I page through it, half concentrating, and then flip back to the front cover, ready to put the booklet back in the box. The cover is dated March. But it’s not March yet.
Odd? I lean back in Dorothy’s chair, musing. Or not so odd. Maybe this was just printed and they were getting ready to send it out. Donations lists. Which reminds me. Wen and Fee Dulles made a big deal of how much they’d contributed. Randall Kindell, too. Might as well find out just how much. Or if it’s even true. I open it again, searching.
And, I see, someone else has apparently done exactly the same thing. Fiona Rooseveldt Dulles. I find her listed on page 22 under Patrons. She’s easy to find because her name is circled.
Circled? Why?
On page 24, in Benefactors, I find Randall Cross Kindell. Circled in pencil. Faint, but unmistakable. Wenholm Dulles. Circled. And then I see a few more. Names I don’t recognize. Most names aren’t circled.
Why did Dorothy mark these names? As targets? As suspects? As allies? Or enemies?
After carefully writing the names in my notebook, in order and by category, I close the pamphlet, and put it back into the cardboard box. Nothing more to look at. I’m done. I shrug on my coat, tying its woolen belt and flipping up the collar against the chilly afternoon. I pick up my tote bag. Done.
The little study is quiet. Millie is probably deep into her nap. A tiny shaft of sunlight struggles through the gauzy curtains, glinting briefly on the picture frames lining Dorothy’s desk.
What if there’s something I missed? What if something is marked or checked or underlined, and I didn’t see it? What if that’s the key to the whole thing-whatever it is?
I can’t stand it.
I take the fundraising report and slide it inside my bag. Who will even know it’s gone?
Chapter Thirteen
“Thanks for joining us on Drive Time all you car lovers out there. It’s Tyler and Taylor on Wixie, here to…” The booming radio voice pauses. “Drive. You.” Two voices talking now. “Car-razy!”
A souped-up version of the Beatles’ “Drive My Car” fills my Jeep as I head back to my Beacon Hill apartment. I’m verging on late. I’ve got just enough time to get home, grab some food, change clothes and then go meet J.T. and Franklin for our valet-parking stakeout. I wonder if Franko is still upset about the Kevin meeting. I shake my head, tuning out the radio chatter. I wasn’t trying to cut him out of the process. He’ll have to get over it.
As for Kevin, I have about two weeks now to make my New York decision. My current vote is yes. This morning at home it was no. How can something that once seemed so irresistibly compelling fade into “maybe”? Every television journalist dreams of going to the network. Do we outgrow our dreams? Am I afraid? Afraid of New York? Or of making the wrong decision? Over the past week or so, I’ve changed my mind about fifty thousand times.
“And here’s Morris from Milton,” Taylor’s or Tyler’s voice grates through the speakers. Maysie’s next show is tomorrow, but she’s insisting now that she’s home, she can do it herself, over the phone. So much for my short-lived and low-paying radio career. But at least I don’t have to listen to these guys hawking used cars.
“…my wife and I are leaving Beantown,” the caller is saying. “Yup, got a job down south, so we’re getting out of Dodge.”
“Good one,” Taylor or Tyler retorts. “Dodge, huh? But it’s not a Dodge you’re selling today, right?”
This is appallingly stupid. I reach to change the station, but have to hit the horn instead. I glare at some teenager who’s paying more attention to his cell phone than his driving.
“…it’s hot, it’s cool, it’s the Mustang you’ve always wanted,” the voice says. “Metallic blue, perfect condition, and we’re so pumped to sell, we’re ready to deal.”
“Sounds like a deal! And whoo hoo, listeners, you heard it here first. So let’s give your phone number…”
A blue Mustang. They’re selling a blue Mustang. Is someone moving stolen cars over the radio? Pretty smart. And pretty safe. The person on the phone is just a voice. An anonymous voice. Could be calling from anywhere.
Is the blue Mustang a clone of Michael Borum’s car? I have Borum’s VIN. All I have to do is see it, check the VIN, and I could prove it’s stolen. And that means I could prove the seller is part of the-whatever it is. Bet Franklin can’t stay angry through that.
Keeping my eye on the road and driving one-handed, I scramble in my Jeep’s center console for some paper. Nothing. A pen. I could write the phone number on my hand or somewhere. I finally grab one.
The phone number is Boston’s area code, 617-I try to ink the numbers onto my palm. Nothing. The pen is dry. All I’m getting is red indentations.
I’ve got to remember the number. I flip off the radio and being singing it out loud, to the tune of an old Marvelettes song from the sixties. Still singing, I use one finger to write the number on the car window. The temperature outside is plummeting. The weather guy predicted it’ll go below freezing. Maybe when I get home and puff my warm breath on the window, the number will appear. Just like in The Lady Vanishes.
Almost home. Five-five-five, zero-one-nine-three. I sing it, over and over. Pull into my parking place.
I yank open the building’s front door. Race up the steps, still singing under my breath. Five-five-five. Up two flights of stairs, whirling myself around the newel post of the second landing. Zero-one-nine-three. Dig out my keys. Open the door. Run for the kitchen phone. And the pad and pencil I always keep there.
Five-five-five…
And there’s the pencil and paper. Zero-one-nine-three. And the number goes safely onto the pad. I raise a triumphant fist. I win.
Grabbing the kitchen phone receiver, I punch in the numbers, my plan forming as I dial. I’ll be the dumb-blonde car buyer, I’ll take a hidden camera and go see the car, okay, in some kind of disguise, and nail the bad guys.
I hold the phone way from my ear, incensed, hearing the most irritating sounds ever created. Is there anything more ear-harassing than the rising scale doo-doo-DOO of “the number you have reached is not in service”?
Did I dial wrong? I punch in the numbers again. Doo-doo-DOO. I slam down the phone. Stupid short-term memory.
I stand there, fists clenched, seething. Staring at the phone number as if I can learn something. My stupid phone-number song is still going through my head. I’ll probably never forget it. And it will take the place of something I really need to remember.
My fists unclench. I’ll just call Wixie tomorrow. Get Saskia to tell me the number. Or I could call her now. I reach for the phone, then stop halfway. Why am I going to tell her I need the number? I suddenly want to buy a Mustang?
Plan B. I’ll use the whole situation to make Franklin happy. I’ll tell him about it tonight during the stakeout and he can call the radio station tomorrow. He can pose as the buyer, go undercover with the camera and get all the glory.
Another life disaster successfully averted.
“He’s not coming? Are you kidding me? Why didn’t he call me?” I lean out the window of my Jeep, motor running and headlights on. It’s getting ready to snow again, tiny flakes spitting onto the windshield. I have two huge coffees in the cup holders, one for me and one for Franklin. Now, to my surprise, it sounds like they’re both for me. “Is he sick?”
J.T.’s in the station’s fiery-red Explorer, his window open, his headlights facing the opposite direction in the alleyway outside Channel 3. He buzzes down his window so it’s open wider and leans out to reply. “Nope. He just said he’s feeling like a third wheel. Something like that. Said we didn’t need him.”