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“My three…” Suddenly, I get it. “I was right!”

Franklin points to his nose. “Correct,” he says. “This
database shows four CEOs, including Rasmussen, also own at least one other boat.”

“That’s great,” I say, eyes widening. “Anything else?”

“That’s the bad news,” Franklin says. “The database search is still churning away. Matching millions of records. I told you it was going to take a while.”

“Let me know the minute you have a hit,” I insist. “I’ll check for new spam.” With a little computer-music fanfare, dozens of new arrivals are displayed from top to bottom of my screen. And some are just what I was hoping for:
Hello, A new re-figh deal 4-u, a good time to buy.
Possibly they’re written that way to get past the spam filters. Maybe it’s a mistake.

I click open the first of the “re-fighs.” Inside, it again says,
Hello, A new re-figh deal 4-u, a good time to buy.
Then it says,
Numbers 4:55-56.

I copy and paste it into Google. I’m almost bored now. I know what’s going to happen. Some Bible verse is going to pop up, I’ll send it back and I’ll get something else in return.

I prop my chin on my hands as Google thinks.

After this, I decide, I’m not going to play anymore. It’s a waste. And probably will wind up being a gimmick. At the end of these mysterious back-and-forth e-mails is going to be some legitimate offer to refinance my condo or something. That’ll be truly, truly annoying.

A flash of white screen, then up pops the results page. One entry only, I see, and it’s not from the Bible.

It’s which buses you can take to get to some martial arts school in London.

This is perplexing. Why doesn’t it show a Bible verse?

“Hey, Franklin?” I say. He’s told me from moment one
this refinancing trail is going nowhere, and I guess he’s right. “It’s your turn to hear the three little words.” That’ll get him.

Of course he looks up. “What am I right about?”

I show him the latest e-mails and the Bible verse.

“See? This is definitely a Bible citation, anyone could recognize that. But when I did the search, it comes up with this London address. So you were right. This re-fi e-mail is nothing but a huge time-sucker.”

Franklin, ignoring my admission of defeat, reads it out loud. “Numbers 4. Fifty-five to fifty-six.” He tilts his head, thinking, then looks as if he’s counting something on his fingers.

“What are—” I begin. Franklin stops me with a glare. I’ve apparently made him lose track of whatever he’s counting. He starts again.

“This isn’t a Bible verse,” he finally pronounces.

“Not a Bible verse?” I reply, unconvinced. “Sure it is.”

“Nope.” Franklin sounds confident. “It’s not. Anyone who went to church as much as I did when I was a kid back in Jackson knows this chapter and verse you showed me ain’t gospel. Numbers Chapter 4 in King James? Only goes up to Verse 45. So there is no Verse 55 and 56.”

“Franklin, that’s impossible,” I argue. “Besides, how could you possibly know the verses in the Bible?”

Franklin touches his temple and bows slightly. “Some guys know baseball stats, I know the Bible. My father was also my Sunday school teacher, remember?” he says. “But more to the point here, if the e-mails were designed to get you to complete a quotation, why would they send something that’s impossible to complete?”

“What do you mean, ‘designed’?” I demand, pointing at him. “You told me you thought these e-mails were
nothing. A ‘junk-mail joke,’ if I remember correctly. So now you’ve changed your mind?”

“Well, I’ll admit, after looking at these—Bible verse things—I’m not sure. And I can’t forget Brad asked Josh Gelston about exactly the same quotations you got. And maybe he asked Mack Briggs, too. Whoever that is. It all seems too complicated to be a coincidence, you know?”

I knew I was right.

“And you know what we forgot?” I say. “That phone call Melanie got from the Aztratech lawyers, asking if Brad brought home documents. So what was it they thought he had? And if it’s what we have now—” I gesture to the box “—what is it we don’t understand?”

Franklin and I turn to look at the brown corrugated cardboard box. Inside, a metal bracket, with tabbed green file folders hanging from the frame. The first tab says Aztratech, then Azzores Partnership, then Dioneutraceutics. A dozen or so. Alphabetical. Organized. And completely meaningless.

“I have an idea,” Franklin says. “Go to the re-fi spams you received. The ones with the weird spellings. Print them all out, okay?”

Turns out there are about ten “re-figh” e-mails, and each one contains what still looks to me like the citation for a Bible verse. The book Numbers, then chapter and verse.

Franklin starts counting on his fingers again.

I hope he has a plan because I’m not going to be terribly helpful with Bible verses. My college comparative-religion class was at eight in the morning, and no question I rarely made an appearance. And even if I’d had perfect attendance, I couldn’t possibly remember how many verses there were in whatever books of the Bible they were teaching.

“Earth to Charlotte.” Franklin pokes me in the shoulder. “Earth. To. Charlotte.”

“Ow.” I wince. “Cut it out. I’m just thinking about Bible verses.”

“Here’s the deal,” Franklin says, pointing to the sheaf of papers. “Some of these are Bible verse citations—but some aren’t. This one, for instance, refers to Numbers 10, Verse 73 to 74. The real Numbers 10 ends at Verse 36.”

“I’m still beyond impressed that you know this,” I say. “But, given that you do, why would someone send—”

“I have no idea,” Franklin interrupts. “But it’s late, and I’m out of here. Why don’t you e-mail back the address of the martial arts school, same way you’ve always responded to the spams. Just to see. Then tomorrow, we’ll move to plan B.”

“Great,” I say. “Plan B.” Whatever that is.

“B

I’m looking for a…Charlie McNally? If this is the correct number, please call me—617-555-3413.”

Mystery caller, huh? Fine. Just in case it’s another Watergate or Monica, I’ll call back. Reporter’s credo. I hear a machine click into answer mode. No clue in the outgoing message about who I’m calling.

I leave my name and number, plus my e-mail address to prove I’m sincere, and I’m done. Tag, you’re it. I’ve returned the call, just the way they teach you in J-school.

I tap my computer keyboard to open my e-mail for the day, smiling in self-approval at my continuing commitment to journalism. The monitor flashes to white, then whirs up into my New Mail Received screen. I scan for more “re-figh” e-mails. Nothing.

My smile turns to a pout of bewilderment as I check again. No refinancing spam of any kind. I click Refresh. Nothing. I click Update. Nothing. No refinancing e-mails. Not one.

Maybe the e-mail has crashed again.

Then, as I stare at the screen in consternation, a new e-mail pops up. My eyes and my brain struggle through a moment of disconnect: the subject line says
From Mack Briggs.

Mack Briggs. Mack Briggs. Mack Briggs is sending me an e-mail. Why?

I click on Open.

Dear Ms. McNally,
the e-mail begins.
I just received your voice mail message and decided it might be more efficient, initially at least, to correspond by e-mail.

I’m mesmerized. Mack Briggs was the mystery caller. What if I hadn’t called him back? I murmur a thank-you to the news gods and keep reading.

Ha. I was right.

Blinking at the screen, I print out a copy of this bombshell. And then I print out another one, just in case my computer crashes and everything is destroyed and I lose the first copy.

So. The elusive Mack Briggs is found. And his little jewel of an e-mail answers a couple of questions at least.

One—what took him so long. Even though we couldn’t find Mack Briggs, I always wondered why he didn’t try to find me. Now we know he was out of the country.

Two—Franklin and I must be right about the pharmaceutical whistle-blower story. The e-mail certainly alludes to it.

So, we’re on the way. When the documents arrive, we may get some more answers. Like who is Mack Briggs, anyway? And why did Brad send him a copy of the e-mail?

I swivel contentedly in my chair, savoring the possibilities. And, I remember with the tiniest of smiles, there’s a critical decision ahead of me. As soon as I get home.

This is harder than it was in high school. More complicated than a job interview. I make a face at no one, making fun of my own melodrama. It’s just a date.

I perch on the white wicker footstool tucked into the corner of my walk-in closet, and scrutinize the selection that’s usually so obvious. Suit—too formal. Unless I pretend I just came from work. Which I didn’t. Jeans—too casual. Don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. I sigh with a defeat that shudders through my evaporating confidence. Does it really matter what I wear? This Josh is going to like me, or not like me, based on our chemistry, not my clothing.

I guess.

I choose a maple-red corduroy blazer and crisp white shirt, and pull a pair of black pants from the rack. I stare at the outfit, each piece pristine on its padded hanger, as if it could reveal some answers. And then, it does.

It means safe. Serious. Boring. And, I decide as I hang it all back in place, it might as well be body armor. Am I protecting myself from something? I wonder, as I scour my
closet for perfection, if this might be the night to go for it. My almost-too-tight black turtleneck dress beckons from its back-of-the-rack spot. If not now, when?

Maybe Maysie has a point. Maybe I’m out of practice.

I purse my lips…and dare myself.

“Marjorie?”

“Here.”

“Margaret?”

“Here.”

Josh Gelston, holding a clipboard in the backstage darkness of Bexter Auditorium, confirms his “Gold-Bug” cast is complete. Two teenaged actors, heads bent close together, softly rehearse their lines for a final time. The younger kids, seated in a row on a fraying couch, whisper and giggle, unable to keep still. Perched on a high stool in a corner, I watch the swirl of precurtain chaos, the backstage performance a show in itself. Especially, I notice, my charming and charismatic leading man, looking very off-Broadway in a black T-shirt and tweedy blazer.

A wide-eyed little girl, all ruffles and laced-up boots, comes up to clutch Josh’s hand as he continues his preshow preparations. She can’t be more than six years old, and looks at her teacher adoringly.

“Five minutes to curtain,” Josh whispers and then kneels to face the girl beside him. Giving a final adjustment to the silky bow on her bonnet, he points her to her mark onstage. She turns to go, then apparently changing her mind, comes back to give Josh a quick hug. He smiles after her as she trots away to take her place—then he looks up at me.

“Okay?” his eyes ask.

I clasp my hands in front of me, pantomiming delight. This is beyond charming.

And so is Josh.

Someone starts a fog machine, and gray puffs float across the stage. Suburban teenagers somehow become Victorian townspeople, as Josh pulls up a high stool next to mine and holds up crossed fingers. At that moment, the mysteries of the spam and expensive yachts and pharmaceutical prices and documents to arrive tomorrow by overnight mail evaporate. Applause fills the theater, the stage lights go up and the curtain opens on the Bexter School production of “The Gold-Bug.”

The night is clear and the sky is cascaded with stars. Our words puff into clouds of cold as we slowly walk from the auditorium. Even in the splotchy parking-lot light, I can see the engaging crinkles around Josh’s eyes and read the enthusiasm in his smile.

“And did you see what a tough cookie our little Amy turned out to be? Even when the curtain…Charlie?” Josh stops mid-sentence, turns questioningly to make sure I’m listening.

“I know,” I agree. I can listen and dream at the same time. “And she obviously worships you.” I take a chance and tuck my gloved hand through Josh’s elbow. “All the kids do. And the cast party afterward—everyone was so proud and happy.”

I can feel Josh tighten his arm over my hand. And then, just as I’m wondering how I can make this evening last a little longer, we arrive at my car.

Moment of truth. “Anyway, thank you so much,” I say. “I had a terrific time. This is my Jeep.”

Josh pats my hand, the one I still haven’t removed from his arm. “I hoped so,” he says, “since it’s the only car here.”

This stops me. He’s right.

“But—where’s yours?” Suddenly there’s hope for more time with my handsome professor. “Can I…May I give you a ride home?”

“Good idea,” Josh says. “I don’t live far from here.”

Josh reaches over to open the driver’s side door, which of course doesn’t open because I have the remote key.

“Chivalry is dead,” I say, beeping the remote. “Killed by technology.” After I hop in, Josh goes around to the passenger side.

I quickly chuck my used latte cups and old newspapers onto the floor of the backseat and pump the heater to high. Time for a high-level decision. At some point someone will have to make a move. If he asks me in, will I go? I don’t have a toothbrush. Do I need a toothbrush? Isn’t dating supposed to be fun? When did it turn into an emotional chess match? Do I even know the rules anymore?

Josh clicks on his seat belt. “Left out of the lot,” he says.

I turn the Jeep down a quiet tree-lined street. There’s no way to know what will happen until it happens. And you can’t win if you don’t play.

“Here we are, number 11,” Josh says with a smile. “That’s me. As I said, thanks so much.”

“You live—here?” I say, laughing. I turn off the ignition, but flip the key to keep the heat running. “Some drive home.”

“I do have a house up by the Vermont border,” Josh replies. “A little place on the Jordan Beach Road. I’m usually there on weekends, especially on my Penny weekends because it’s closer for Victoria to drop her off up there. But school days, I stay here at Bexter.”

I wasn’t surprised to learn he’d been married before. I might have been worried, actually, if he hadn’t been. We’d sipped contraband wine in a corner as the cast party of his chattering students flowed around us, and we swapped love-and-war stories about our divorces—Josh’s at age fortysomething, from an ambitious doctor-wife who calculated it was more beneficial to latch on to a doctor-husband. His only regret, he’d told me, was Penny, the sweetly sad eight-year-old daughter he misses every day, but only sees every third weekend. I’m crossing my fingers I get to meet her.

Josh unhooks his seat belt, but still makes no move to get out of the car. He turns in his seat to face me and unbuttons his thick navy pea jacket, loosening his tweedy scarf.

Taking his cue, I unhook my seat belt, too. Just a cozy midnight tête-à-tête in my toasty little Cherokee. Not exactly a dream date, but it’ll do. And Josh seems to want it to continue.

“So?” he asks. “Any update on the spam saga? When last we met, you were in reporter mode, remember?”

Before I know it, the whole story pours out. The call and e-mail from Mack Briggs, the impending arrival of the documents, the bogus Bible verses, the sloop
Miranda
.

“So you must have been intrigued with that,” Josh says. “
Miranda
. Sounds like a clue, doesn’t it?”

I don’t understand. “You got me,” I admit. “A clue?”

Josh waggles a finger. “I thought you were Miss Shakespeare,” he says teasingly. “
Miranda
?”

“It’s so very late.” I go for the sympathy play. “My brain is so very tired. It’s…” I look at the dashboard clock and surprise myself. “It’s two in the morning, did you know that?”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Ms. McNally.” Josh
smiles, pretending to be strict. “
Miranda
. A main character in the play quoted in those e-mails. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on’—remember?
The Tempest.
”

“So you think,” I reply slowly, the connection sinking in, “the person who named the boat also sent the spam?”

“It’s kind of a funny coincidence if they didn’t,” Josh says. “You’re the reporter, but could that be Wes Rasmussen? Or what’s his name? Mack—Briggs?”

I stare at Josh, speechless, and then turn to stare out the windshield into the night sky. My brain is churning, consternation at not having made the
Miranda
connection myself mixing with excitement over Josh’s idea.

“So you think…hey! Did you see that?” I say.

Josh is looking out the windshield, too. “A shooting star,” he says. “Yes, I saw it.” He pauses and turns to me, a smile playing around his eyes. “And you know what they say you’re supposed to do when you see a shooting star?”

I do. “Make a wish,” I reply quickly. “You’re supposed to make a wish.”

“Wrong,” Josh responds.

He reaches over and takes my hand, and my heart explodes like a galaxy of shooting stars. “Not make a wish,” he says quietly, drawing me closer to him.

I’m nervous. I’m eager. But part of me’s confused. Of course it’s make a wish. I open my mouth to protest, but Josh interrupts, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his finger gentle against my cheek. I almost gasp at his touch, and I think my eyes briefly close, my body responding despite my brain.

“When you see a shooting star,” he says, his voice softening, “you’re supposed to kiss the person you’re with.”

“No, that’s wrong….” My brain takes hold, and I begin to argue again. Then, in an instant, as Josh pulls me even closer, my body wins. And I realize, as the stars and the car and the old latte cups and the hum of the heater somehow disappear, and our layers of coats and gloves and scarves force us to keep a tantalizing distance, you’re always supposed to do what the teacher says, especially on a school night.