Free Face Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

yearbook shot. “This picture of Dorinda I took? From the photo in the drawer? It’s not Dorinda.”

CHAPTER 7
     
    Franklin and I look back and forth between the two pictures, my fuzzy out-of-focus phone snapshot and the elaborately unrealistic prom photo. They look similar, but they’re clearly two different teenagers. Either one could have grown up to be the person in the nursing home surveillance tape. Or neither.
    “Maybe Dorinda had plastic surgery? For some reason? And that’s why she looks different on the tape? It drives me crazy that all we have are pictures—the yearbook, my phone, that video. What can you tell from a picture? We have got to talk to Dorinda in person.”
    “Could be a friend of hers.” Franklin takes the yearbook and begins flipping the pages. “We could compare your phone photo with all the faces in the yearbook. See if we get a match.” He reaches for my phone. “Let’s see it.”
    I stare at the cell phone’s tiny screen, then I flip it closed, shaking my head to get my thoughts in order. “Wait. Why do we have to know who’s in the picture? Let’s not lose sight of our goal here. I just found it in the drawer—it doesn’t have to be some big clue. We need to advance the story. Find out what happened to Ray Sweeney. Why Dorinda was convicted.”
    Franklin hands me back the yearbook, then scoops up the last bit of ketchup with a shred of onion ring. Only he would eat onion rings with a fork. “She confessed,” he says, examining his final bite. “That’s why.”
    “Remember what Rankin and Will said?” I ask, ignoring the confession remark. “Dorinda’s mother forced her to marry Ray Sweeney. Maybe she knows something? Is she still alive? She’d be—how old now?”
    Franklin shrugs. “Well, if Dorinda is forty, her mother is probably at least, I don’t know, sixty. Or older.”
    I put my elbows on the table, put my forehead in both hands, and look up at Franklin through my laced fingers. “My mother,” I say, remembering. “This is bleak. I can’t believe I forgot. I still have to go see her today.”
    I check my watch, feeling smothered by the unrelenting deadline pressures of Mom, Josh, Penny, Dorinda. Will and Rankin, who want Dorinda out of prison. Oz, who wants to keep her in. And Susannah, who wants a ratings boost. And that’s not even counting myself.
    “Let’s get this show on the road,” I say. “Since we’re in Swampscott, let’s track down some of the people in the yearbook photo with Dorie and CC. See what they can tell us.”
    Franklin looks skeptical, one eyebrow raised. “How do we know they’re still around? Needle in a small-town haystack, I say. I suggest we go back to the station, check computer databases, run some names.” He waves a hand around the crowded restaurant. “We can’t just go up to people and say, hey yo, do you know anyone in these photos? Wish I’d brought my laptop.”
    “Good old-fashioned reporting,” I say, shaking an admonishing finger. “Never fails. Hand over that Seagull . We don’t need no stinkin’ computers.”
     
     
    M YRA M ATZENBRENNER IS WEARING pink-and-green flip-flops with flamingoes on the grosgrain ribbons criss-crossing her tanned feet. Her toenails match the flamingos, and her fingernails match her toes. She flip-flops across her kitchen linoleum carrying three plastic flowered glasses of iced coffee, one in each hand and the third balanced in her fingers between them. The names of the prom princesses listed in the yearbook had been Donna Mill, Sheila Fortune, Bitsy Bergman, Sharon Freeland, and Linda Sue Matzenbrenner.
    With a name like Matzenbrenner, who needs a computer? How many Matzenbrenners can there be in town? And if there’s more than one, I told Franklin, they’re certainly related. One quick flip through the local phone book brought us to prom princess Linda Sue’s home. Turns out, Prom Princess Linda is long gone. She has a husband and children and a house of her own