We’re almost at the exit marked Fenway. The border crossing into Brookline is just down Beacon Street and across Park Drive. I stare at my pending text message again. XOXO I add. And before I can reconsider, I hit send.
And then I hear a beeper go off. The one from the airport. The one from the man behind the luggage carousel. The one on my belt.
I startle upright, slapping a hand to my waistband, yanking the beeper off and into my hand. I glance at the woman, panic surging into my chest. Calm down, I tell myself. You got beeped. Everyone gets beeped. She has no idea how critical this might be. And how, if I’m on the right track, it might be connected to her. I offer an apologetic look, sorry to disturb you, but she’s already back to her message screen.
I punch the green button. As the message winds through the ether toward me, our cab crosses the border into Brookline. I stare at the message screen. It’s past midnight. They can’t expect me to do anything now, can they? And what would it even be? Call someone? Go somewhere? Pick up contraband purses? I still worry it could be a setup.
The tiny rectangular screen on my beeper now shows just one word. TOMORROW.
And then the cab comes to a stop.
I look up, scrambling to get my bearings. I was so involved with my beeper, I missed all the turns. We’re in a residential neighborhood, tree-lined, affluent. Well-kept houses, Georgian, Victorian, set back from the street, shapes of elegant landscaping just visible in the glowing streetlights. It’s the familiarly prosperous Brookline, but could be any number of streets.
The woman extracts a few bills from her wallet and hands them to the driver. “Have a nice evening,” she murmurs over her shoulder at me, perfunctorily polite. She opens her door and gets out. A porch light goes on.
Where are we? I lean forward, and back, and forward again, twisting and straining to see a street sign. Or maybe there’s a marking on the house. The fire department requires there be a number; visible, so emergency responders can quickly find their destination. I squint, looking down the impatiens-lined cobblestone walk to her front door. The porch light now illuminates the brass numbers on the white molding. Three. Two. Five.
Three twenty-five-what?
“What street is this?” I ask the cabdriver as he gets back into the front seat. Duh. I must be a bit more tired than I realized. And a bit more freaked out. Out the window, I see the woman entering the house. A silhouette inside is helping her bring in the bags.
“Strathmeyer,” he says, putting the car into Drive. “Now where to?”
I hold up the beeper that had given me chills just a few moments ago. “Plans changed,” I say. “Now I have to go back to Beacon Hill. Sorry.”
“Your dime,” the driver replies.
And I’m finally headed for home.
“Where the hell have you been?” Franklin’s voice hisses in my ear. Concerned, critical. “I didn’t want to call you, didn’t want to interrupt anything. But your meeting in Hartford was four fricking hours ago. It’s now after midnight. What did y’all think I would do? What did y’all think I would think, Charlotte?”
I close the plastic window between me and the cabdriver, not that he could overhear my phone conversation, being so deeply immersed in his own. Franklin’s Mississippi accent signals he’s truly stressed. I can envision him pacing the hallway of his South End apartment. Or complaining about me to Stephen.
“Listen, Franko, I’m sorry. I wanted to call you, several times, but I just couldn’t manage it.” I pause, not sure what to tell him first. “Let me ask you though, did you hear anything about-”
“Where are you now, Charlotte?” Franklin interrupts me.
I look out the cab window. “We’re just on Charles Street. Getting ready to turn onto Mt. Vernon. I’ll be home in two seconds. Why? Should I just call you from there?”
“Ma’am?” The cabdriver turns around and slides the window between us back open. The cab is still moving. I’m grateful narrow Charles Street is deserted this time of night. Morning. “Cash or charge?”
“Hang on, Franklin. I’ve gotta pay this guy.”
“But, Charlotte, I should warn you…”
“Putting down the phone for a sec,” I reply. I plop the cell, still on, into my lap and get ready to pay the cabdriver with the last of my cash. Kevin is going to go ballistic over my expense report. Although it’s looking like our story might be worth the unpredicted expenditure.
“I’ll need a receipt, please,” I say to the driver, handing him the money. “Hang on,” I say into my lap. I can hear Franklin’s voice, buzzing, unintelligible.
We turn the final corner into the narrow turnaround of Mount Vernon Square. I’m suddenly out of energy, so glad to be safely home. I’m tired of pretending to be someone else. Tired of being afraid. Tired of thinking and worrying and planning my next move. Tired of feeling alone. I’ll sleep, I’ll take a shower, and tomorrow-today-we’ll get some answers.
There’s my apartment, brownstone in shadow, but illuminated by the old-fashioned streetlights, not burned to the ground as I had secretly feared. And there are the overflowing baskets of scarlet mums on the porch, just as I left them. And next to them, on the front steps is something else. I blink, shaking my head to clear it.
I hear Franklin still buzzing in my lap. I hear the cabdriver pop the trunk, then get out to retrieve my suitcase.
When I look again at my front steps, the unfamiliar shape is still there. There’s a man sitting on the top step. He’s leaning back against the wrought iron railing. Across his lap, there’s something long and narrow.
I lean back against the seat of the cab, too perplexed to open my own door. Sitting on my front steps is State Police Detective Christopher Yens. And in his lap, a long white box, the shiny slick kind that only comes from flower shops. It’s tied with a big white ribbon. The detective is bringing me flowers? He’s sitting on my steps, after midnight, in jeans and a brown leather jacket? With-flowers? My brain has finally, formally, crashed.
I put my face in my hands, briefly, and then I hear the back door open. As I look up, the cabdriver, shirttail out and receipt in hand, is staring at me. “This is correct address, yes?” he says.
“Yes. This is correct.” I say. It’s also weird as hell. I sling my purse over my shoulder and push my way out of the backseat. Never a dull moment. And so much for my sleeping plans.
The cab backs up into the curve of the cul-de-sac and pulls out into Mt. Vernon Street. Leaving me with my new suitcase, my befuddled brain and my unexpected guest.
Detective Yens sets the flower box on the steps and slowly gets to his feet. As he comes toward me, his face is unreadable. “Welcome home, Miz McNally,” he says. His voice is pleasant, unchallenging. “I suppose you’re wondering…” As he approaches, I see his expression change. He takes a step back.
I get it. He’s seeing Elsa.
I take off my Red Sox cap, yank off the scrunchie holding my ponytail in place, and push my glasses onto the top of my head.
“Ta dah,” I say, keeping my voice down so neighbors don’t call the police. Even though they’re already here. And I’m wary, playing for time a bit until I understand what’s going on. “This better? You’re right, I am ‘wondering’. If you mean wondering why you’re here. So, why?”
“You undercover?” he says, ignoring my question.
“Nope. Just comfortable.” No reason to tell him more than he needs to know.
“Your producer Franklin Parrish told me everything,” he says.
I look down at my still-open purse, where a glowing light indicates my cell phone is still on. I wonder if Franklin is still there.
“He told you what?” I say to Yens. “And do you always bring flowers when you visit reporters in the middle of the night?”
Yens gestures to my front door. “Shall we chat where it’s a bit less public? I expect you might want to put those in water.”