“Did you—
do
it? Did you even kiss him?” she asks. She waves a hand, preventing me from answering. “Of course not. You probably made him watch
Frontline
with you. I’m just warning, girlfriend, you’re going to get out of practice.” Maysie’s phone interrupts, tinkling a perverse version of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” She hits Mute without missing a beat. “Anyway, remember we’re sneaking the kids off to Disney today for the break between
baseball and football—leaving right after my afternoon show. I’ll send postcards, as usual. And maybe you can ‘practice’ while I’m gone.” She does a suggestive little shoulder shimmy. “You’re still hot as hell, Murphy Brown, if you’d just let yourself go for it.”
I give her a quick hug, deciding not to mention that the award-winningly tough Murphy Brown, though not a bad journalism role model, is also a fictional sitcom character. “All I’m ‘going for,’ Mays, is my next story. And now, I’ve got to hunt for a mysterious e-mail,” I say. “Have a great trip—I’ll be missing you. You know you’re the only one I can talk to.”
“Oh, honey,” Maysie says as she adjusts her cap and gathers her tote bag, “don’t be a drama queen. We’ll only be gone two weeks. What could happen?”
F
“This is the box Brad brought home from the office,” Melanie explains. “I suppose—” she sighs, glancing at me “—this is what he wanted you to see.”
I’m sitting on one end of a chestnut leather couch, ready to check through the files I pulled to examine. “The e-mail I found didn’t specify,” I reply, shaking my head. “It just said he worked at Aztratech, and wanted to talk to me. It didn’t even include his name. He just told me to reply by e-mail. I’m so sorry, Melanie,” I add. “His letter wasn’t terribly revealing.”
Brad Foreman’s office, shadowy and masculine, looks as if it’s on hold, waiting for him to come back. Franklin
and I are invaders, strangers now prying though private documents Brad apparently meant to hide here.
This is all for the good, I attempt to reassure myself. Melanie suspects Brad was on the trail of…something. Now the three of us are going to continue his quest, and if we’re lucky (as we often are), we’ll dig up the journalistic treasure at the end of the trail. Brad would have wanted it that way. After all, he sent me that e-mail. And it must be important to Melanie, too, or she wouldn’t have let us come back to her house on the very day her husband’s body was found.
“So—I have a question,” I say. If she’s this resilient, she must need answers as much as I do. Closure. “If these documents and files are from your husband’s office, Mrs. Foreman, how did they get here? And why?”
She looks up with a wan smile. “Melanie, remember?” She puts a finger between some files to hold her place. “Brad brought them home, piles and piles of papers. I did ask him what they were, but he was unusually dismissive. Just said, ‘Oh, nothing, honey.’ I should have—”
Melanie’s voice catches in her throat. “I should have—” she tries again.
I’m so focused on Melanie’s anguish, when the phone rings I almost fall off the couch.
Melanie flutters a pale hand to her throat and picks up the receiver.
“Hello?”
I’m not sure how I can avoid listening. After all, it’s probably a private condolence call. I pretend to be looking at files, but I can’t resist sneaking a peek at Melanie.
She looks perplexed, and holds the receiver out in front of her as if she could look inside and see who’s calling. She
brings it back to her ear. “Hello? Hello?” She listens again briefly, then places the phone gently back in its cradle. “One of your colleagues?” she asks with a wry smile.
Franklin laughs, too, as I answer, “Probably a telemarketer, or wrong number,” I correct her. “A reporter would never hang up.”
The little terrier trots into the room and jumps onto the couch. She gives me an appraising glance, then curls up on the cushion beside me. I reach out to give her a pat, but withdraw my hand when I hear Melanie’s voice.
Her smile has evaporated. “Banjo,” she snaps. “Get down.” The dog leaps from the couch, scampering away. “She’s not the same,” Melanie explains, her voice softening, “since Brad…”
“I know how skittish pets can be,” I reply, letting her know I understand. “My cat’s at the vet. Apparently there’s some feline flu going around and…” I stop. I’m trying to be sympathetic, but she must be so fragile, so on edge. I can’t help her by sharing pet stories. I can only help her by looking for answers.
Melanie and Franklin, Banjo forgotten, have gone back to the documents, but I realize I’m more than a little unnerved. Dead guy’s office. Mysterious phone call. Purloined documents.
Shake it off, I tell myself. This may be TV, but it’s the news, not
The Twilight Zone.
“So?” I ask. “Anything interesting?”
“Hard to tell.” Franklin seems perplexed. “There are some Aztratech accounting ledgers. There’s a big file of what looks like copies of the newspaper stock tables, all marked up. And this is a stack of 10k’s, annual reports from two dozen or so corporations.”
“Anything that looks personal? Or confidential? You said—stock tables?”
Franklin hands me a page from the top of the pile. It looks as if it’s copied from a
New York Times
stock market page, blurred so much that maybe it’s a copy of a copy. There are blue dots and red dots in various places, apparently marking companies someone was interested in.
“Here’s an idea,” I say, handing the page back. “Melanie, do you know if your husband had a stock market theory? Was he playing the market?”
Melanie frowns. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about my question, or if I’ve offended her. Savvy move, Charlie. Ask about the dead husband’s finances again. I hope for the best, and keep talking.
Because now I think it’s possible our whistle-blowing idea is wrong. Maybe Brad was thinking about quitting Aztratech and going into the market. That’s why he brought all his stock research home.
“I mean, if you could predict the market, you could rule the world. But if he proved it worked, obviously, he couldn’t let anyone know.”
The e-mail. I pull it from my pocket, checking again for some clue I missed. “Which, of course, means I’m wrong.” I shake my head and refold the paper, running my fingers along the crease. “If he couldn’t tell anyone, he’s not going to e-mail a reporter.”
Franklin raises one eyebrow and stacks up another file. “Yeah,” he says mildly. “That’s kind of what I was thinking.”
“Could I just say,” Melanie breaks in softly, “I’m sure Brad didn’t have a ‘beat the stock market’ idea. But I do think something—or someone—was worrying him.”
“You do?” Franklin and I say this in unison. We may have worked together too long. “Why?”
“And, Melanie,” I add, mentally replaying this morning’s interview, “you told me everything was fine. You said he wasn’t depressed or upset.”
She sinks into the desk chair, briefly puts her head in her hands. When she looks up, her eyes are filled with tears, and she seems to be struggling for words.
“I know, and I’m sorry if I misled you, Charlie. But I was afraid. I thought if Brad knew something he wasn’t supposed to know, maybe someone would think I know whatever it is, too. And I don’t know anything.”
Franklin puts down his papers. “Why do you think he knew something?”
Melanie fidgets a little in her chair. Brad’s chair. “Well, he was just behaving strangely. He came home later than usual, or earlier. He spent a lot of time reading the newspaper.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I sound ridiculous. Neurotic wife, overanalyzing…” Her voice trails off.
“No, no…” Franklin and I, in unison again, rush to reassure her.
“That’s why we’re here,” I say. “To try to find some answers.”
The room is quiet again. I guess we’re all thinking about Brad. Whatever he had in the works, things did not go as he planned.
And now, what are we missing? I get up to take another look through Brad’s file box.
“There’s all that Aztratech stuff, then a series of green folders with a company name on each,” I say, moving the files on their metal rack. “Looks like—corporations.
Rogers Chalmers. Electrometrics. Then, let’s see, Fisher Industries.” I turn to Melanie, questioning. “Ring a bell?”
She looks doubtful. “No.”
“They’re all different kinds of companies,” Franklin muses, looking over my shoulder. “Agriculture. Chemicals. Construction. Only a couple of pharmaceuticals. Why would he have all these?”
We pull the files forward, one at a time. Each appears to contain the same kinds of documents: an annual report, stock research and market performance information, and advertising materials. The Aztratech file is especially plump.
After a few moments, Franklin steps back and sits down in a smoky-striped wing chair.
“Okay, this is not so mysterious,” he says. He starts to put his feet up on the coffee table, then stops. “He was job hunting. He’s researching opportunities. This is unquestionably the collection of someone scouting for new employment.”
I tilt my head back and forth, considering. “But didn’t he like his job at Aztratech?”
“He never said he wasn’t happy with his job,” Melanie says. “So I really don’t think…”
I glance at Franklin, my eyes signaling our tactics. He gives the tiniest of nods—he understands. I’m going for it.
“Um, Melanie,” I begin. “What if…Could your husband have been researching, say, price fixing of some kind?”
“Does he have other documents? That could be his, well, ammunition?” Franklin adds, moving in for the follow-up. “Evidence he was going to use as proof of corporate collusion? Or something like that?”
Melanie slicks back her hair, stares off into the distance.
Damn it. We may have pushed too hard. Lost her.
Franklin’s giving me a worried look. I raise a hand, signaling again. Hang on.
Melanie sighs. “I suppose it’s possible,” she says softly, still looking away. “He never told me anything about—anything like that.” She turns to us, eyes moist. “But as I said, it’s possible.”
She opens a maroon lacquered box on the desk and takes out a thin cigarette. She holds it up silently, and when we don’t object, she lights it with a heavy silver lighter and puffs out a narrow stream of gray smoke.
“We did have money problems,” she says finally. “Bradley was desperately trying to refinance. This house used to be my mother’s. She gave it to us when she moved to her condo.”
The jangle of the phone interrupts us again.
Melanie tilts her head back and her shoulders drop. She looks exhausted and overwhelmed. She picks up the receiver. “Hello?” she says quietly.
This time there must be someone on the other end. I watch Melanie’s face register emotions: recognition, confusion, annoyance, concern. And then, do I see fear?
Melanie regains her composure, but I still think she looks uncomfortable. “No, nothing at all,” she says, glancing at the stack of ledgers and paperwork, and then at Franklin and me. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
She hangs up and takes another drag on her cigarette. I wait, figuring if she wants to explain, she’ll explain.
“That was someone from Brad’s office,” she says. “Asking if Brad had brought anything home.” A puff of gray smoke. “I said no, because it just didn’t seem right. What business is it of theirs if Brad brought papers home?”
“I suppose if they’re Aztratech property,” I say slowly,
“they legally belong to the company. If Brad took them without permission, you may be obligated to give them back.”
Melanie opens the lacquered box again, lights another cigarette. I can see the flame flicker in her trembling hand. “What if they’re sending someone now? To get them? I don’t have time to shred all this, or burn them,” she says, looking at us helplessly. Her voice rises, and she twists that rock of a ring around her finger. “They could find everything, all these files. I can’t risk—”
“If you still had them,” I say slowly.
Melanie’s expression changes, her chin lifts, and she looks at me through narrowing eyes. “You’re suggesting…I give them to you?” She pauses, then shakes her head. “I think—that’s not the best idea.”
“But if they weren’t here…” I pause, hoping Melanie will fill in the blank. She doesn’t, so I do. “They couldn’t find them. They’d never know. You could protect Brad.”
Melanie taps her cigarette thoughtfully into the ashtray. Taps it again and again. Finally, she almost smiles. “And you’d never tell, of course, if I gave you the files. Reporter privilege, is it called?”
“We never reveal a source, Mrs. Foreman,” I say formally. “And we’ll never release documents. You can take that to the bank.”
“So that’s fantastic,” I say to Franklin, fastening my seat belt. A car arrives at the entrance to Melanie’s driveway, its headlights flashing in our mirror. Must be a relative or someone to comfort her. Good. She shouldn’t be alone. “We get a boxful of documents that could be the key to who knows what.”
“Yeah,” Franklin replies. He steers the car out the land
scaped gravel loop of Melanie’s driveway. “We’ll just take these puppies into the safety of our office.”
“And then tomorrow, we’ll try to figure how they connect to the e-mail Brad sent me.”
“Right. What was in that file you had, by the way?” he asks.
The folder’s still in my tote bag. Well, Melanie will never miss it. I yank it out and flip through it. “Spam,” I say, as bewildered as I was when I first saw the papers inside. “Weird.” I flip through them again. “All spam. And all about refinancing. Although the subject line spells it r-e-f-i-g-h. Very weird.”
“Not weird at all,” Franklin pronounces. “Brad was looking to refinance, Melanie said so. So those spams make perfect sense.” He takes the exit toward Boston. “Want me to just drop you at home?”
“Oh, no,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes dramatically. “Drop me at Excelsior. On Boylston Street. I can have a couple of martinis before Andrew arrives. You know, he’s that incredibly handsome and successful first-amendment lawyer I’ve been dating.” I trill a little giggle and fluff my hair.
Franklin doesn’t bat an eye.
“In your dreams,” he says. “Home it is.”
We drive in silence for a few moments, me contemplating my actual evening of frozen no-fat zucchini lasagna and TV. Which, despite Maysie’s urgings and Franklin’s loud silence, sounds terrific.
“Unless,” Franklin begins again, “you’d be interested in joining me and Stephen for dinner. Our place. It’ll be fine. He’s a fabulous accountant, but he can never estimate how much food he’s making. There’s always way too much, and I know he’d love to see you again. Get to know you better.”
My heart fills with affection for Franklin, a relative newcomer to my life, clearly happy with his own, and yet…trying to take care of me.