Damn. Time is exactly what I don’t have. And if I make a formal records request, all kinds of bureaucratic quicksand could delay our story until next July.
Briefly touching Mattheissen’s arm, I give my last-ditch pitch. Power-broker wannabes love to show their power. I play damsel in distress.
“Look, Mr. Mattheissen. Can you help me with this? You’re really the only one who can cut through the red tape.” Even I’m gagging, but Mattheissen’s demeanor seems to soften. Come on, Tek, make my day.
“Nothing to hide,” he says. He seems to be weighing his options. “Public documents. Closed-case evidence like that’s in the archives though, deep storage, in the new building. No way to get them today.”
And tomorrow, I remember with annoyance, is Saturday. Monday will be the Fourth of July, when every state office in the country will be closed. Tuesday is my inescapable appointment with Dr. Garth. I’m certainly not going to mention that. Plus, Mom would pop her stitches if I canceled the appointment she was so pleased to arrange because I had some other silly commitment. Like my job.
The light goes green. This time, Mattheissen picks up his briefcase.
“Charlie?” he says.
“Wednesday,” I say quickly. I’ll use the unavoidable delay to make it appear I’m being flexible and cooperative. “So you’ll have time to contact your people at the archives. So how about Wednesday? I could meet you there.”
“Ten a.m.,” Mattheissen says, stepping into the white-striped crosswalk. “At the state archives in Dorchester. Front desk.” He takes two more steps, then stops in the middle of Beacon Street. Rows of cars idle on either side of him, ready to hit the gas as soon as the light changes. He turns to me, ignoring the traffic. His eyes are hidden behind those glasses, but his smile is amped to the highest power and aimed straight at me. “Maybe we can have coffee afterward.”
CHAPTER 10
“He said what?” Maysie’s scooping a second spoonful of pickle relish onto her foot-long and completely barbecue-blackened hot dog, melting the mustard that’s already slathered on it into yellow rivulets that pool onto her sagging paper plate.
“Ketchup?” I offer. I mean it as a joke, but Maysie accepts the red plastic container and squirts a line of red on top of what now looks like a condiment sandwich. I glance over at Josh. Blindfolded, he’s stumbling around the Green’s expanse of south shore backyard in a raucous twilight game. Penny’s latched on to Maysie’s twelve-year-old Molly with the tenacity of a pop-star stalker. The two of them, plus Franklin and Stephen, Maysie’s husband Matthew, and their five-year-old, Max, are taunting and dodging. Their shouts of “Marco” and “Polo” escalate in hilarity, floating across the muggy summer evening.
Max drops to the grass, rolling away when Josh gets too close, leaving one untied thick-soled shoe behind. Dave the Dog, their hyper but protective black Lab, leaps from his spot on the deck to retrieve the shoe, then single-mindedly dashes after Max to return it. Dave the Dog bumps the blindfolded Josh, who spins away, startled and confused by the unexpected commotion.
We’re surrounded by laughter and chaos, but even in the midst of the Fourth of July festivities, Maysie and I have a slice of privacy.
“I know,” I say. I pull a bottle of diet iced tea from the bright green ice-filled cooler next to the round wooden picnic table. Big wet drops from the bottom plop onto my white pants. Even this late in the evening, the spots will evaporate without a trace in the heat. At least the pants have escaped Maysie’s mustard. “He’s incredibly handsome, about my age, a little older? And that double-oh-seven look, more Euro than you’d predict for a local cop. Anyway, he didn’t even wait for an answer, just walked off into the sunset.”
“Sun doesn’t set until, like, nine, “Maysie says. “I thought it was-”
“I was being funny,” I say. “Like in a movie. You know.” I twist off the cap to my iced tea and take a sip. It’s more like metallic chemicals and imitation lemon than tea. “So you think-I mean-no question I have to go meet him at the archives. That could produce some key evidence for our story.” I flicker a glance at the still-blindfolded Josh. “You don’t think he’ll expect me to go out with him, do you?”
“Why don’t you?” Maysie asks. “Is he married? Did you check his finger?”
I look at her, blinking, trying to process whether she’s kidding. And I had, in fact, checked. But more out of habit than specific curiosity.
“Mays, you’re killing me here,” I say. “I thought you loved Josh. Thought he was perfect. You said you were shopping for maid-of-honor dresses, right? Even though I warned you not to count weddings before they’re hatched. So what’s up with the ring-checking question?”
“Did you check?” Maysie persists, looking at me inquiringly from under the bill of her Red Sox cap. She drags a picnic bench away from the table and straddles it, elbows on knees, her face unreadable. She’s wearing what looks like one of Matthew’s madras shirts over a denim miniskirt.
“And who knows what’ll happen with Josh. You’ve been all worried about Penny’s reaction to you, and whether Victoria is still in the picture, and whether you’ve got what it takes to be a mom. Maybe this “Tek” would be a good love backup. He’s not just an ex-cop, he might be on the fast track to the governor’s office, then the White House.” She shrugs. “You know. The big time. Your mother would love him.”
I twist the top of my iced tea back onto the bottle and place it on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. The condensation from the bottom makes an instant ring on the paper. I stare at the spreading damp spot, wondering what I should say. No. I don’t wonder.
“I love Josh.” I say it before I even realize it. And it doesn’t sound strange to say it out loud. “Ring, no ring, no matter if he’s the most attractive ex-cop in the world. I’m done with all that. Me and Josh. Done deal. Penny. It’ll work.”
The gang has now moved to touch football, racing across the backyard, pursuing the plastic ball that’s bouncing and rolling with a wobbling mind of its own. I look back at Maysie and see the beginnings of a sly smile.
“Just wanted to hear you say it,” she says. She looks pleased with herself. Maysie the backyard psychotherapist.
“You-” I don’t fill in the actual word that first came to mind. What she is, is a true friend. Sneaky, but a true friend.
“Marshmallows,” she yells. “Fire’s ready.”
As the footballers brush themselves off and clamor toward dessert, Maysie stands up, then selects a long wooden-handled fork from a pile beside the cast-iron barbecue. She points it at me, then at Penny and Josh, who are walking hand in hand, swinging arms, laughing. “What’d your mom say? Drunk, sick and with their kids? Look at the two of them, kiddo. I’ll wait till after New Year’s,” she says, patting her stomach. “But then-I’m buying a dress.”
“HI, DADDY.” Penny bounces back into view. Her two pigtails are now festooned with red, white and blue bows, apparently the result of her visit to newfound role model Molly’s preteen domain. The full-of-herself twinkle vanishes as soon as she acknowledges me. She downshifts into perfunctory, polite. “Hi, um.”
My name’s been “Um” ever since the dinner at Legal’s.
Not waiting for a reply, Penny plops onto the navy-and-black plaid wool blanket we’ve spread out onto the lawn in a line with all the others, positioned in just the right spot to view the Duxbury town common fireworks over the trees. After a brief assessment, she parks herself strategically, back to me and facing Josh. Stretching out her bare legs and leaning back on her hands, she scans the night sky. “When’s the fireworks thing start?”