“She called the police from your office to report it.” Franklin says, considering. “Man. I’ll bet you’re right.”
A sharp knock on Franklin’s door turns our attention to the hallway, where a frowning white-coat is giving us the evil eye. “It’s far beyond visiting hours,” she says sternly. She flips up a silver watch hanging from her belt loop. “One minute,” she intones. “And then I’m calling security.” She turns on her heel and strides away.
“Okay, look,” Franklin says. “What if I call Melanie and give her the scoop on the photo? She knows what happened yesterday—I told her—and I’ll see if she wants you guys to stop by with the picture. Maybe she’ll be less upset by now.”
“So we hold off on the police until then,” I say. “Till we see if Melanie recognizes anyone. If they’re from Aztratech or something. We can also see if the Lexington police know who they are.”
“Right. It’s a plan,” Franklin says.
I lean over and give him a quick kiss on his bandaged forehead. “We’ve got this nailed now, but you be careful,” I say as I stand up. “And this time tomorrow—”
A gravely voice from the hallway interrupts. “Ten seconds.”
Josh puts one hand on my shoulder and salutes Franklin with the other. “Come on, Brenda Starr,” he says, turning me toward the door. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
I
“So here we are,” I say. I hear myself sound awkward. Nervous. Maybe it’s just fatigue. “Thanks so much for chauffeuring me. And—for everything else.”
Josh swivels toward me, propping one arm across the back of the front seat, making no move to leave. The engine’s still humming, but he’s put the car in Park. How do we always wind up like this?
I gesture toward my apartment building. “I…should go inside.”
“I suppose,” he says softly. He stops, midsentence, and gives a quick gesture of disbelief. “You sure? You don’t think I should take you to—say—a hotel or something?” He puts a gentle hand on my knee. “You’re certain you feel safe enough?”
“I suppose,” I reply, although I’m not a hundred percent. “I won’t let anyone in, of course. And…” I frown, and give
another anxious look around tiny Mt. Vernon Square, the peeling white bark of the river birches eerie in the dim streetlights. Most windows are dark. “I mean, I guess they are still out there, you know?” And it feels as if they have me in their sights. Josh, too. But I’m not going to let them frighten me out of my own home. Plus, the voice mail from the vet says Botox is home now, and she can’t be left alone. “No,” I say. “This is fine.”
I curl my hand over his and we sit in silence, staring through the windshield. Not another car on the streets, not another soul walking by. I’m emotionally exhausted—the fear, the tension, the uncertainty—but sharing this tiny midnight moment with Josh makes me want so many more.
“Would you like, uh, coffee?” I ask. Then I’m suddenly—shy. It’s pretty obvious my invitation is not really for coffee, and I’m surprised at myself for being so bold. Too late now.
Josh squeezes my hand. “I’d love, ‘uh, coffee,’” he says, smiling. “Anytime. But you know—how about I call you first thing in the morning? Get some sleep, get your own clothes. Lock your doors. Then tomorrow I’ll come get you, and we’ll see what happens with Melanie.”
The old Charlie would have felt rejected. But I feel…relieved. I need a shower, my hair is somehow lank and frizzy at the same time, my face is probably breaking out and I really need some sleep. But somehow I’m certain there’ll be more moments like this. Josh and me. Together.
“Deal,” I say, gathering up my stuff. I turn back to Josh one last time, concerned. “You’ll be safe at Bexter, right? You’ll watch out, too? Don’t talk to strangers, all that?”
Josh leans over and kisses my forehead. A tender, soft kiss. Lingering. I can feel his longing—or is it my own?
Then he pulls me to him, this time kissing me hungrily, again and again. “I don’t want any more goodbyes,” he whispers. He sits back, his eyes locking onto mine. “You be careful, Ms. McNally. I’ll watch until you’re inside, and tomorrow I’ll call you, first thing.”
The entranceway door snaps close behind me with a solid comforting click as I begin the three-flight trudge to my apartment. I’m happily weak in the knees as I round the landing to the second floor, clinging to our moments in the car, forgetting my fear. The last of my energy disappears as I drag myself up the steps by the banister.
And then something streaks by me, flattening me against the wall. I drop my purse and tote bag, terrified, and try to figure out if it’s a person, or a rat or God knows what.
Meow.
My little calico pal pads up the stairs and curls her tail around my legs. I scoop Botox up onto my shoulder, and she burrows her head into my neck.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I coo. She revs up her highest-level purr. “How are you, little one?” She nuzzles deeper, then touches my face with a paw. “I’m glad you’re okay, baby cat,” I tell her.
I stop in midpat. What the hell is Botox doing in the hall? I always leave a secret key under the cactus plant by my front door, and the vet’s assistant knew to look for it there. But she’d never leave without making sure Botox is inside with food and water. The cat moves like quicksilver, but something seems very wrong here.
Still carrying Toxie, I softly make my way up the final steps to my door. It’s closed. I stand outside, ear to the
walnut wood, listening intently. Nothing. I slowly try the old-fashioned brass knob. It’s locked.
“Do not move,” I whisper to the cat as I put her on the floor. I tilt the cactus pot to see if the key is still there. It is.
I frown, confused. The door’s locked. The key is in its proper place. But the cat is out. Someone was inside, no question. The vet’s assistant? Well, yes, but…what if someone else is inside right now? Waiting for me to come home? And what if the cat got out when they got in? I feel a clammy wave of apprehension.
I consider running back downstairs. To where? Knocking on a neighbor’s door. Saying what? Calling 911 on my cell phone. What’s the emergency? Call Josh to come back?
I try to get my weary brain focused on reality. The easiest answer is always the correct one. And, since the door is locked and the key is where it’s supposed to be, that means the cat got out when the vet’s assistant left.
Slinging my tote and purse over one shoulder, scooping up Toxie and fighting off an intensifying foreboding, I stick my key in the lock and turn it.
Charlotte Ann Gelston. Charlie Gelston. Charlotte McNally Gelston. Mrs. Josh Gelston. Mrs. Joshua Something Gelston. I can’t believe I almost Googled James last week. Long ago, far away, history.
I roll over, rearranging my pillow and trying to get comfortable. Botox, jolted out of a deep slumber, scrambles to stake out a new sleeping spot on my back. That cat can sleep through anything. I’m not having as much success.
Something is wrong with my pillow, there must be. I try to punch it back to its proper shape. Everything was fine when I walked into my apartment. Of course. No sign of
anyone coming in, or anything being taken. But even here in my nest, safe, I stare at the ceiling. My body is exhausted, but my brain is churning along full-speed ahead. The green glowing lights from my alarm clock taunt me—it’s already past 4:00 a.m.
I close my eyes, trying to distract myself. Wonder if Josh and I will have a wedding album. On our coffee table. Like Brad and Melanie. Wonder if our announcement will be in the paper. Maybe in the
New York Times
. Maybe even in “Vows,” as the featured wedding of the week.
I sit straight up, sending Botox skittering across the bed, mewing in protest.
Melanie said she sent a wedding announcement to the paper. Time for me to look that up.
Padding to my desk in my thick wool socks, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I could just as easily wait until morning. But then, it technically is morning. I click on my computer, and check the
Boston Globe
’s pay-per-bride section. Nothing. Then the
New York Times
. It takes me just a few moments to find “Vows” online. Those articles contain every bit of wedding-announcement minutiae anyone could ever want—gowns, ceremonies, relatives, education, occupations, pictures. I wonder if this one might also contain some answers.
Botox jumps onto my lap as I continue my search.
In seconds, up pops the same picture Melanie showed me that first day I interviewed her. The arty, soft-focus photograph, the floaty Vera Wangish dress, Brad’s affectionate gaze. But here, underneath, is the whole story of their wedding.
Botox sits up, positioning her furry body exactly where it’ll block my view of the computer monitor. I bat her back
down onto my lap and lean across the keyboard as if sitting closer will allow me to read faster.
I see Brad got his MBA from Wharton School of Business, where, I remember, Mack Briggs taught. And then I read: Melanie, too. That’s where they met, the article says. And she was valedictorian. So much for my theory she wouldn’t understand the insider-trading scheme.
I pause, my brain struggling to extricate a memory. Didn’t she tell me
Brad
was head of the class?
Ceremony at some church, reception at Tavern on the Green, very nice. Bridesmaids, many, but no one’s name I recognize. Best man, Melanie’s brother Martin.
A little bell goes off in my head. Martin. I flip my mental Rolodex. Martin.
Honeymoon in St. Bart’s, I read on. Expensive. Couple will live in Lexington. I know that.
All perfectly interesting, but nothing earthshaking that I can see.
And then, finally, at the end of the article, there’s a quote from the mother of the bride. It’s not what she says that shocks me—it’s who she is.
Andrea Grimes Brown.
Coffee. I need coffee. My gray-flannel clogs clunk down the hallway as I head toward the kitchen, yawning uncontrollably. Four hours of sleep again. I struggle to get my brain into gear.
Franklin is going to go bananas when I tell him what I found out last night. Josh, too. And the police. The enormity of my discovery perks me up—who needs sleep when you’ve got a good story?
I squint toward the living room, confused. It looks as if there’s a funny shadow on the couch. Maybe I left my coat
there last night. It’s too early for contacts, and I wish I had my glasses. I squint harder as I get closer to the room.
It’s not a coat. It’s a person. Sitting on my couch.
I take a few more steps—then stop. Now I can see.
Flawless posture, tailored suit, matching patent pumps and pocketbook. White gloves. Melanie Foreman, watching me calmly, looks more like a guest at afternoon tea than someone who could be arrested for breaking and entering.
“Melanie?” I can’t think of anything else to say. Maybe she’s discovered something about the Bibles. She doesn’t know what I found, so maybe she’s just lonely. Or wants to apologize. But why didn’t she call? How did she get in? “Did we,” I begin out loud, trying for my calmest voice, “have an appointment?”
She smiles, holds up the key to my apartment between two manicured fingers. “Under the plant,” she says, not answering my question. She drops my key. I flinch as it clatters onto the glass coffee table.
“You weren’t here yesterday when I came to visit,” she continues, still with that brittle smile, “so I decided to come back this morning. We need—to talk.”
Who would dig out someone’s key and just come in? That’s creepy. And clearly how Botox got out. I cinch my terry-cloth bathrobe tighter around my waist, then stuff my hands into the pockets. The back of my neck is suddenly clammy, and my throat gets tight.
“Melanie?” I say again. I hear the tension in my own voice and realize I’m clenching my fists.
Relax.
“Talk about what?”
“I know you have the files,” she says. “The ones Brad sent to Josh. And now, I’m here to get them back.” She picks up the shiny purse next to her, puts it in her lap. She snaps
the clasp. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. “I couldn’t find them yesterday. But I’m sure you can retrieve them for me.”
Not a chance. I take a faltering step backward, away from her, thrown off balance physically and emotionally. Logic says Melanie cannot be sitting in my living room.
I fleetingly hope—maybe it’s a dream? I smell Melanie’s perfume, fragrant and floral. Hear a dull hum as the furnace kicks in. I try to lick my lips, but my mouth is dry. I’m awake. And this ain’t no friendly visit.
“Or don’t,” Melanie says. I hear the click again as she unsnaps the metal clasp on her purse. I see the morning sun glint on the gleaming silver pistol she extracts from inside.
A .22, my mind registers. As if that matters.
She doesn’t point it at me, just holds it carefully in her gloved hand.
Her gloved hand. I feel a trickle slide down my back. I’m in trouble.
I need a—what? My eyes dart around the room, looking for some kind of weapon. With escalating dismay I realize there’s not much deadly force available in my living room. I could throw a pile of old
New Yorkers
at her. Clonk her with my TiVo remote. That’s the extent of my firepower. I’m screwed.
“Suit yourself,” Melanie continues. “Although it’s hard to believe you’d think some box of papers is worth—well, you see the consequences.”
Stall, my brain commands. Stall. Josh is going to call, any minute I hope, and if I don’t answer the phone, he’ll be here instantly. Or as instantly as he can, driving in from Bexter. Maybe he’ll call the police. I’ve got to stall.
“I do,” I say, pretending fear isn’t making me feel as if I’m about to faint. I need to take up as much time as I can. The files aren’t here, of course, but she doesn’t know that.
The good news and the bad news. “Though you know, I did read an interesting article in the
New York Times
last night.”
“Oh?” Melanie questions. She puts the gun beside her on the couch and adjusts her Chanel-looking skirt. “And I care about that because…?”
“Because the article was about you,” I say pleasantly. I take a step or two toward the couch. “About you and Brad. Your wedding, in fact. In ‘Vows.’”
“I see,” Melanie replies, eyeing my progress and picking up the gun again. “And what—”
“Quite the write-up,” I continue. “Nice dress. Nice ceremony. I was surprised to learn both you and Brad went to Wharton. And so you knew Mack Briggs, too, even though you told me you didn’t. But what surprised me the most,” I say slowly, willing the phone to ring, “was learning about your relatives. Your mother, most specifically. Your mother—Andrea Grimes Brown.”
“Ah.” Melanie nods. “So you know.”
“Do I?” I ask. “I mean, most mothers and daughters shop, have lunch at a nice restaurant and share stories about their kids. Gossip about the neighbors. Give advice about husbands. Swap recipes. But you two, apparently, cooked up an insider-trading scheme. Very twenty-first century.” I pause to see if Melanie will admit it. “Let me ask you, Melanie. Did you come up with this? Or your mother? You told me…”