“Coo-kie. Coo-kie,” Penny pounds both fists on the counter, making the Monster face, and performing a perfect Sesame Street voice. “How come you’re not in TV clothes, anyway? You have a day off?”
“Chocolate chip cookies for breakfast?” Josh sniffs the air, then tucks a quick kiss behind my ear.
I shiver, every nerve ending on high, and can still feel his touch even after he takes his place next to Penny.
“Hey, baby girl. Charlie Mac’s making cookies. And she’s wearing an apron. Think she’s been taken over by aliens?”
Today’s Bexter tie is navy blue. On anyone else I’d think his wardrobe was a bit overprepped. But on Josh? Pinstripes and tweed, oxford and corduroy, bring it on. Also, take it off.
Penny points to the trash can. “They’re refrigerator things. The kind where you cut the dough. See the plastic wrapper?”
I cross my arms, pretending annoyance. “Hey, gang. Easy on the new kid, huh? Guess that means you don’t care if I take all the cookies with me. If they’re the gross refrigerator things. Speaking of the trash can, Penno, what’s the deal with all the cans of tuna?”
“Cookie, cookie,” Penny begins her chant again, and Josh joins in. Botox sits by the trash can, wrapping her tail around herself.
I place three boxes of cereal on the counter, then yank open a bag of dry cat food for Toxie. She sneers at me. And flounces out of the room. “I’m working the late shift today, remember, guys? So I’ll be home really, really late tonight. You okay for dinner?”
Home, I called it. And I’m making sure Josh and Penny are set for dinner. Huh.
“Pizza!” Penny crows. “And Annie’s coming. And school is almost here. And Annie says I’ll love it. AndAnnie says the seniors are going to rock the prank this year.”
I glance at Josh. I know we’re thinking the same thing. Seems like Annie knows about the senior prank. Was Alethia somehow a victim? Is the prank phone calls?
Josh shrugs, telegraphing “go ahead.” He pours cereal into red ceramic bowls, one for him and one for Penny, and adds milk.
“The prank?” I ask. I feign innocence to see if I can lure Penny to tell me more. Then I almost laugh. I’m using my reporter techniques on a nine-year-old.
“Yes,” Penny pronounces. She chews a spoonful of cereal, then sits up very straight, honoring the significance of her knowledge. She points to me with her spoon. “You know the prank, Charlie Mac. Every year the seniors do it. It rocks. It’s just a thing to freak the teachers out. And Annie says this year it’s going to be the best. Annie says it’s going to be-”
She stops. Claps a hand over her mouth. Then she puts both fists on her waist, her spoon dripping milk onto the tile floor. “No way. I can’t tell you. It’s a big fat secret. And I promised to keep it.”
“Good for you,” I say. I check the cookies, then Josh, then turn back to Penny. “Of course, you know it’s not good to keep a bad thing secret, right? We’ve talked about that.”
“Puh-leeze,” Penny says.
“I remember one year, someone put a baby pig in the cafeteria.” Josh puts his bowl in the sink. “Just tell me one thing. Does this year’s prank include farm animals?”
“Oh, Daddo, that’s gross,” Penny says. “I guess it’s okay to tell you. It won’t have animals.”
“So, the prank hasn’t already started?” I ask. This is what we really want to know.
“No way.” Penny shows me her now-empty cereal bowl. “One little cookie?”
The chocolate chip cookies are arranged on a white china plate and covered with a delicate white cloth napkin, embroidered and pristine. I’m hoping my Martha Stewart presentation gets me some points. I’d asked Millie Wirt if I might come over, sort of half indicating it was Professor Gelston’s fiancée paying a condolence call after her sister Dorothy’s “accident.” And Millie said yes. Now I’m standing on the brick front steps of Dorothy and Millie’s tiny white colonial house on Tindall Street. Waiting for a bereaved sister to answer the doorbell. I wonder if Millie gets to keep the whole house now.
The door to the garage where Alethia discovered Dorothy in her car is closed now and there are no remnants of the yellow crime-scene tape. It’s been eight days since Dorothy’s death. Everyone knows Alethia will not survive. I’m suspicious that two best friends will die within days of each other. I’m suspicious that people insist it’s a coincidence.
I feel a tiny rush of guilt over using someone’s grief to get answers. I reassure myself it’s for the greater good. Just what I said to convince Michael Borum. I hope he believed it. I guess I do.
The door opens. I hold out my cookies like a peace offering.
“Miss McNally. How kind of you.”
Millie Wirt, cropped steel-gray hair, elegant but delicate with a touch of blush and palest of lipstick, accepts the plate with a gentle nod. A gold-linked bracelet dangles from one slender wrist. I know Dorothy’s younger sister is some sort of business consultant, travels constantly. I can tell she’s sad, yet she’s chic and confident, a perfect exemplar that sixty-five is the new fifty-five.
“Please.” Millie’s voice drifts a bit as she waves me into the hallway. Several arrangements of fading flowers line a narrow table set in front of a tall gilt-framed mirror. A brass-and-glass light glows above. The Wirts’ home smells a bit of lilac. Or lavender. Something gracious. Something refined.
In the living room, all chintz and needlepoint, I see a silver tray, flowered china teapot and two cups. But brown cardboard book boxes are flaps-open in front of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Behind the couch, a door is open to a little office. I see a desk crowded with picture frames. More books. More boxes. And through an archway into the dining room, even more sturdy brown packing boxes marked Can-Do Movers line the floor.
“Forgive me,” Millie says, taking my coat and gesturing me to the couch. She puts the plate of cookies on the coffee table next to the tea tray. “I’m packing, of course.”
I perch on the edge of the couch, not quite sure about my next move. How do you ask someone if they think their sister was murdered, and if so, why? But if she’s packing, that means she’s leaving. And everything she may know will soon be out of reach.
“I’m so sorry,” I begin.
“Yes, it’s Bexter property, of course,” Millie misunderstands my regrets. “Bexter provided housing for Dottie for all those years. She invited me to live here with her, so much easier, my work and all. And she was getting on, even though she did love her job. We were the only ones left of the Wirts. It was lovely to be together. But of course, now…” Millie takes a breath, and pours a cup of pale green tea. “Well, I’ll be moving, and Bexter will move someone else into the Tindall house. That’s what we’ve always called it, the Tindall house.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I try again, accepting my teacup. She seems grateful for someone to talk to. Fine. Talk to me.
Millie pours another cup. “The Bexter people have been lovely. The Head. Harrison Ebling. Bursar Pratt. You saw the flowers. And the students, of course, poor things. Dorothy knew every single one of them. And all about them. They were her family, you know. She’d been at Bexter for thirty-some years, poor thing. And now with Alethia, of course.”
Millie places her spoon on a square linen napkin.
“And that’s why you’re here, am I right?” She smiles ruefully before I can respond to her very surprising question. “I know you’re a reporter, Miss McNally-”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie. I’m Millie. And I would have called you, very soon, had you not contacted me. I’ve seen you on television. I know what you do. Thank you for the cookies.” She pauses, staring at her tea. “What I’m really looking for is information.”