I put the report in my lap, turning to a certain page as I listen to her. It’s true I had been a bit ambiguous when I called Fee this morning, asking to come for a short visit. She’d assumed it was about the threatening phone calls. And it is. In a way.
Apparently, we’re alone in her Currier and Ives white clapboard suburban mini-mansion. No maids. No animals. No kids. I wonder who laid the fire in the flag-stone fireplace. Fee had carried in her tea herself. I brought my own Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, the paper cup out of place in the Dulleses’ formal residence.
I’m running on empty, sleep-wise, but I’m consumed with getting some answers about the Bexter names. And this may be my last chance for a while. Franklin and J.T. are meeting me at the station this afternoon. We’ll have the fun of telling Kevin about last night’s success. Then we have to focus on tracking down the owner of Beacon Valet and getting our story on the air.
I’m spinning a lot of plates. And I’m trying to make sure they don’t all come crashing down. But the phone calls are haunting me.
“Look at this list,” I say, keeping my tone mild and un-threatening. I find the page I’m looking for and fold the report so it’s showing on the front. “See how your name has a circle around it? You were Fiona Rooseveldt, isn’t that right?”
Fee still makes no move to take the book. I shift my weight, inching a bit closer to her on the love seat. She backs up into her pillows ever so slightly, politely but distinctly keeping her distance.
I turn to another page, pretend not to notice.
“Let me show you this,” I say. “On the benefactor page. Here’s your husband’s name. It’s also circled. Randall Kindell, see? There’s a pencil line around his name. And Alice Hogarth. See them? And these others?” I’ve studied the names so many times, I know them by heart.
Leaning forward, I invade her space a millimeter more.
“Do you know why that might be? Do you know these people? Why you might be connected to them?”
Fee moves a gold-embossed coaster into place on the varnished walnut coffee table, then carefully puts her cup and saucer on top of it. She stares at it for a moment. Then, slowly, looks back at me.
I’m still holding up the list. I’m not saying a word. Fee’s deciding what to answer.
I can wait.
The fire crackles, an ember popping against the ornate brass screen.
“I have no idea why the names are circled. I know Wen, of course.” Fee offers a fleeting smile. “But I’m not acquainted with the others.”
She pushes back the cabled sleeve of her sweater, making a show of looking at her thin-strapped watch. Then she reaches one manicured hand toward the cordless phone that’s tucked under an arrangement of shaggy golden mums on a lacquered end table. Is she planning to call for help? Or expecting the phone to ring?
I’m not going to let her stall with any phone tricks. She’s lying. And that changes everything. Now I’m not sure whether to be afraid for her-or afraid of her. Is she in danger? Or dangerous? And I have to handle this carefully. No one knows where I am, I remember.
I shake off my paranoia. I could take down the diminutive Fee Dulles with one whap of my purse. She has secrets, just as I suspected. And I bet they have to do with the missing year at Bexter.
“Fee?” I slide the pamphlet back into my briefcase. It’s my only evidence of-of whatever it’s evidence of. “Forgive me, but I know that’s not true.”
“Of course it’s true. You’re mistaken,” Fee replies. She takes her hand off the phone and holds out both palms, imploring. Her eyes are wide and direct, her expression innocent and earnest.
Like a child who’s practiced lying.
“You were in the same class as Randall Kindell,” I say.
“I was not.” Her voice is clipped.
“I’ve seen the BEX, Mrs. Dulles.” Keeping my voice calm. “This is a silly thing to lie about. It’s so easy to check.”
“I-”
“And if you’re not telling the truth about that,” I say, gently interrupting, “it makes me wonder about the phone call you told me you received. Whether you were telling me-and your husband-the truth about that.”
“Of course I was telling the truth.” Fee sits up even straighter, if that’s possible, and lifts her chin. She looks away from me and reaches toward the phone again.
Time to play my full hand.
“You missed a year at Bexter,” I say.
Her hand stops, and she turns back to me.
“And you have children there now,” I continue. “What if Tal and Lexie are in danger? Whoever called you knows where they are. Every day. You don’t want to put them in harm’s way by lying about whatever is happening to you. Don’t you care about protecting them?”
“I am protecting them,” she says.
“Protecting them from what, Fee?” This is harsh, but she needs to know I’m serious.
Her haughty expression is unchanged. But her hands are clenched into fists.
“Why are you asking me this?” she says. “If you already know?”
“If I already know what?”
She doesn’t answer. We sit, silent and face-to-face, in the glossy living room. Fiona Dulles’s past is about to become part of her present. Best to let her tell me in her own way.
“I’m a bad mother,” Fee Dulles finally says. She looks down at the plaid pillow now clenched in her arms. “But back then, I had no choice.”
She looks up at me, tilting her head, her eyes pleading.
“‘Unwed mother.’ An absurd label, isn’t it? But that’s what we were called so many years ago. A completely different world. Yes, I was fifteen. Yes, we were young and in love. Yes, I left Bexter. Yes, I had the baby. Yes, I gave her up for adoption. At the Services.”
“And your parents?”
“Like nothing ever happened. They whisked me away. Told everyone I was ‘trying a new school.’ I came back the next year. Started over. Just like that.” She flips a hand, like, poof. “My past was erased. And my daughter? Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder about her. Worry. Regret.”
She shakes her head again, drops her eyes, lays the pillow back beside her. “I’m a bad mother. I should never have listened to anything but my heart. I should have made my own decisions.”
“You had no choice then,” I say. I try to be reassuring. “And it was a long time ago.”
“No one knows.” Her voice lowers, but her eyes flare. “Not my husband, not my kids, not my friends. My husband would-” She crashes to silence, putting both hands over her face. I see her chest rise and fall in a body-wracking sigh.
“He doesn’t know? Are you sure?” This must be so difficult for her. Keeping such a heartbreaking secret. And maybe it’s unnecessary to keep it. “Maybe he’d be supportive. Grateful to hear the truth from you.”
Fee holds a hand out, palm up, to stop me.
“No. Never. Ever. I can’t bear to tell him. Or anyone else. Never. This is my secret. Mine. So how could someone call and threaten to do it for me?”
She stops, her face set in fear.
“So, that’s what the phone call was actually about?” I get it now.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. The caller threatened to tell Wen about my baby. After she was born, I saw her for barely a moment. I kept my eyes shut, tight shut, so I wouldn’t have to see her face. Or remember it. I don’t know where she is now. The whole procedure was sealed. The birth. The adoption. Confidential. They promised. It’s impossible to trace.”
“Apparently not,” I say. But I’m still not clear on the blackmail. “So what did the caller say?”
“He said, ‘Do you know where your children are?’ Then he-or she-laughed. Disgusting. And then went on to say I should tell my husband there was a drug scandal. Make up a story that Lexie and Tal could be involved. He said I had to insist so Wen would pay. And that was the only way I could keep my secret. It’s terrible. Terrible. Wen would do anything to defend Tal. And I had nowhere to turn.”