Prime Time (11 page)

T

I try to appreciate the brilliant New England morning, but the sun’s in a losing battle against the light-sucking black hole of my disappointment.

Josh. Hasn’t called me.

I don’t know why I expect millions of news viewers to listen to me, trust me, when I don’t listen to myself. I knew I should never have gotten involved. I wasn’t looking to meet anyone, I was doing an interview. And it wasn’t my fault that the interview subject was so attractive. And smart. And funny. And single.

Becoming more irate with every memory, I dig into my tote bag for gum.

I certainly didn’t do anything to encourage Josh Gelston to ask me out. My tirade escalates as I pop a few sugar-free Chiclets. I wasn’t the one who pulled out the shooting-star line.

A souped-up convertible, with the top down in October for God’s sake, whips in front of me across two lanes and whizzes off the exit ramp. My heart races with a surge of adrenaline. If my Jeep had been going just a little faster or if I hadn’t been such a good driver, I would have crashed into some midlife-crisis sports car. Or, I realize, wind up like Brad Foreman: dead on the side of Route 128. I mentally replay the video our six o’clock news showed of the accident scene: swirling blue lights, the ambulance doors swinging wide, emergency crews quiet, in postures of defeat. Brad’s white sedan, upside down, charred to black, all four doors unnaturally twisted open, windows shattered. Demolished. No longer a car. Just an aftermath.

My buzzing mind goes quiet with the relief of escape. And then I remember—Mack Briggs didn’t escape. His name was on Brad’s e-mail. And mine, too. And, I also remember, no one knows where I am. I need to check in with Franklin.

Then I remember one thing more. Josh’s name was also on that e-mail. As the traffic blurs into the background, a sinister reason for Josh’s silence begins to nag, unpleasantly, at the back of my mind.

I laugh out loud. The old “he didn’t call because he must be dead” excuse has never been true.

But wait. Is it possible I’m being unfair? Possible that I’ve been out of the dating give-and-take for so long that I’m expecting too much too soon?

Or maybe Josh is intimidated. Maybe he thinks I only attended his little school play to see if I could score more information for my story. But now he’s afraid to call because someone like me, Emmy awards, TV personality, recognized in restaurants and all, must have a teemingly crowded social life.

He was all over the
Miranda
name, even had a fairly intriguing theory about it. He brought up Briggs’s name, and Rasmussen’s. Which proves he must have at least been listening to me, or how else would he have remembered them?

Just. A Darn. Minute.

The road signs flash by as I play back my conversation with Josh, in fast-forward, without the romantic parts. I check the rearview and see my own expression. I look like Little Red Riding Hood when she realizes there’s a wolf in Granny’s bed.

I had never mentioned Wes Rasmussen to Josh.

So how did he know about him? And why?

I can’t breathe. I can’t drive. I have to think. I have to pull over. I look at my watch and calculate: no time. No time to stop, and no time to panic.

I read somewhere that new pilots aren’t allowed to fly at night because they can’t tell which way is up. They fly through the darkness, instruments useless, their horizon lost, totally confused and incapable of telling whether they’re upside down.

As I head toward my destination, I know just how they feel. Could I have been completely and totally duped?

I reconstruct our evening, seeing in neon lights each moment when the diabolical Josh, suave manipulator of honest, truth-seeking reporters, pulled the pashmina over my eyes.

Didn’t know Mack Briggs? Of course he did. Didn’t know why Brad was asking about the e-mails? Of course he knew. Didn’t know the origin of the spam? Sure he did. Didn’t know what was going on at Aztratech? Didn’t know Brad was ready to blow the whistle? He was probably in on the whole thing, whatever it is.

I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand, annoyed with myself. And Brad and Josh met at a big dinner party, I remember. Probably hosted by Wes Rasmussen.

It’s so frighteningly clear he was trying to figure out how much I knew. And I was so…lusting…for romance and affection, I didn’t even see through the deception.

I close my eyes in self-loathing, before I remember that I’m driving and that closing my eyes is not the best idea.

And there’s my exit.

When I arrive at the cemetery, a long, slow-moving caravan of cars is snaking down a narrow, unpaved road, each car puffing up a plume of gravel dust as it curves past a stone-and-masonry sign that says Eventide. I ease my Jeep onto the end of the line, and pushing my conscience out of the way, flip the switch to turn on my headlights.

It’s Mack Briggs’s funeral procession, and now I’m part of it.

The cars line up to park, one after the other, on the side of a grassy rise. Beyond that, I see a dark-green canopy set up on metal poles, rows of folding chairs underneath. The first arrivals file into the seating area, men in substantial overcoats, hatless, braving the cold. Women wrapped in extra shawls and close-fitting hats against the increasing chill, their faces somber and serious, some holding flowers and small prayer books. A little boy carrying a fire truck stumbles a bit in the gravel and he grabs the hand of the man walking next to him. I can tell they’ve both been crying. A flock of gray birds wheels gracefully over the mourners, gliding through the sky then leaving the cemetery silent.

It’s almost time for me to turn into the parking area, but
now, sneaking into someone’s funeral, my conscience kicks its way back in. Questioning my own motives and attempting to retrieve my moral compass, all I can think about is getting out of here. This is a hideous invasion of privacy. This is why people hate reporters. It’s shocking, unacceptable, certainly a no-refund, no-exchange ticket to hell and eternal damnation.

But I can save myself. All I have to do is say I made a mistake. I’m in the wrong place, forgive me, I thought this was someone else’s service. I’m so sorry, big adios, and exit.

But,
I hafta know….

I look up, and a dark-suited attendant is waving me into the next spot. I follow his directions, lock my better judgment in the glove compartment and get out of the car.

Staking out a spot behind the rows of folding chairs, I try to stay hidden by an ancient maple tree. No one seems to notice me, but problem is, I can only see backs of heads, which is no help at all in my search for suspects.

The minister looks up from his Bible, scanning the group, squinting with stern disapproval. The mourners look at each other, concerned and upset. I suddenly hear why—someone’s cell phone is trilling, muffled slightly but still a disastrous breach of etiquette for some poor—

I dive for my purse, whirling to put the tree between me and the service. It’s
my
phone. I plow through my bag and smash the off button without even looking at my caller ID. Good work, I congratulate myself. Subtle.

I lean against the tree, holding my breath. A moment’s pause and the minister continues. I wait, envisioning some black-suited funeral-home goons picking me up by the elbows and throwing me head over heels out of the cemetery. I see my entire life savings, including my plastic
surgery fund, heading into the coffers of first amendment lawyers and going to pay huge trespassing fines.

I tentatively creep out from behind my tree, peering around the edge to see if any goons are on the hunt. But the minister’s head is bowed again, and it sounds as if he’s nearing the end of the service. The mourners seem to be focused on their sorrow and not some misfit with a cell phone. No goons in sight.

I echo their murmured “Amen,” and then watch the group move to pay their final respects as the casket is lowered. I’m almost in the clear. No lawsuits, no headlines. I’ll just hang here until the funeral is over and pretend the whole thing never happened. I admit I still haven’t seen anyone I recognize, which is a bummer, but on the bright side, no one has recognized me, either.

“Charlie McNally?”

Someone’s benign-looking grandmother is headed in my direction, walking carefully in the damp leaves that have fallen on the browning grass, and she’s calling my name.

“Charlie McNally, the reporter for Channel 3?” she repeats.

I knew it. Now she’ll tell me how much better I look in real life than on camera, how the camera adds ten pounds and ten years, like I don’t know that. I appreciate fans, but let me out of here.

“Yes?” Ten seconds. I’ll give her ten seconds.

She’s still smiling, but two dark-suited factotums seem to materialize at her side. Disturbingly like those funeral goons I worried about. The men hover, one on either side of her, like bulked-up robots programmed to protect and defend at any cost.

The woman loses her grandmotherly look. The swath of
her black scarf barely reveals her gray hair, and that’s what fooled me at first glance. But now I see her telltale over-lifted eyebrows, her too-taut skin. Her cosmetically revamped face hardens into brittle, her eyes narrow, sizing me up.

This is no fan.

“Ms. McNally,” she says, her smile now icy. “I’m Andrea Grimes Brown.” She doesn’t introduce the robots.

Think, think, think. Andrea Grimes…

She continues. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mack Briggs.” She pauses, waiting for my answer.

Andrea Grimes…Know it. Can’t place it. I edge toward my Jeep, but Brown and her wingmen edge right along with me.

Then I regroup. Who the hell is she and why is she allowed to ask me what I’m doing? I’m the reporter. I’m the one who gets to ask the questions. I have a perfect right to be here. In a way. And the best defense is a good offense.

I stop and face her down. “May I help you with something?” That doesn’t really mean anything, but it’s all part of my never-fail system to put her off guard and get her to tell me what she wants.

It fails.

She plants herself in my path and repeats her inquiry. “So, do you know Mack Briggs? And how do you know him?”

Two can play this game.

“I’m sorry,” I reply, though I’m not, really. “Ms…. Brown, is it? Are you a friend of Mr. Briggs? I’m so sorry for your loss. But I’m wondering if you might like to comment for my story.” I whip out my notebook and pencil, as if I’m going to take notes. “Any thoughts on his untimely death?” I figure that’s how people think reporters talk.

She smiles again, like that snake in
The Jungle Book,
and taps her little prayer book against her leather-gloved palm. For some reason, this looks incredibly menacing, and I can’t believe I ever thought this viper looked like someone’s grandma.

“You don’t want a quote from me, Ms. McNally,” she replies. “In fact, I’m certain you never want to see me again. But I want to let you know there’s no story for you here. No story in Mack Briggs. No story in your friend Brad Foreman.”

I open my mouth to ask how she knows Brad Foreman, but her hand goes up to silence me.

“Ms. McNally, let’s make this brief. I don’t know what you think you know, but you know nothing. And may I remind you, I’m on very close terms with the owner of your station, and I can assure you, my relationship with Mr. Maxwell Stern Denekamp is more important to him than one reporter’s job.”

I try once more, ready to protest, but there’s the hand again.

“We’re done here, Ms. McNally,” she says. With that, she and her goon squad about-face and march away.

That’s pretty harsh, I decide. And kind of misguided psychology. If you’re trying to threaten my job and tell me something’s not a story—that only tells me it’s got to be a pretty damn good story. When my ship comes in on this one, I’m going to—

Ship.

Now I see the name on Brad’s documents. A. Grimes Brown. CEO of Rogers Chalmers Enterprises. And co-owner of the
Miranda
. Andrea Grimes Brown. So nice to meet you.

I do my own slow and satisfied viper smile, carefully threading my pencil though the spiral of my notebook. If
I’m right about what’s going on, and I think I am, there are just two little words for this situation:
Gotcha, Grandma.

Walking back to the car, I pat myself on the back for what I now assess as my gutsy decision to attend the funeral, even though I’m left with a huge bunch of questions. Were there other
Miranda
owners at the cemetery? Scanning over my shoulder, I blink in disbelief. There—past my tree, past the folding chairs, past the back poles of the canopy—I see a face I recognize.

It’s Josh.

I catch my breath and turn my back to him, hiding. Why is he at Mack Briggs’s funeral? He told me he didn’t know Mack Briggs. I was right. He’s a scheming, conniving rat.

I whirl around, head high, ready to let him have it with both barrels—biting wit and dismissive nonchalance. I’m totally on to him.

“So,” I begin, as haughty as a salesclerk at an exclusive boutique, “I see…”

He’s gone.

I would burst into tears of frustration if it wouldn’t make my eyes puffy. “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” I mutter, turning back to the car. I’ve been threatened by a sinister grandmother, deceived by a scheming schoolteacher, I’m confused, I’m disappointed and I have to drive all the way back to Boston by myself.

And now I’ve gotten a ticket. A ticket? This is the last frigging straw. I yank the paper out from under my windshield wiper, ready to crumple it into a wad and toss it into the black hole of my backseat.

But then I realize. They don’t issue parking tickets at funerals. I look more closely. It’s not a ticket. It’s a note from Josh.