“Fee? You said you couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman on the phone. Do you think it’s your daughter calling?” This seems like the obvious answer. Many adopted children search for reconciliation. Maybe this one wants revenge. “She’d be, what, in her thirties?”
“How could she know?” she asks. Her voice rises and I see tears come to her eyes. “Did the law change? Can confidential records be opened?”
“Let me ask you this,” I say, trying to think it through. This is a pretty risky venture, depending completely on Fee’s need for confidentiality. “Was Dorothy Wirt at the school at the time you left? Working at the office?”
“She was.”
“Could she have known the reason you left?” I’ve suddenly realized one disturbing way this all might fit together. Could Fiona have killed Dorothy? Because she knew her secret? Or maybe Fiona made the calls to the school. To give credence to the blackmail story.
Fee blinks a few times, considering. I can’t read her expression.
“I suppose she could have known,” she answers. “But she’s dead now.”
And so is my theory. And my Fiona-as-murderer idea can’t be true. Because if she’s the bad guy, who called her? I don’t think she’s making that up.
“There’s no one to help me.” Fee’s voice is brittle and trembling. “No one. And I know whoever’s calling me will never stop. Wen will find out. My marriage will be over. My children will never forgive me. How could they? I can’t even forgive myself.”
She covers her face with her hands again.
“Could I get you some water?” I say. I stand, setting my briefcase on the floor. “I think I can find the kitchen.”
She nods, not moving her hands from her face.
I’ll give her some privacy. Although I’m not sure how long that can last.
By the time I return with a crystal glass with ice cubes and water from the stainless-steel fridge, I have a theory. A good one. Fee seems to have regained her composure. I hand her the chunky glass and perch on a chintz wing chair.
“Maybe it was the baby’s father who called you. Maybe he knows you’re well off now. Forgive me, but maybe he’s angry and thinks he deserves some of your money.” I gesture at the living room, assessing the antiques, the art, the silver. A museum-quality clock on the mantel reminds me how much time I don’t have. I’m now incredibly late. I need to leave. And I need to wait for Fee’s reply.
“It’s not the father who’s calling,” Fee whispers. She takes a tentative sip of the ice water.
“It could be,” I persist, leaning forward. “And since you know who that is, maybe we could-”
Fee Dulles stands and takes a step or two toward the fireplace. The fire flickers, still crackling, flames licking the crisscrossed logs.
“It wasn’t the baby’s father who called.” She turns to face me, hands on hips. “That’s why I thought you were here. That’s what I thought you knew. The baby’s father is Randall Kindell.”
I stand, slowly, attempting to take this in. All the puzzle pieces of the Bexter mystery shift and rearrange in my head, taunting me as I struggle to put them together into an accurate picture. Randall Kindell got a phone call, too. Does Fee know that? Does the caller know the Rental Car King is the father of an illegitimate daughter? Or not? Exasperatingly, I don’t have time to figure this out. I pick up my coat from the love seat and grab my briefcase.
“Fee, I’m so sorry,” I say. “This must be terribly difficult for you. But I urge you to go to the police. This is blackmail and cannot have anything but a tragic ending. And trust your husband, maybe? Tell him?”
“And if I don’t tell, you will, Miss McNally?” Fee raises an eyebrow.
“No, of course not.” I drop my bag on the love seat and slide my arms through my coat sleeves. “Making sure information stays confidential is part of my job as a journalist. Otherwise no one would trust me.”
I pull on my gloves, pick up my briefcase and my purse, and head for the front door.
“I only came here to see if you knew any of the people circled in the fundraising pamphlet,” I remind her of the reason for my visit. And myself. I’m late, but I need to ask one more question. Turns out, she actually did know Randall Kindell. Now that she’s telling the truth, what can she tell me about the other names? I put my hand on the doorknob, then hesitate.
Taking my hand off the knob, I dig into my bag for the Bexter report.
It’s not there.
I scramble, opening zippers and searching in side pockets. And again. It’s not there.
I look in my purse. It’s not there.
The back of my neck goes clammy. I feel the blood drain from my face. My brain searches for answers. Did I leave it in the living room?
I look at Fee Dulles. She’s watching me, without a word.
“I’m so sorry, Miss McNally. I know you’re trying to help. I don’t know what the names mean. I don’t know who marked them. Or why. I honestly don’t. But my name is circled and so is Randall’s. I can’t let us be linked in any way.”
I’m so tired. I’m so confused.
“The report.” she says. “When you went to get my water, I burned it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I repeat my desperate mantra as I drive back to Channel 3. Harrison Ebling has the names. I gave them to him to look up. He saw them in the book. Josh saw them in the book. It doesn’t matter that Fiona Dulles is a certified wack-
I stop myself mid-tirade as I aim my automatic opener at Channel 3’s garage door. I’m not really supposed to park in here, except when we’re doing a story, but I’m late and no one will care if I sneak in for a little while. I’ll move my Jeep after we talk with Kevin. But I can’t miss this meeting.
The door hums upward as I reconsider Fiona Dulles. She’s not so much a wack job as she is concerned about her future. And her past. As far as she knows, that pamphlet could sandbag her entire life. And maybe that’s what it is. Someone’s hit list.
The door is open, but I’m too caught up in my own theories to press the accelerator. If there’s no drug scandal-which makes sense, because according to Josh at least, no one at Bexter has ever heard of such a thing-then it could be someone is concocting that story to cover up the real threat. Each person on the list has a secret. A secret the caller somehow knew about. A secret the caller knew they’d pay to keep quiet.
Who’s making the calls?
A horn blaring behind me blasts away my thoughts. Someone else is waiting to get in. I look in my rearview to see the tape coordinator, ENG Joanna. She’s smiling and waving at me with both hands. And in the driver’s seat of the news car, J.T. Shaw. He must have driven her on some errand. To the transmitter or some technical chore. And now he’s here for the meeting. Which means it hasn’t started yet. Which means I’m not late.
I wave back, shift my Jeep into Drive and return to my theorizing. Kindell. And Fiona Dulles. Their secret past.
My stomach lurches as the parking-lot ramp takes the familiar sharp drop. I edge my way into the crowded garage, searching for a place to stash my car. And then, the answer hits me. I slam on the brakes.
“Hey!” J.T.’s shout from his open car window echoes through the garage and his brakes squeal at the same time. “You can’t just stop, McNally!”
“Sorry!” I yell back. Though he can’t hear me.
Kindell and Fiona. Together. Of course Kindell knows about the baby. What teenager wouldn’t tell her boyfriend? And when busybody Dorothy-who probably suspected it when Fiona was yanked from school-found out about their tryst, and the reputation-ruining result, she knew she had a gold mine, especially when Fiona married the affluent Dulles. She called, threatening them with exposure. They had to get rid of her. Kindell and Fiona concocted “blackmail” calls to themselves to steer away suspicion. After all, as far as I know, they’re the only parents who got the calls. Or should I say, who allege they got the calls.