“And no waiting for caffeine.” Franklin gestures toward Dunkin’ Donuts, then points me to a row of empty chairs. “Stake out those seats. You take my suitcase, and I’ll go get newspapers and coffee.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say. As Franklin heads off, I think about the cell phone that’s inside my purse. And whether it’s too early to call Josh and say goodbye again. He’d been asleep, peaceful, when the cab picked me up. We’d stayed up too late. Analyzed too much. Hedged the “dating other people” issue. Decided to talk when I get home. Decided not to do anything drastic. Unless you count what happened between two and three in the morning. Which did not include talking or sleeping.
I’m hoping to catch a quick recovery nap on the plane. Or maybe I could sleep a bit now. While I’m waiting for Franklin.
I close my eyes, just for a moment, I promise myself. Then I feel a shadow in front of me. Blinking, with a start, I sit up straight. Something’s wrong. I can tell by Franklin’s face.
He’s standing in front of me, wordlessly holding out a newspaper. I can see from the size and typeface that it’s not either of the Boston papers.
“Franko? What?” I take the paper from him. And follow his finger to an article on the front page. Damn. I give the paper back.
“Need my glasses,” I say. I burrow through my tote bag. There should be three cases of reading glasses in here. I can’t find even one.
“Just tell me what’s in the paper,” I say, still rummaging. “What paper is it, anyway? What’s it say?”
I freeze, midsearch. A tragic thought has occurred to me. I look up, both hands still in my bag. “Do not tell me someone’s done a story about counterfeit bags. I mean, do not tell me that.”
“Nope.” Franklin sits in the chair beside me and folds the newspaper in half with a crinkling snap. “The Barrington Eagle-Tribune. I found it in Dunkin’ Donuts. Story on page 1. Headline. House fire destroys vacant house, threatens neighbors.”
“Barrington?”
“Firefighters responded to 59 Glendower Street in Great Barrington late Friday afternoon after residents reported seeing smoke from a basement window,” Franklin reads out loud. “By the time all units arrived at the address, the house, which according to a posted yard sign is for sale, was fully engulfed. Firefighters blame the unseasonably gusty wind conditions for causing the flames to spread to nearby homes. Some sustained what firefighters termed ‘major’ damage. ‘It went up like a bonfire,’ said a neighbor who refused to give his name. ‘The place was empty. Renters just moved out.’
“Officials said the adjacent home at 57 Glendower was also uninhabited at the time of the fire, although neighbors told this reporter it was recently rented. Neighbors report a large gathering at the home the day before. Police will not comment on whether that is relevant to their investigation. Much of the contents of that house were destroyed, although investigators also refused to discuss the extent of the damages or loss. The tenant was not immediately available.”
I flip open my glasses and grab the paper for myself. I read it, scanning.
“Holy-”
“Shit,” Franklin finishes. “Just say it for once. It’s the house next to the party house? Right?”
“Well, yeah, from reading this, sure. Seems to be.” I put my glasses on top of my head, and squint at the annoyingly unrevealing black-and-white photo beside the story. “Can’t really tell, but the address is right. So the ‘tenant’ of 57 has got to be just-call-me-Sally, don’t you think? And as for the fire, and the ‘contents’ of that house being destroyed. You think, coincidence?”
“Well, burning down a house to send a message about selling fake purses is somewhat heavy-handed,” Franklin says. “But I suppose if you could make a warning appear to be collateral damage in a separate house fire, that might be pretty effective.”
“A warning-meaning someone could have been sending a message to just-call-me-Sally. Remember she told me she was-how did she put it-branching out on her own?”
“Of course.”
“And maybe someone’s making it clear that’s a bad idea. Which is more than disturbing. The key now would be to find her. Make sure she’s okay. Although I suppose the police are already looking. And it’s not like she wouldn’t already know her house caught fire.”
“True.”
“So now that’s maybe two people missing. Sally. And Katie Harkins. And as far as we can tell, from looking at the video at least, that is actually two people. Not one.” I take a sip of latte. “Maybe the D-M execs will be able to tell us something about Katie. Who knows.”
We’re both silent for a moment. Calculating.
“Think it’s conspiracy, kidnapping, arson, extortion and grand larceny counterfeiting? Or a coincidence?” I ask. “Or maybe, some of each?”
“Who knows,” Franklin says.
I have a fleeting glimmer of fear about my little apartment. Botox, on her own. Tolerating Amy the cat sitter, trusting I’ll come home. How frightened my sweet kitty would be if some bad guy broke into our apartment. Set it on fire.
Josh and Penny. A potential reality descends with an ugly thud. Are they vulnerable? Could-whoever it is-find out who they are? Do they already know?
News is what happens to someone else. But now my world includes someone else. Josh. And Penny. And that’s a different story.
I think of little Penny, sitting on the stairs, worrying. Anxious. Josh, silently arriving to reassure her. To reassure us.
Am I putting people I love in danger? People who love me?
I shake my head to erase the thought, as if there’s some evil kaleidoscope in my head making creepy designs. I watch too much television. I’m nervous because of my imminent plane flight. Nothing is going to happen.
The flight attendants look like Kabuki dancers, lined up in the aisle of our 737, making synchronized pointing gestures as if we couldn’t find the two forward and one rear exits for ourselves. They pretend the oxygen masks are falling from the overhead compartments. I’m pretending I’m not terrified. Franklin is pretending he doesn’t know I’m pretending.
“Three annoying things,” I say, adjusting my seat belt again. “One. It’s the crack of dawn on a Saturday and we’re on a plane so no way we can call the Great Barrington PD to get more info about the fire. Two, no way I can call Sally at that number she gave me.”
Franklin has one earbud in, clicking through the flight’s selection of music. He’s listening to me through the other ear. “And number three?”
I bonk my head against my fully upright seat back, and stare at the nubby blue-on-blue upholstery of the fully upright and knee-threateningly close seat back in front of me. “Yeah. Number three is a doozy. We’re doomed on so many levels. Think about our undercover video.”
Franklin takes out the earbud and slowly winds the headphone cord around one hand. And then unwinds it.
There’s a squawk from the public address system. Which makes my heart leap before I can stop it. The plane hasn’t even moved yet and I’m already awaiting the announcement of approaching disaster.
“Flight attendants, prepare for crosscheck,” a voice demands. The blue uniforms stride down the aisle, seeking out delinquent seat backs and tray tables. I kick my tote bag farther under the seat in front of me.
“The police. Kevin. Arson. Evidence.” Franklin’s voice is hushed.
“You got it, bro,” I say. “A doozy. Kevin gave us the okay to go undercover. But that happened after the fire. So as far as he’s concerned, we would not have video of the party house. Remember, I shot pictures of the houses on both sides, too, just to get some context. So we have exteriors, and interiors, of places where there may have been arson. And yet, if I say I was there, so much for our undercover operation. And so much for our story. And, potentially, so much for our jobs. Since as far as permission from management to shoot undercover goes, we didn’t have it.”