I turn the check toward Franklin, pointing at the corner.
And now Franklin’s speechless, too.
I turn the check back to me. “Beacon Trust. Owns the valet company. And the garage. And, according to this, it also owns Wixie radio.”
“Wow,” Franklin says. “The trifecta.”
“Better,” I say. Although I have no idea what’s better than whatever a trifecta is. I do have an idea who the person is who owns WWXI radio, and who, as a result, must be a kingpin in Beacon Trust. In fact, I know it perfectly well.
Loudon Fielder. Bexter bigwig Loudon Fielder.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The blinking red message light on my phone might as well be my conscience. I know it’s Josh. He and Penny will be waiting for me. He’ll be wondering where I am. But problem is, no way I’m going home in half an hour. I’ve got to track down Loudon Fielder.
“You think Fielder knows Beacon Trust has turned into a triple-threat rip-off machine?” I reach for the receiver, my engagement ring taking over the conscience role. The receiver doesn’t quite make it to my ear as I see Franklin clicking off his computer.
“Hey, Franko, what’s with the log-off?” I point the phone at him. “Don’t we have to track down the mastermind? See what the elegant Mr. Fielder has to say for himself? I say we head out to his house and-”
“Tomorrow, maybe,” Franklin says, shaking his head. “Nothing gained by doing it now. You’re tired. I’m tired. A lot happened today.”
Now who’s tuned out? I don’t say that out loud.
The phone makes a bee-bah noise, reminding me I haven’t retrieved my message from Josh. I hold down the hang-up button with one finger. I stare at Franklin, waiting.
Franklin looks at the floor. Then at his watch.
“I’ve got to meet with the New York people,” he says.
“Oh, ho. Now the truth comes out.” I can’t resist teasing him. But I have to admit, even though I’m eager to take down Loudon Fielder, nailing our big scoop really can wait until tomorrow. And I should let him be excited about his new job. Dear Franklin deserves his success. Tough as it is to lose him, I’m proud of him.
“See you tomorrow, Big Apple Man,” I say, turning back to the phone. I punch in my message-retrieval code. In twenty minutes, it’ll be me, Josh, Penny, Botox, wine, a fire and carryout sushi. I can look at the wedding magazines Mom sent. Check on baby Maddee. Start my own new life, which is just as exciting. The message begins.
It’s not from Josh.
After I hear the message, I hit the code to replay it yet again. Maybe this time I’ll understand it.
“This is Carter, the temp secretary at Headmaster Byron Forrestal’s office?”
Okay, that’s the easy part. I guess they hired a new Dorothy. A midwestern-sounding, youngish-sounding man.
“The Headmaster would like to chat with you, Ms. McNally? Perhaps this evening at his home?”
The first time through, this part sent me into a panic. I’d grabbed my cell, ready to call Josh and make sure nothing was wrong with him. Or Penny. But I put the phone away by the end of the next sentence.
“He’s heard about your ‘where are they now’ project? And he’d like to discuss it with you.”
Damn. I’m summoned to the principal’s office. I’m forty-seven years old, and being summoned to the principal’s office. Because he found out I was lying. Why did I ever think telling Harrison Ebling I was doing a feature story was such a brilliant idea? I’ve talked myself into a very awkward corner. And I hope I haven’t put Josh into an embarrassing or job-threatening situation. All I need.
“Say, eight-thirty tonight? At the cottage? He’ll expect you.”
I push the code for save, even though the stupid message is now imprinted in my brain, and slowly hang up the phone. Did Ebling rat me out? To get me in trouble? Or was he chitchatting with the Head and happened to mention my so-called project?
Or maybe. Maybe he was warning the Head about something he might want to keep covered up.
I lean back in my chair, lifting one boot, then the other, onto the top of my desk.
I’m an idiot.
I close my eyes, remembering the Head’s elaborately furnished cottage, the dimly soft sconce lighting, the hazy glow of flickering candles. The museum-quality antiques. The expensive heirlooms. A modestly paid school administrator, after all, living in a “cottage” full of treasures? He knew exactly which students left Bexter. And when. And, maybe, why. Maybe he’s been extorting the students’ families for years. That’s how he bankrolls his patrician lifestyle. It would be a snap for him to make threatening calls. Just close the door of his sumptuous office and pick up the phone.
He killed Dorothy when she somehow found out. She died the night of his party. He probably drugged her. Maybe with his own brandy and those sleeping pills.
The Head killed Alethia, too. Pushed her down the stairs. He was at Bexter that night, as well.
And now. He’s luring me to his house.
I open my eyes.
He’s luring me to his house?
I clunk my boots down the to the floor and grab my coat. Absurd. The Head can’t hurt me. My car will be in his driveway. I’ll call Josh and tell him where I am. I slam one arm through my coat sleeve and shrug the coat into place. I’ll call Franklin and leave a message. I’ll call Maysie. Detective Joe Cipriani. J.T. Shaw. There’s a whole list of names I could call.
List of names. The names.
What if the others circled on Dorothy’s list had the same secret as Fiona and Randall?
I wrap my long knitted scarf around my neck, then loop it again, thinking.
Where did Fiona say she gave up her daughter? The-Center?
The Services. I loosen my scarf and, coat still on, sit back down at my desk, telepathically communicating with my computer to hurry up and get me Google.
“Adoption services Boston.” I say it out loud as I type. My search takes.38 seconds. And first on the list is “The Services,” Edgemere Street, Boston. Another click shows me a quietly dignified Web site, dark blue and soft green, all twisty vines and scrolled leaves and muted graphics. A simple logo that looks like a swaddled baby encircled by loving arms. There’s a boldface quote across the top: “For 75 years, we’ve served those in need. Confidential. Caring. And Compassionate,” says Executive Director Joan Covino.
I almost fall off the chair, digging into my purse for my notebook. I nearly tear the pages, searching for my notes from Dorothy’s files. I need to see the name, but I don’t really need to confirm it. I remember the Bexter board member who recommended Harrison Ebling for the job. Whose letter indicated he’s done a “successful” long-term project for the Services.
Joan Covino is on the Bexter board. She’s the executive director of The Services. Sure, Harrison Ebling did a wonderfully successful job on their fundraising. What a windfall when the Bexter job appeared. All he had to do was scour The Services’ confidential adoption files, then cook up a little extra fundraising on the side. For himself.
He manipulated frightened victims into telling their spouses a concocted story about a nonexistent drug scandal, knowing they’d pay anything to protect their children. Their real goal was to keep their past a secret.
Dorothy discovered his circled list of targets. She took it. And she confronted him with it. First he made the phone calls to frighten her. And then he killed her.
He killed Alethia, too. Maybe he knew Dorothy had told her his secret. Maybe she showed Alethia his circled names. She was the next to get a phone call. She was the next to die.
Still wearing my winter coat and wrapped in my scarf, I stare at my computer screen. I stare so long that the screen goes black. I stare into the darkness as a particularly menacing picture begins to take shape in my imagination.
I’m the next one who saw the list. And what did I do? I showed it to Harrison Ebling. And sinking deeper into my own quicksand, I told him I’d circled the names myself. He’s the only person left in the world who instantly knew that was not true.