Carjacking Goes Wrong: Ends in Flames and Death, the headline says.
Underneath that, smaller print: South End Resident Murdered?
And there’s a photo of Michael Borum.
Keeping the newspaper in place with my knee and elbow, I balance the plastic-topped coffee cup in one hand and my cell phone between my cheek and shoulder.
I risk a tentative sip of coffee, wince and continue reading out loud.
“‘Neighborhood residents, who did not wish to be identified, report they heard what could have been shots. Police report receiving one anonymous call that initially brought them to the scene. They also confirm the car in the East Boston parking-lot fire did belong to the victim.’”
It’s just another murder to the Boston Globe. Not even front page. But to Franklin and me? It could be the linchpin of our story. I briefly wonder if they’re running the valet scheme in New York. Maybe that could be my first blockbuster for Kevin’s network. Millions of viewers. National attention. It would be hard work. Total commitment. But fame, and even fortune. If I take the job.
“So you think he confronted the valet people at Zelda?” Franklin is asking.
“Yes, I think he confronted the valet people at Zelda.” I repeat what Franklin says so Josh doesn’t feel left out of the conversation. “Remember, because of what I told him, he knew they were taking cars for joyrides.”
“And maybe stealing air bags,” Josh says.
“And maybe stealing air bags,” I repeat for Franklin. “I never told him what we suspected about the VIN scheme. But then, he got that toll-violation ticket. So he goes in there and-”
“Lets them have it,” Franklin interrupts.
“Lets them have it,” I agree. “But once he says his name, he’s in trouble. He doesn’t know they know exactly who he is. And exactly where his car is.”
We make the turn into the Bexter parking lot. Josh pulls his Volvo into the space marked Professor J. Gelston. The Head’s car is already in his spot. There are also cars parked in the ones labeled Bursar Pratt and Dean of Boys. The Dev Consultant’s space is empty. Alethia’s space is empty. What used to be Dorothy’s space is empty. Her nameplate has been taken down.
“They not only have to shut him up, they have to get rid of his car,” I say. “Listen, Franko, we’re here. See if you can get the police reports. On the murder, and on the car fire. See if you can get the Mustang info from Wixie. See if-”
“Do you think we should tell Kevin?” Franklin says.
“Don’t you think you should tell the police?” Josh says.
One answer works for both of them. “Tell them what?” I reply. “That we’re looking into a VIN scam at a valet-parking company, though we can’t really prove it, and that one of the people whose car may have been involved, though we can’t really prove it, may have been murdered, though we can’t really prove that, either?”
Josh turns off the key. No one talks for a moment. There’s not really a satisfactory answer. I open the door and start to tell Franklin goodbye, then think of another question.
“Franko?” I say, slowly opening my door as I speak. “Do you think Borum told the valet people about me?”
I hear Franklin take a breath. Josh looks at me from across the top of the car, and starts to say something. I point to the phone and hold up a palm, asking Josh to wait.
“I say no,” Franklin finally replies. “He’d handle it by himself. Man to man. Plus, he got that ticket. That’s why he went.”
“Maybe,” I say as the door clicks closed. “I hope you’re right.”
“Charlotte?” he says. “Still. Watch your back.”
The phone goes dead. I scan the parking lot, making sure there’s no one there I don’t want to see.
Josh puts his arm across my shoulders, drawing me close. We tramp silently through the snow-spackled parking lot toward Main. Its stately stained-glass windows, in the very tops of the hexagonal towers, are glinting crimson and indigo jewels in the Saturday-morning sunshine.
“What did Franklin say?” Josh finally says. “About whether he thought Borum told about your visit?”
“He said-no.”
We begin the climb up Main’s steep granite steps. I can’t help but think about poor Alethia. What went through her mind that night, standing on Garrison’s ice-covered stairway, right before someone pushed her to her death? Did she know who it was? Did she know what was happening? Did she understand why?
What did Michael Borum see? And who? And is his death my fault?
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” Josh says.
“What?”
“Do it.”
I raise my hand, baffled. We’re standing on the broad top step of Main, face-to-face, the massive inlaid-oak double doors twice as tall as we are.
“I, Charlie McNally, soon to be Charlotte Ann McNally Gelston, do solemnly swear on shooting stars and Shakespeare…”
Now I get it. I repeat his oath, smiling at our private joke. I first met him during an interview when I was trying to track a mysterious line from The Tempest. We’d first kissed, a week later, after seeing a shooting star.
“That I will allow the police to investigate the Borum case…” Josh says.
“That I will allow the police to investigate the Borum case…” I repeat. True enough. Because I’m not swearing I won’t investigate, too. What happened to Michael Borum wasn’t my fault. It was the toll violation that set him off. And I’ve decided Franklin’s right. Borum didn’t tell the valet people about me. He’s too macho for that.
Was.
“And that I will never go anywhere alone until the case is closed,” Josh continues.
“And that-”
One side of the oak door swings out between us, almost knocking into Josh’s shoulder and pushing me back on the top step.
“Ah, there you are, Gelston,” the Head says. He’s got a blue-and-white-striped woolen muffler wrapped around his neck, and he’s wearing a rumpled tan corduroy sports coat. The man is from central casting. “Are we ready for the meeting?”
I come out from behind the door.
A perplexed look crosses his patrician face, then it morphs quickly to polite. “And Miss McNally?” He flickers a glance at Josh. Then back at me. “To what do we owe this lovely surprise?”
If Franklin could see me, he’d applaud. Maysie would hoot with derision. My mother would burst into tears of joy. Me, I’m trying not to laugh as the Head ushers me in and I see my preppie reflection in the massive gilt mirror that covers one whole wall of the lobby of Main Hall. I’ve taken off my coat and boots, revealing a black cardigan sweater that I have buttoned up the back, a tweed pencil skirt, a tiny patent belt, pearls and a silky scarf. Ladylike black pumps adorned with interlocked gold-ring logos, a not-so-subtle present from Mom, finally came out of my closet. I’d drawn my personal style line at wearing a headband, but other than that, I’m in the full Wellesley. The Bexter bigwigs are going to swoon.
Mata Charlie. Ready to scope out the secrets of the BEX.
“And so,” I finish my pitch to the Head as we walk toward the conference room, “since Penny begins here this semester, I’d adore to take a look at the BEX. Josh has told me so much about it. It’ll be a history lesson for me. Who knows, maybe it’ll make some sort of wonderful feature story, the lions of industry and national leaders who have been so formative in the country’s development, all of whom got their start right here at Bexter.” Big smile. I can’t believe I’m saying this stuff.
“Of course, Miss McNally. You’re part of the Bexter family now. Stay right here. I’ll bring you the BEX.”