No wonder Ebling never called me back with the information. And then Josh asked about the drug scandal. Which, of course, was Ebling’s own fabrication. He must suspect I’m on the trail. And so is Josh.
I have to tell the Head.
Even in my coat, I’m suddenly chilly. I draw my woolly scarf closer. Why isn’t there an undo key in real life?
“Hey, gang, where is everyone? Josh? Penny? Annie? Whoever gets this, call me on my cell, okay?” I’m holding my cell phone between my ear and my scarf while navigating the treacherous reverse curves of Storrow Drive. Rows of balconied brownstones, blocks of Back Bay mansions on elegant side streets speed by as I dodge belligerent Boston motorists who don’t want to let me merge into their too-narrow lanes. Across the shimmering Charles River, a constellation of lights forms a twinkling outline around the historic buildings of MIT. It’s all a blur. All I care about is finding a real person and not an answering machine.
No one answers at home. Josh is not answering his cell. Penny’s not answering hers. Not even Annie is picking up.
It’s past eight o’clock. Where is everyone?
I need to tell Josh to stay away from Harrison Ebling. He’s already killed two people who got in his way. What if Josh is next in line? What if they’re together now? What if Josh is Ebling’s next target? My insistence on investigating what happened at Bexter has put my darling Josh in danger. And he has no idea. Undo. Undo.
“Moron!” I yell, in frustration and fear, at some idiot in a white Ombra. He swerves around me, pulling ahead of my Jeep with inches to spare. My brain swerves, too. That Ombra is like Annie’s. Where are Penny and Annie?
Driving with one hand and punching in speed dial, I try every number again. Home. Josh. Penny. Annie. Nothing. No answer. No one.
“Call me,” I say over and over. “Call me. I’m going to the Head’s.”
I’m going to tell him all I know. I hope I’m right.
“Come in, it’s open.”
I lift the ornate lion’s head, the brass knocker on the Head’s lacquered front door, and tap it twice. Byron Forrestal’s distinctive accent filters through the heavy door. Within moments, I’m inside. With a turn of a knob and a soft click, the door closes behind me.
“Mr. Forrestal?” Standing, tentative, in the soft light of the foyer, I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to wait or follow the Head’s voice into the house. The cottage smells of cinnamon, and the woodsy burn of a newly lit fire.
“In the living room, Miss McNally.” An instruction, not an invitation.
Three or four steps down the hallway, my boots muffled by the muted Oriental rug, the fragrance of the fire is more pungent. As I reach the elaborately filigreed archway leading to the living room, I remember it all. Sconces. Candles. A comfortably elegant couch, two burnished leather club chairs opposite. A decanter of brandy and a silver tray of biscuits on the mahogany coffee table. Crouching in front of the fireplace, his back to me, the Head is using a poker to stir the logs that are stacked, snapping with blue-orange flames, in the oversize redbrick fireplace. He’s in his usual herringbone blazer.
“Mr. Forrestal?” Standing on the edge of the room, I’m not quite sure what to do. The “where are they now” story I oh-so-cleverly fabricated is about to disintegrate into the lie it always was. But the Head will forget about that once I warn him about Ebling’s treachery.
The Head rises from his crouch and turns, fireplace poker in hand.
But it’s not the Head. It’s Harrison Ebling.
A smiling, supercilious gray-haired killer with a hot poker in his hand.
In the Head’s living room?
Of course. He and the Head are in it together. One had the idea, the other had the access to information. One had the plan, the other had the opportunity. One needed a job, the other needed the money. And if any outsider began to suspect one of them, the other could instantly cover it up.
They’re a deadly double team. And now I’m their biggest threat.
“Hey, Harrison,” I say. I attempt an expression that’s somewhere between polite and curious, all the while scouting to see if I should make a dash out the front door. I glance down the hall to see if the Head is creeping up behind me with some sort of deadly weapon. As if a guy with a hefty cast-iron poker isn’t threatening enough. I consider my personal weaponry. I could clonk him with my purse. Stab him with a lip liner. Spray him with hair spray. Pitiful.
“I was supposed to meet the Head here,” I say, backing away. The front door is looking pretty tempting. My only real weapon is deception. “But if he’s not here, I can always come back tomorrow. I told Josh I’d only be here for a little while, so…”
Ebling surprises me. He replaces the poker in a brass and wrought-iron holder in front of the crackling fire, then waves me toward the couch, the picture of a pleasant and gracious host. It’s difficult to imagine this rabbity middle-aged pencil pusher as desperate extortionist and murderer.
“Oh, please, Miss McNally,” he says. “Hope you didn’t mind my little joke. Byron always gets a kick out of my impersonations. The Head is upstairs. I’m to offer you biscuits and brandy. You know Byron. That’s his tradition.”
Byron? That seems off. Maybe I’m wrong.
“Now, take off your coat and sit, please. I was just going, but Byron didn’t want me to leave you alone. As it happens, I have that list of names and addresses from the fundraising report for you,” he continues.
He pats the breast pocket of his jacket, then pulls out a piece of white paper, folded in thirds. He flips open the paper, holding it up so I can see it. It does look like typed names and addresses.
Am I wrong about Ebling? I take a tentative step or two toward the couch, slowly unwinding my scarf and placing my coat and purse on the upholstered cushions. If he’s actually going to give me the list-is he?-he’s not the blackmailer. But if it’s not Harrison Ebling, or Harrison and the Head, then who made the phone calls? Who killed Dorothy and Alethia?
“See if this is what you need.” Ebling hands me the paper, then fills two crystal snifters with overly generous portions of the amber-colored brandy. He sets the cut-crystal decanter back onto an ornate silver tray.
“Oh, no brandy for me,” I say, perching on the edge of the couch. There are only two names and addresses on the list. Fiona Dulles. And Randall Kindell. The people I’ve already talked to. This is no coincidence. Is it? My cell phone is in my purse. I could look at my watch and pretend I had to make a phone call. I could use the phone on the end table. Then get the heck out of here.
“Don’t be silly,” Harrison says. He’s holding one snifter toward me. The other is cupped in his hand.
If the Head is on his way down, why are there only two glasses? Ebling said he was about to leave. So why did he pour himself a megashot of brandy? Or maybe that’s for the Head.
I give the decanter a dubious look. I take the glass he’s offering me and put it on the table. No chance I’m drinking one bit of this stuff.
“To your ‘where are they now’project.” Ebling lifts his snifter toward me, toasting.
So that glass isn’t for the Head. Where is he?
Ebling takes a sip of brandy. I don’t. The only sound is the hissing crackle of the fire. If the Head is now tiptoeing downstairs with a gun or something, I’m outnumbered, outmaneuvered and potentially out of luck. And farther away from the front door than I was just minutes ago.
Or I may just have a way-too-vivid imagination. From working in TV news too long.
Be that as it may. It’s not my imagination that two people are dead. I don’t want to be next. I reach across the couch for my purse. I’m heading for the door.