“Hey, team.” J.T. appears at our door. He has the hidden camera in one hand, the lens to the hidden camera in the other. He’s holding both pieces of equipment as if they were contagious. “I have good news and bad news,” he begins.
I wave both hands to stop him, then point to the speakerphone.
“She’s leaving a message,” Franklin explains, his voice muted as if he’s calling a golf match.
J.T. leans against the doorjamb, waiting. His eyes register increasing understanding as I speak.
“Mr. Borum? It’s Charlie McNally. Are you home? Just checking to see if you’re there. If you’re there, pick up, would you? It’s important.”
The sound of nothing fills the room. We wait.
“Mr. Borum?” I try again. I give my office number once more, my cell, my home. “Call me as soon as you can, okay?”
I turn off the speaker and send a silent prayer.
“Guess you can’t say, hey, we’re checking to see if you got incinerated in a flaming-”
“Shush.” I frown at J.T. “It’s not funny.”
Then I cock my head at him, quizzical. “Wait. How’d you know why we were calling?”
“ENG Joanna,” J.T. says. “Anyway. We’re screwed for tonight. The undercover cams are trashed. The health people. I don’t know how they broke them. The good news, they’re fixable. Engineering says it’ll be tomorrow, at least, before they’re up again. Maybe Sunday.”
“Fine with me if we do it tomorrow or Sunday,” Franklin says. “I’m in, anytime.”
“Me, too,” I say. “There are no-”
“Weekends in TV,” Franklin and I finish the sentence together.
Chapter Fourteen
I’m trying to keep the grease on the red-printed brown paper bags of Chinese food away from my new camel coat as I dig for my keys to open the front door. Impossible. I bang on the door with my shoulder, but only produce a muffled thud.
“Hello? It’s me. Come to the door, okay? I’m home early, didn’t have to work late.”
I try to ring the tiny doorbell with my woolen elbow. Failure. If I put the bags down on our front steps, they’ll get wet from the snow and disintegrate before I get to the kitchen.
“Hel-lo?”
Botox responds from inside, meowing miserably as if she’s been abandoned forever. Which means-no one’s home?
I prop one stapled bag on the porch railing, and holding it with my chin, extract my keys and open the door. I push it open with one foot and one shoulder and, finally, step inside. Botox curls through my legs, insistent for attention. It’s probably more my shrimp than me.
“Anyone? Guys?”
The light in the living room is off. I flip it on. The dining room is dark, too. I flip it on. We always leave a light on in the kitchen to fool the burglars. Nothing is out of place, so it seems to have worked.
I deposit my fragrant, oil-spotted parcels on the kitchen counter. Maybe Josh and Penny are at a movie, like a normal family on a Friday night. Or out to dinner. I thought my coming home early would be a fun surprise. Now they’re out having the fun. And the surprise is that it’s only me with hot-and-sour soup for three.
I should have called first. Which reminds me.
I find my cell phone and check for messages, hoping for word from Borum. Nothing.
Dumping my work clothes into the dry-cleaning pile on the shelf in Josh’s closet, I steal a pair of his black sweatpants and my favorite Nantucket sweatshirt. Josh’s socks. I see Penny’s crayon drawing of us, pouffy-dressed bride and top-hatted groom, taped to Josh’s mirror. Our mirror. And there on the bedroom floor, where Josh tossed it this morning, is the Bexter fundraising report.
Suddenly solitude is a good thing. I grab the pamphlet, head downstairs to the kitchen and pry the lid from a plastic container of still-hot soup. Pulling up a stool to the counter, I open the report and look again at the circled names on the donations lists. Five names.
Fiona Rooseveldt Dulles on one page. Randall Cross Kindell on another. At least I know where to find those people.
Alice Hogarth is circled. Brooks Fryeburg. Lesley Claughton. Never heard of them.
Each one is a Bexter donor. Did they go to Bexter? Do they have children at Bexter? Why are they circled?
“Chinese food!” Penny’s voice echoes through the front door.
That girl has a terrific sense of smell.
“Sweets, are you home?” Josh’s voice.
The two arrive at the kitchen door. Each is carrying a red-printed brown paper bag.
By the time we stash my white containers of moo shu shrimp and egg rolls into the refrigerator, and put Josh and Penny’s containers of exactly the same items into the microwave, I’ve explained to Josh about my visit to Millie, and her suspicions, and the names on the fundraising report.
“You just took it?” Josh says.
“Millie wanted me to look into things. You’re missing the point,” I say, giving him a chopsticks poke in the ribs. At least he’s not annoyed I went to her house. “The more important question is, do you know any kids with the last name Hogarth?”
Josh shakes his head.
“Or Fryeburg? Claughton?”
“No, and no.”
“Rats,” I say, gingerly taking the cartons of now-steaming food out of the microwave. “How am I supposed to-Oh.”
I stop, hot food in midair. I’m a genius. “Does Bexter have a yearbook? Like, an archive of yearbooks?”
Josh takes the boxes from me. “Get with the private-school program, honey. The last thing Bexter wants is photos of their students easily accessible to nosy-reporter types like you. Bexter has the BEX.”
“Sounds like some kind of disease.”
“They take a group photo of each class, starting in first grade, at the awards ceremony in the spring,” Josh continues, ignoring my crack. “Then they put the photo into the BEX. Which, Miss Know-it-all, is a big leather photo album. It’s kept in the Head’s office. Are we eating in here or the dining room?”
“Perfect,” I say, pointing him to the dining room. “Then I definitely need to have a look at this BEX. Darn. Tomorrow’s Saturday. And the Head won’t be in till Monday, right? Why are journalists the only ones who work weekends?”
“Wrong again,” Josh says. “In fact, he’ll be at our faculty meeting tomorrow afternoon. Penny! Dinner!”
“So I’ll come to the meeting with you. Dutiful fiancée. I’ll smile and be enthusiastic, bat my eyelashes and say, golly, I’d love to know more about Bexter history. Maybe see who’s in Penny’s class.”
“Who’s in my class at Bexter, you mean?” Penny flops sideways into her dining room chair, her flannel shirt predictably inside out, tucking one bare foot underneath her. “I can tell you that. Annie says fourth grade rocks. There’s Tenley, and Sigrid, and Eve…”
The rest of the names get smothered by egg-roll chewing. Penny recently expanded her acceptable eating options from “white food only” to include anything fried or crunchy. Annie’s influence, apparently.
Josh looks at me, peering over his chopsticks. “I suppose it can’t hurt. But keep in mind that…” He pauses. Flickers a glance at the carb-occupied Penny. “‘He’ doesn’t know that I told you about the ‘things.’ And he doesn’t know about the other things.”
I nod. The Head doesn’t know Josh told me about the phone calls. And he doesn’t know about the extortion demands to the Dulleses and the Kindells.
“I’ll think of something by tomorrow,” I say.
“I hate to watch our newscast.” I’m obsessed with TV news, can’t live without it, but too often I cringe when I actually see it. Leaning back into the couch cushions, I wave one socked toe at the screen. “Can’t anyone write? Why is everything alliteration? And look at that outfit. What’s Tia thinking, wearing that jacket? There’s no cleavage in journalism.”
Josh props his legs on the coffee table, scooting the fortune-cookie wrappers out of the way. He puts one arm around me and draws me nearer, snuggling, burying my face into his sweater. I feel a kiss on the top of my head.