I check the cell-phone screen. Green letters pop into view. Dropped call.
When I reach the Parker House, I instantly spot Wenholm Dulles, wearing a double-Windsor rep tie, button-down white oxford shirt and expansive demeanor. He takes up most of the room on his side of the plush taupe suede booth. More a salon than a café, Parker’s has a subdued exclusive air that keeps tourists away and conversations private. Big menus. Big prices. Big business.
Dulles has his camel’s-hair overcoat folded plumply, russet satin lining showing, on the seat beside him. That obviously means “this seat taken.” I guess I’m supposed to sit next to the woman across the table.
“Miss McNally. Wen Dulles.” Dulles rises, much as he can. His navy-blazered bulk snags the tablecloth, gold buttons catching on the linen as he leans toward me. I get a solid handshake. Dulles smoothes his striped tie back into place, then gestures. “My wife, Fiona.”
Leaving my own coat on to telegraph my intentions, I ease into the booth. My back is to the restaurant. I can see my own reflection in the hazy mirror that stretches the length of the filigree-papered wall. I can also see the weary face of Fiona Dulles. Carefully ash blond, flawless eyebrows, pale skin stretched tight across patrician cheekbones. She’s one second away from tears. She hasn’t spoken a word.
“Call us Wen and Fee, Charlie,” Dulles instructs.
Fee, who must weigh less than a hundred pounds, is wrapped in a Burberry shawl. The fringed plaid is draped over her boiled-wool jacket, its tiny buttons embossed with an elaborate design. Her leather gloves, caramel and creamy as expensive chocolate, are on the table in front of her, one laid carefully on top of the other. Fee Dulles drops her eyes, and begins to stroke the gloves with a manicured hand.
Now I remember. This is the woman in the Hermès scarf who recognized me at the Head’s party.
“Lost connection earlier,” Wen Dulles continues. His voice, gruff-edged, seems impatient with the apology. “Damn phones.”
“Wen,” his wife says. Her voice barely registers above a whisper. “Please. This isn’t necessary.”
A waitress arrives at our table. With one silent glance, Wen instructs her to leave.
“Mr. Dulles?” I begin. I can feel the clock ticking. Franklin will be back any moment. My brain begins to concoct dentist stories. I have to hurry. But I’m so curious. “You said it was about Bexter?”
Dulles splays both hands on the white tablecloth, showing manicured fingernails, a chunky class ring with a deep amethyst stone.
“Fee went to Bexter. We both did. It’s a fine school. Old school. Got the right stuff. We’ve donated a pile of money, I don’t mind telling you. To keep it that way.” He leans toward me, sizing me up. “But now we’ve gotten phone calls. Two of them. Nasty stuff. Nasty. My wife doesn’t think we should involve you. But I want you to find out who’s behind those calls.”
“I can’t-” I pause, stopping myself midrefusal. I didn’t contact Wen and Fee Dulles. They contacted me. This is inarguably a green light for me to investigate the Bexter phone calls without it being linked to Josh. And that’s what I’m going to do. “Can you tell me more? When did the calls come in? At your home? Who answered? What did the caller say?”
Fee looks at me and opens her mouth to say something.
“Our home. Our private number.” Wen raises a hand to stop her. “Fee answered the calls. Same person. Same message. But this remains confidential. Agreed?”
“A man or a woman?” I nod, directing my questions to Fee. I need this information. “What did they say?”
Wen nods, apparently giving his wife permission to continue. Or maybe, ordering her to.
“I couldn’t distinguish, male or female,” she begins. She puts a hand to her throat, pursing her lips. Shakes her head. “No. I just answered, as I usually do, and the voice said…”
She pauses, looking at her husband. He tips his head, go on.
“The voice said, ‘Do you know where your children are?’ And hung up. Have you ever heard of such a thing? That silly slogan from television. I thought it must be the prank. Senior prank at Bexter, you’ve heard of it?”
“I have. Heard of the prank, I mean.” But I’m thinking that’s not what this is.
“But I was so…unnerved, I called Bexter to check on Lexie and Tal. Dorothy-poor Dorothy-said they were fine.”
“The second call was no prank.” Wen’s voice is judgmental. “Last Wednesday. The same caller. This time, asked for money. Go on, Fee.”
“You’re aware of what happened at Milton Academy? The scandal? The sex? The voice told me Bexter was in the same situation.” Fee’s hushed voice catches, and those tears seem imminent. With two long fingers she begins to worry a votive candleholder, the flame flickering as she twists the crystal cylinder.
“Not sex, though. It was drugs. Pills. All kinds. That our son, Talbott, was deeply involved in it somehow. The police were closing in. They said if we sent a money order for nine thousand dollars, Tal’s name would be kept out of it. If we didn’t, everyone would know.”
“We mailed a check to the post-office box,” Wen says. “Yesterday. With Tal’s college applications pending, we couldn’t risk it.”
“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Dulles, this is a matter for the police.” So much for my big Bexter story. This is far beyond anything I can handle. I put up both palms, stopping any further discussion. “It’s extortion. Blackmail. You must report this. You couldn’t be the only ones getting calls. And drugs being sold? To students? And you know blackmailers never stop. They always want more.”
“I understand. However-” Wen Dulles makes a flat dismissive gesture “-I’m certain Tal has done nothing wrong. But it’s imperative that our son goes to college with the spotless record we’ve all worked so diligently to keep. We’ll pay whatever we need to make that happen.”
“But this is just the beginning.” Why doesn’t he grasp the big picture? “It’s not going to end. And we only investigate what may be possible stories for the news. That publicity is exactly what you say you don’t want. You want the police. You really do.”
Fiona’s tears have won their battle. She’s dabbing her face with a delicate handkerchief.
“You have an inside track at Bexter, do you not?” Wen Dulles gathers his coat, his voice carefully polite. “And you solve problems. Solve this one. And keep our children out of it.”
I watch the couple leave the restaurant, Wen striding ahead, his wife behind. And I’m left alone. With another secret.
So much for teamwork. Although it’s my fault. Back at the station, Franklin had left a sticky note of his own on my computer monitor. It said: Tomorrow. Not even signed. In just that one word, I can feel the tension.
But, fine. Tomorrow it is. And at least I didn’t have to lie about seeing Wen and Fee Dulles.
Tonight, Josh is working late, Penny’s having dinner with Annie. I’m at home, my Beacon Hill home, in sweatpants and a vintage Beatles sweatshirt, having a glass of wine and nibbling ancient but vacuum-sealed string cheese from my neglected refrigerator. Prime-time CNN mumbles in the background. I’m on a ruthless mission. Suddenly, there’s too much stuff in my apartment. It’s all got to go.
I’ve already yanked three of the four drawers from my dresser, dumping more T-shirts and scarves and forgotten sweaters than anyone could possibly own onto my bed. That way I can’t go to sleep until it’s all divvied up. Three big green plastic bags await my decisions. Keep. Throw. Charity.
With a sigh, I put my wine on the nightstand and sit cross-legged on the floor. Selecting a never-worn and perfectly good turquoise wool hoodie, another failed attempt to break out of always wearing black, I fold it into the charity bag. But I’m thinking more about Wen and Fiona Dulles than my fashion mistakes. Organizing my thoughts along with the sweaters.