“The little bitch,” I whisper to Franklin. “She knows her mother is protecting her and she’s letting her do it. Can you imagine? It’s because her mother gave her everything she wanted, probably. Her father, too. Until he, I don’t know, did something. To alienate her. She’s so beyond spoiled and self-centered. She’s killed her father and is letting her mother take the fall. She leaves her own mother to rot in prison. And the mother accepts it.”
“Daughter dearest,” Franklin answers.
THE FIRST THING I see is the fish. About a dozen of them, give or take, fluttering and diving in a massive turquoise aquarium. A cascade of bubbles fizzes to the top, past a stand of coral and a lace-like fan of whatever that stuff they put in fish tanks is. The hum of some ventilation motor and the flickering lights in the tank make Will Easterly’s office seem anything but lawyer-like. A psychiatrist’s office, maybe. Or guidance counselor.
Or music teacher. Up against another wall, a modest upright piano, stacks of sheet music piled beside it. Will comes around from behind his desk, hand extended.
“Welcome to my office,” he says “And my home. Figured I might as well use one of the rooms for work. Not much call for me to join one of those big Boston firms.” A smile appears, then vanishes, on his face.
He still has a haunted look, I think so every time I see him. But I guess I don’t know how he looked before. He goes to the fish tank and taps in a trickle of fish food flakes. Two orange-striped Nemo-looking fish ascend, silently, to the surface. I remember Penny and her new pets. Flo? And Eddy? Maybe I can get some secret fish info from Will, win her over with my fish knowledge. I check my watch. Darling Franklin promised to come babysit with Mom while I see what I can discover about Gaylen. I owe him big.
“So as I said on the phone,” I begin. “I’ve started to wonder about Gaylen. Wonder if, you know, that’s why Dorinda won’t talk with us. Did you ever consider it? That she was trying to protect her daughter?”
Will nods, still staring at the fish. “It did, at some point, cross my mind. That Gaylen might have done it. But then Dorinda confessed, and you know the rest. And it is kind of out there. I mean, Dorinda…” He turns to look at me. “She’s not crazy. She knows what prison means. She knows right and wrong. But she adored Gaylen.”
“Adored?” I say. “Past tense? She doesn’t anymore?”
“Won’t talk about her, not at all,” Will says. “She utterly refuses. It’s as if Gaylen doesn’t exist. And it’s sad. I gather, at one point-at least I’ve heard-they were very close.”
“Well, where is she, anyway? And what’s she like? I mean, this is strange to ask, but do you think she could have killed someone? Her father?”
Will shakes his head. “Wish I had an answer for you.”
“And where-”
“Wish I had an answer to that, too. I have no idea where she is.”
We both stare at the fish for a moment. I’m watching their tropical yellows and blues flash though the waving seaweed and rising bubbles. Maybe fish will be good for Penny. Maybe I’ll go buy a goldfish toy, whatever that would be. Maybe we can bond over fish.
“I have to talk to Dorie.” The words come out, though I hadn’t planned to say them so brusquely. “Especially now that Gaylen may play such a key role.”
“Ah. About that. Dorie called this morning.” Will’s face sags and turns even more mournful. “She says no. And she told me to tell you, stop asking.”
I consider my options. That takes about one second, since I don’t have any options.
“Then let me tell you something to tell her,” I say, as pleasantly as I can. Sometimes you’ve got to make a bold move to get a big story. “Tell her I know what happened. I know Gaylen was not asleep the night of the murder. I know who really killed Ray Sweeney, and it wasn’t Dorinda. It was Gaylen. And if Dorinda doesn’t want to talk to me about it, fine. I’ll just have to do the story without her. But she’s not gonna like it.”
EVERYONE ON THE PLANET is driving to Cape Cod. The speed limit is fifty-five miles an hour. Which, of course, a real Massachusetts driver is going to ignore. Right now, however, all of us are going about zero miles an hour. Route 3 South is a parking lot. From here to the top of the next rise, I see an endless line of bikes, boats and surfboards bungee-corded to the cars beneath.
It does make it safer to dial a cell phone, I think, searching for the positive. Mine of course is in the back seat, but with this traffic snafu, I put my Jeep in Park, twist across the seat back and sling my entire tote bag onto the front seat beside me. I always promise myself I’ll take out my phone before I start a journey and I always forget.
I punch On. Just as I hear the dootle-oot warble signaling it’s powered up, a barrage of angry honking swells into highway crescendo. Startled, I turn to face the car behind me. In the front seat, a driver wearing wraparound sunglasses, face contorted, is apparently yelling. At me, from the way he’s pointing. And from the look on his face, it’s probably good I can’t hear the particular words he’s saying. I turn to look out my windshield and see why he’s so incensed. The jam is over. No one’s in front of me.
Slamming the Jeep into Drive, I give a little so-sorry wave behind me, and head south. But I can still use the phone. I punch a few buttons, keeping an eye on the road of course. Mom answers on the first ring.
“Mamacita,” I say. I smile. I haven’t called her that since middle school, my first Spanish class. “How are you? Just checking in. I’m on my way to see Josh. Did Franklin come over?”
“Yes, yes, he’s such a darling,” Mom says. “He brought me Bride’s Magazine, the sweetheart. We’re talking about my invitations. And your dress. Which, I might add-”
The highway signs announce I’m almost at the Sagamore Bridge. The graceful steel-arch structure spans the Cape Cod Canal, the dividing line between the real world of the mainland and the vacationland beyond. It’s also a notorious cell phone dead zone.
“Mom,” I interrupt. “I can’t wait to see. But I’m worried you’re still upset, and before I lose you, I want to make sure-”
“Lose me?” Mother asks. “You’re not going to lose me, Charlotte. Don’t be silly. Franklin brought in Dr. Garth. Everything is fine. I was apparently wrong, can you imagine? Now. Franklin also told me about that daughter. Gaylen, is her name? What kind of a name is that?”
“You know, Mom,” I say. I’m wondering if this conversation is going to be worth it, or whether it will end in some sort of battle. “Let me ask you. Do you think…would a mother go to prison to protect a daughter?”
“Charlotte, dear, a mother would do anything to protect a daughter,” she says. “If you had a child of your own, you’d never have to ask such a question.”
I sigh, regretting the whole topic.
“It’s what I was telling you this afternoon,” she continues. I can tell she’s warming to her subject. I won’t have to say another word for miles. “If I thought you were in danger, I would do whatever was necessary. Franklin tells me you think that’s what happened? That this Dorinda person let herself be sent to prison to shield her daughter?”
The traffic slows again, cars pacing themselves to enter the highway rotary, a confusing and ridiculous undertaking obviously designed by highway engineers on drugs. It looks like a grade-school experiment in centrifugal force. Drivers are supposed to wait their turn to enter a spin of circling cars, all going fifty miles an hour. Problem is, for Massachusetts drivers, taking turns is as foreign a concept as rooting for the Yankees. If you manage the rotary properly, you can get off at the exit that takes you over the bridge to Cape Cod or the one that takes you south toward the ferries to the Vineyard and Nantucket. If you blow it, you’re headed back to Boston. Or circling endlessly until someone takes pity and moves over to let you through.