“…and we’d like to extend a true Bexter welcome as she enters our little community. Now we have our own in-house investigative reporter.” He raises a glass in my direction.
Dear Miss Manners.
“Always looking for a good story, Headmaster,” I say. My most congenial. I went to Chicago’s Public School 11, and I may not ever be comfortable calling someone “Headmaster,” but here I am in Rome.
There’s a smattering of applause as the formal part of the evening ends. I grab Josh’s arm, pull him to a corner. “Show me everyone,” I demand.
Josh looks perplexed. “Everyone who?”
“You know. The people you said know about the calls.”
Josh’s arm stiffens. I watch his expression change.
“I just want to know,” I say, attempting to cut off his inevitable protest. “I just want to see them. I promise I won’t say anything.”
Josh sighs, then looks down at me skeptically.
I try for earnest. “Soul of discretion.”
Josh points across the room, defeated. “You see Dorothy? Just coming out of the other room. Holding what looks like scotch. That’s Alethia Espinosa with her. Dean of girls.”
“Are they sisters?” I ask. “They’re like fluttery little wrens.”
“Hardly. Like I said, don’t get in their way,” Josh replies. He puts down his brandy. “And Dorothy has a real sister, who lives with her.”
I feel a touch on my elbow.
“Miss McNally, I have some members of our Bexter family you must meet.” The Head has two more men in copycat blazers in his wake, both half a step behind him. Their posture verges on obsequious.
“May I present Harrison Ebling, our new development consultant, and our bursar, Aaron Pratt.”
The moneymen. The fundraisers. I almost smile. They think I’m making the big reporter bucks and are gunning to put the hit on me for a donation. But this may be a plus. Josh had told me the bursar knew about the calls. Maybe this development person does, too. I plot strategy, wishing for my notebook.
“How nice to meet you,” I say. “We’re so eager for Penny to start next semester. How long have each of you been with Bexter?”
Josh’s foot goes on top of mine. And it’s not a mistake.
I move my boot away, resisting the urge to add a tiny kick indicating I’m just delicately probing, and keep my eyes charmingly fixed on the two newcomers. “And do tell me what you’re each working on. I’m so eager to learn everything about my new Bexter family.”
It’s a private school. But I bet nothing stays private for long.
Chapter Five
“Just look at me, not at the camera.” I smile encouragingly at Declan Ross. We’re in his living room, sitting knee to knee on the spindle-backed chairs Franklin and I moved out of the dining room and placed in front of the fireplace.
I knew today’s interview would make our story. Put a real face on the problem. When I called from Channel 3 earlier this morning, giving the accident victim the tried-and-true “it could help other people” tactic, he’d agreed. Happily, this time it’s actually true.
“Rolling,” J.T. says. “I have speed.”
Franklin, notebook in hand and sitting out of camera range on a flame-stitch sectional couch, performs an over-dramatic cough, complete with eye-rolling. “I have speed” is movie jargon, because film cameras have to rev up before you can start shooting. Our video camera is at the proper speed instantly. J.T. just says it to sound hip and Hollywood. Franklin isn’t going to let him get away with it.
I throw him a cool-it look and turn to Declan Ross.
“So, Mr. Ross,” I begin. I adjust the skirt of my new and somewhat risky aubergine wool suit. “How did you feel when you got the recall letter, saying your car’s brakes could fail, and that most likely, a failure would happen at high speed?”
“How can carmakers get away with it?” Ross says. He holds out both hands, supplicant, illustrating the depth of his concern. “They manufactured vehicles that were defective. Thousands of them. They should never have left the factory. I could have been killed. My family could have been killed. It’s a nightmare, not just for me, but for every driver on the road. I’m enraged.”
I pause for a beat or two. Truth is, we’re done. In thirty seconds, Mr. Ross has given me all we need: anger, disdain, fear for his own family and outrage for others. We could take down all our equipment and walk out of here right now. I glance at Franklin again. We don’t need to exchange a word. He shrugs, smiling, then rolls a finger, pantomiming, “It’s a wrap.”
But suddenly I’m not sure.
“Couple more questions,” I say. It’s rude to take your sound bites and run. Plus, I just thought of something. “Back to the accident. When you were driving the rental car. The air bag on your side didn’t go off, did it? Did you ever find out why? Did the police ask about that?”
“Hardly.” Declan Ross is dismissive. He pushes up the sleeves of his navy turtleneck and blinks, briefly, after looking directly at the megawatt light pointed at his face. People only do that once.
“The cops couldn’t get out of there fast enough as soon as they saw we were all okay. Once they realized I hadn’t gotten the license plate-how could I? They were like, ‘Well, we’ll be in touch.’”
“Have they been?”
“Nope. And they sure didn’t seem too optimistic about finding the guy. Now I check out every car that goes by, trying to find him myself. Bastar-I mean-oh, I shouldn’t say-” Ross, suddenly flustered, looks at me.
“It’s just tape,” I say, waving off his embarrassment. “Not live television. You can start over, no problem. And I understand you’re upset.”
“Upset that we’ll never find who did this,” Ross continues. “Cops don’t seem to care.”
“Well, it’s an unfortunate reality,” I say. “If no one was hurt, it may not be worth their time to charge someone with driving to endanger. A trial could be tough. Because the other driver, forgive me, could say it was your fault. Or that it happened because of the icy road.”
Declan Ross shakes his head. “It’s just not fair. It was a rental car. And I didn’t get the extra insurance. So now, I take the hit. And my insurance premium does, too. Someone should find that car, you know? Find that damn driver and take his license. Force him to pay. He could have killed my children.”
I pause, leaving a beat of silence so that juicy sound bite is easy to edit. And he’s right. Someone should find that driver. Maybe Franklin and me. Maybe there’s a bigger story we’re missing.
“Mr. Ross?” Franklin’s voice. “Sorry to interrupt. You said you ‘check out every car that goes by.’ So did you see something recognizable? Even just the color of the car might prove helpful.”
“Daddy?” a voice comes from somewhere behind me, then the squeak of rubber on hardwood floor. Gabriel, in gigantic rubber-soled running shoes, runs to his father’s knee. “Can I be on TV?”
Ross wraps one arm around Gabriel, then in one motion lifts him up and deposits him on his lap. In his floppy New England Patriots T-shirt, all ankles and knees and ears, the little boy looks a lot less scared than he did by the side of the road.
I decide to play along. After all, we have all we need. “So, Gabriel, who’s your favorite football player?”
Gabe looks dubious. Football is not why he’s here.
“It’s was like I told you. Like I told Daddy,” he says, stolid and serious as only a five-year-old can be. “It looked like my blue Matchbox car.”
I’m silent. Franklin is silent. Behind me, almost in a whisper, J.T. says, “Still rolling.”
“What kind of a car is that? Do you know?” I ask. I’m interviewing a five-year-old. How reliable can he be? Can I even use this on the air? But he’s on his father’s lap and his father isn’t stopping me. I keep my voice gentle.