Let’s hear it for stereotypes. The salespeople lock their sights on conspicuous consumer J.T. Franklin is just a guy in a sweatshirt with a Bluetooth earpiece. Again, our plan works.
While Franklin heads for the back of the lot, J.T. tries to engage as many of the salespeople as possible. I burst out laughing as J.T. takes out a pocket-size digital camera and gets the slavering employees to snap his photo with car after car. Our cover story is that he wants the photos to show his wife her new-car choices. The snapshots will prove dangerous cars are for sale. If we can find any. And I’m betting my job we can.
“Try to find a 2006 Cambria,” I remind Franklin. I tap the keyboard, check that my battery level is nice and plump and click open my notes. “They’ve been recalled for transmission failures. Look for the first character in the Vehicle Identification Number to be a one. A two means the car was made in Canada and we don’t want those.”
All the way across the street, I see Franklin gesture to wave me off. He knows. The seventeen-digit VINs on each car are the key to this story. They’re like a car’s social security number. Its unique fingerprint. Once we grab the VIN, we can look up the car’s repair history.
“Here’s a pale blue Cambria, 2006,” Franklin says, opening the driver’s-side door to see the metal plate on the inside of the doorjamb, one of the places where the VIN is always stamped. “Yes, one is the first number here. And now, confirming that the tenth character is six for made in 2006. Yes. Ready, Charlotte?”
Franklin reads me a string of letters and numbers. I type it into the computer database we’re creating. He moves down the row to the next Cambria, and then the next and the next. It’s time-consuming and there’s absolutely no room for mistakes. If I type even one digit incorrectly, we’ll be looking up the wrong car and our story will crash and burn.
Franklin moves away from the line of Cambrias. I see J.T. leading his entourage to get the same cars on camera. Little do they know.
I get a little flare of goose bumps. And it’s not because the heat in the car is off. We’re a great team. And this is a great story.
“Franklin, you there?” I say into the phone.
I just had two more ideas about how we can make our story even better.
I flip open my reporter’s notebook. Although we’re verging on late for the Bexter party, my eye-wearying day of transcribing VINs is not over yet. Josh is still inside changing, so there’s just enough time.
“Just read me the numbers and letters, okay?” It’s probably the last thing Annie Vilardi expected me to say about the new-well, new to her-Ombra sedan her parents just gave her. She’s helping to make payments with the money she earns sitting with Penny. Now the two of them, wearing identical Bexter jackets and tasseled ski caps, are delightedly demonstrating every gadget and gizmo on the white four-door. It’s the automotive version of a refrigerator, safe and boxy. But my research is about to prove even cars like this could have unrepaired recalls. So practicing what I preach, I’d better check out Annie’s car.
“Look through the windshield, on the dashboard. Nope, tucked in farther. The numbers are on a little metal placard.”
“Oh, yeah, I see it!” Annie says. She calls out the rest of the VIN as Josh trots down the front steps, checking his watch.
“Keep the porch lights on,” he says. “Don’t let anyone in. You have our cell numbers. And turn off the oven after you take out the pizza.”
“Of course, Professor Gelston,” Annie says.
“Duh,” Penny says.
One Bexter Academy Drive, the most prestigious address in Bexter faculty housing, is just five houses away from Josh’s number six, though we can’t see it through the neighborhood’s stand of evergreens. Tonight is Headmaster Byron Forrestal’s annual open house, a command performance for Bexter faculty and staff, as well as parents of new students.
And it’s my first appearance as a parent. At least, step-parent-to-be. I link my fingers through Josh’s as we approach the Head’s ornately carved oak front door and ring the bell. It feels as if I’m stepping into a new life. It’s also my first real opportunity to sniff out the truth about those phone calls. If I’m a parent, I don’t want my daughter to be in danger.
“Sweets?” I say. “They all know we’re getting married, right?”
Before Josh can answer, the door sweeps open and a cultured voice comes from behind it.
“Indeed. It’s our Josh and his beautiful Ms. McNally. Welcome, welcome. And my most sincere congratulations to the happy couple.”
The Head himself has answered, looking as stereotypically predictable in his prep-school mode as Franklin and J.T. did in their undercover outfits this afternoon. Our coats are whisked away. The Head is clipped and almost military, compact and square shouldered in his double-breasted blue blazer and yellow Bexter tie. Gray slacks match his gray temples.
As the Head leads us into a cozy living room, all firelight and candles and buzzing with low-key chat, it looks as if every other man is dressed almost identically. What’s more, someone must have sent the women a twin-set-and-pearls e-mail. I adjust the collar of my black turtleneck dress. Close enough.
“Biscuits and brandy, of course, for you both. Our little tradition.” The Head gestures to a gleaming array of silver trays and cut-glass decanters matching crystal glasses. “Then do look around the cottage, my dear.”
Very lord of the manor. I don’t sense any hesitation or nervousness. I guess he assumes Josh didn’t tell me the Bexter secret. He’s quite an actor.
“You’ll see I’m a history buff. As your Josh will explain. Our meeting starts in just a few moments.”
The Head strides away, leaving the faintest scent of-scotch? Josh pours brandy. Which I couldn’t possibly drink at this hour.
“‘Cottage,’ did he say? History buff?” I ask softly, close to Josh’s ear. His living room is twice as big as what I’d consider a cottage, and twice as elaborate. Handsomely patterned rugs. Majestic fireplace. Mahogany paneling. Elaborate ship models, sails full. Swords, betasseled and polished. Glowing sconces. I steal a closeup look at a framed parchment document, elaborate and unreadable, then at a stand holding an open leather-bound book, pages yellowing and brown edged. “Looks like a Revolutionary War museum in here. How does he afford all this valuable stuff on a school administrator’s salary? Or is that a lot higher than I’d imagined?”
A tweedy couple, her scarf recognizably expensive and his tie yellow, both holding brandy glasses in hand, pass by us with polite party smiles. I see the woman do a fleeting double take. I’ve seen that look many times before. She’s realized who I am.
“One Bexter Academy Drive is endowed, so it’s rent free,” Josh whispers after they’re out of earshot. “Plus, he’s single. Uses all his salary on his colonial history obsession. That book on the stand is his latest treasure, scuttlebutt is he outbid some museum for it. But there’s nothing old-fashioned about his alarm system. He showed me once. It’s state of the art.”
“Who’s that? In the Hermès scarf?” I ask. I tuck myself behind Josh, scanning the room. I hide my brandy snifter behind a massive white poinsettia. “Dorothy Wirt is here, right? Where? Who’s the guy with the-”
Someone claps for attention, instantly silencing the cocktail-time chatter and the beginnings of my detective work.
Josh shoots me a “you’re not fooling me” look. “Tell you later,” he says.
The Head is the center of attention.
“Welcome all, to our annual gathering. New parents, tonight we’ll discuss rules and regulations. Responsibilities. And of course, my favorite topic and yours, fundraising.”
My brain clicks off a bit, scanning faces in the crowd, as the Head natters on in the plummy voice Josh imitated so perfectly. Luckily, I manage to hear my name and look attentive again before it’s too late.