my dress and white pearlized Mary Janes, trots up and throws her arms around Josh’s waist. She pushes herself away from him and holds out her arms lik
e a model. “Do you like my dress?” She points a toe out from under her skirt. “And my shoes? With the tiny baby pearls on them?”

  Josh kisses the top of her head. When he looks up, his eyes are misting with a glimmer of pride, and love, and the passing of time. “I remember when you were a tiny baby,” he says, touching a just-curled lock of her beribboned hair. “Now you’re all grown-up.”

  “I know,” she says. “So I’m going to wear these shoes every day.” She points to the gold and white chairs. “Now you have to go sit down, Daddy,” she instructs. “We’re having a wedding.”

  Josh blows me a kiss, then one to his daughter, and heads for his seat.

  “You look so pretty, Charlie Mac,” Penny says.

  “So do you, sweetheart,” I say, adjusting the corona of late-summer peonies circling her dark curls. Where she came up with it, I don’t know. But she called me “Charlie Mac” for the first time last night at the rehearsal dinner. “Um” seems to have left the building. Lucky I had on waterproof mascara. “You all set on walking down the aisle?”

  “I go first, I walk slow,” Penny recites. “Step, touch, step, touch. All the way up to Ethan. Then you come next. Just like we practiced.”

  I hear a flurry of activity from the front flaps of the tent. It’s Maysie and Matthew, both looking at their watches, shepherding their children inside. Max is focused on some handheld electronic game, which he tucks into his pocket as soon as he sees me. I notice Molly has on little kitten heels. Apparently Maysie lost the adolescent footwear battle.

  Mays shoos the three of them to their seats, and gives me and Penny careful hugs, as much to protect her burgeoning stomach as our wedding attire.

  “You okay?” she asks me. She turns to Penny. “And you, honey? You look just beautiful.”

  Penny nods, and points her toe out for approval again.

  “Very nice.” Maysie nods appreciatively. “Pearls.”

  Maysie tucks her arm through mine and cocks her head toward the front row. “That’s quite a picture,” she says.

  “Yeah, that’s what I was looking at, too,” I agree. “Who’d have thought that group would be lined up together? Dressed to the hilt and at my mom’s wedding? You’ve got to admit, it’s a memory maker. And Dorinda.” I pause, taking a deep breath, as her reality sets in. “Well, it looks like she’ll have another chance at family.”

  “All because of you, Brenda Starr,” she says. “And what’s more, Oz will never get elected, now that Tek finally admitted to faking that photo lineup. Voters just don’t like evidence tampering, you know? Even the Great and Powerful can’t spin his way out of that one.”

  “Ah, who knows,” I say. “If he can blame it all on Tek, one rogue cop? All politics is loco, isn’t that what they say? But look. Check out Will Easterly’s arm.” I point to the gossip-worthy scene. “Seems Dorinda is acclimating nicely to freedom.”

  A solo flute begins the gentle melody of the Mozart Concerto in E flat. I know that’s the signal the ceremony is about to begin. “This is it,” I say to Maysie. I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “I’m glad you could be here.”

  “You’re next,” she whispers. “Even if you don’t catch your mom’s bouquet.” She trots toward her seat before I can reply. And I don’t have time to think about that right now.

  “All ready?” I whisper to Penny.

  She smiles confidently. “I’m set, Charlie Mac.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  I look past the rows of guests to the white canvas runner making a path down the aisle to the flower-laden dais. Lush pink and white peonies and lavender hydrangea, the essence of summer, cascade down the podium, their fragrance filling the tent. The late-afternoon sun gives the white canvas a pink glow, a wedding decoration from the universe that’s not offered in any catalogue.

  Behind the dais, Oliver Rankin, made a justice of the peace for the occasion, offers last-minute encouragement to a beaming Ethan Margolis. My soon-to-be stepdad, in charcoal pinstripes and a white-rose boutonniere, fairly radiates happiness and anticipation. He looks like it’s all he can do to keep his feet on the ground. Ethan pats his pocket, where I know he’s tucked Mom’s ring, and gives Rankin an enthusiastic thumbs-up. The audience, watching the blissed-out groom, murmurs a soft rustle of affectionate laughter.

  The quartet pauses. The sweetly familiar opening notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D sound softly from one violin. The audience quiets, waiting.

  Penny picks up her ivy-sprigged basket of white rose petals. “My turn now, right?” she whispers. Her eyes are shining with excitement.

  I touch her hair, then give her a tiny kiss on the forehead. “You’re the prettiest flower girl ever,” I say softly, wiping away a trace of my lipstick. “And the best.” I pat her on her crinolined rear. “Now do your stuff, kiddo. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Penny heads down the aisle, carefully touch-stepping and strewing rose petals. I take a deep breath and nod to Oliver, who motions the audience to rise for the bride.

  I turn to the entrance of the tent. And there’s Mom.

  One hand flies to my chest. For an instant, I’m unable to breathe. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears. She’s elegant, confident. And, I’ve got to admit, beautiful. This is her day.

  Ready? I ask silently.

  Mom settles her dove gray chiffon skirt as it catches the slight August breeze, and rearranges her bouquet of blazing late-summer dahlias.

  With a soft smile, she nods and blows me a kiss. The poignant music swells behind us. We stand, eyes locked, mother and daughter, surrounded by friends and family. Slowly, Mom raises two fingers in the peace sign.

  To us? She mouths the words, but I understand her perfectly.

  I raise my own two fingers, and give her our signal back.

  “To us,” I whisper. “To us.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  2016:

  Thank you, beyond description and imagination, to Kristin Sevick and everyone at Tor/Forge. And thank you to agent Lisa Gallagher, who knows we should reach for the stars.

  2009:

  Unending gratitude for Francesca Coltrera, with her keen eye and relentless blue pencil, who let me believe all the good ideas were mine.

  Kristin Nelson, the most remarkable agent anyone could wish for.

  Ann Leslie Tuttle, my brilliant, wise and gracious editor; Charles Griemsman, patient and droll, king of deadlines.

  To the remarkable team at Harlequin and MIRA, Tara Gavin, Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Valerie Gray. The inspirational Donna Hayes. Your unerring judgment and unfailing support make this an extraordinary experience.

  The artistry and savvy of Madeira James, Bonnie Katz, Judy Spagnola and Catherine Jeremko.

  The inspiration of Harley Jane Kozak, Mary Jane Clark, Elaine Viets, Amy Mackinnon, Jim Huang, David Morrell, Marianne Mancusi and Jessica Andersen.

  The posse at Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America: Cathy Cairns, Ruth McCarty and Paula Munier.

  My blog sisters at Jungle Red Writers: Jan Brogan, Hallie Ephron, Roberta Isleib, Rosemary Harris and Rhys Bowen.

  My dear friends Amy Isaac, Mary Schwager and Kate Shaplen Kahn; and my sister Nancy Landman.

  Mom—Mrs. McNally is not you, except for the wonderful parts. Dad—who loves every moment of this.

  And of course Jonathan, who never complained about all the pizza.

  Read on for a preview of the Agatha Award–Winning Jane Ryland novel

  TRUTH BE TOLD

  Available now from Forge Books

  1

  “I know it’s legal. But it’s terrible.” Jane Ryland winced as the Sandovals’ wooden bed frame hit the tall grass in the overgrown front yard and shattered into three jagged pieces. “The cops throwing someone’s stuff out the window. Might as well be Dickens, you know? Eviction? There’s got to be a better way.”

  Terrible facts. Great pictures. A perfect newspaper story. She turned to TJ. “You getting this?”

 
TJ didn’t take his eye from the viewfinder. “Rolling and recording,” he said.

  A blue-shirted Suffolk County sheriff’s deputy—sleeves rolled up, buzz cut—appeared at the open window, took a swig from a plastic bottle. He shaded his eyes with one hand.

  “First floor, all clear,” he called. Two uniforms comparing paperwork on the gravel driveway gave him a thumbs-up. The Boston cops were detailed in, they’d explained to Jane, in case there were protesters. But no pickets or housing activists had appeared. Not even a curious neighbor. The deputy twisted the cap on the bottle, tossed away the empty with a flip of his gloved hand. The clear plastic bounced on top of a brittle hedge, then disappeared into the browning grass.

  “Oops,” he said. “I’m headed for the back.”

  “That’s harsh,” TJ muttered.

  “You got it, though, right?” Jane knew it was a “moment” for her story, revealing the deputy’s cavalier behavior while the Sandovals—she looked around, making sure the family hadn’t shown up—were off searching for a new place to live. The feds kept reporting the housing crisis was over. Tell that to the now-homeless Sandovals, crammed—temporarily, they hoped—into a relative’s spare bedroom. Their modest ranch home in this cookie-cutter neighborhood was now an REO—“real estate owned” by Atlantic & Anchor Bank. The metal sign on the scrabby lawn said FORECLOSED in yellow block letters. Under the provisions of the Massachusetts Housing Court, the deputies were now in charge.

  “Hey! Television! You can’t shoot here. It’s private property.”

  Jane felt a hand clamp onto her bare arm. She twisted away, annoyed. Of course they could shoot.

  “Excuse me?” She eyed the guy’s three-piece pinstripe suit, ridiculous on a day like today. He must be melting. Still, being hot didn’t give him the right to be wrong. “We’re on the public sidewalk. We can shoot whatever we can see and hear.”

  Jane stashed her notebook into her tote bag, then held out a hand, conciliatory. Maybe he knew something. “And not television. Newspaper. The new online edition. I’m Jane Ryland, from the Register.”