Free Drive Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page A

myself behind him, my face buried in his back, my eyes peering over his shoulder, watching the house.
    “So then?” My voice is muffled in his navy overcoat.
    The sound of metal on metal. Every head in the crowd turns, transfixed, as behind the ambulance, Dorothy’s old-fashioned wooden garage door creaks open, inch by inch. The EMT leaves his post at the ambulance and ducks underneath as the door gets waist high.
    The door slams back to the ground. I flinch as it hits. I feel Josh flinch, too.
    “She’s inside?” It still feels better to whisper.
    “They think it’s carbon monoxide, that’s what the Head told me,” Josh replies. “An accident. Maybe she did have too much brandy. Made it home safely, then fell asleep with that old car of hers still running and the radio on. Maybe she was listening to something. Who knows.”
    Part of me, the wife-to-be, wants to take Josh home and comfort him. Explain to Penny, somehow, that sometimes life brings sorrow and sad surprises. And these are times that remind us to cherish those we love.
    The other part of me, the reporter, wants to whip out my press card, get past that yellow tape and see if I can wrangle some answers.
    The reporter part emerges, carefully. All the local cops here are in uniform. Certainly, in a death like this, state police homicide detectives must be on the way. And we know something the police don’t know.
    “Sweetheart? Did anyone ever report those ‘do you know where your children are?’ calls to the police?”
    “I know where you’re going,” Josh says, shaking his head. “No.”
    One more step. Carefully.
    “Maybe the caller wasn’t targeting the school. Maybe whoever it was—was targeting Dorothy. Personally.”
    Silence from Josh.
    “The Head said police think it was an accident,” he finally answers.
    “We’ll see, I guess.” I close my eyes, resting my forehead against Josh’s back. “We’ll see.”
     
     
    It’s a good thing my cell phone is on Vibrate. Through Dorothy Wirt’s entire memorial service, it buzzes my thigh through the side of my purse. During the minister’s somber introduction; through the Bexter choir’s Ode to St. Cecilia, sweet and sorrowfully sung by mournful teenagers; during the heartbreakingly tender eulogies from Millie, her old friend the bursar, and confidante Alethia; during the stiff-upper-lip benediction from the Headmaster. I know it’s Franklin who’s covering for me back at the station this morning. But I don’t understand why he keeps calling. At least no one can hear it.
    The tolling bells in the historic Bexter Carillon signal the end of the ceremony. A muted organ begins an un-adorned version of “Danny Boy.” Millie, clutching the Headmaster’s arm, steps from the maroon-carpeted dais, past masses of pink-and-white lilies, down the carpeted aisle past carved wooden pews of mourners. Parents, teachers, administrators, some local semicelebrity faces familiar from newspapers and television. A few, mostly students, reach out a hand to touch her arm.
    “You okay, sweetheart?” I whisper to Josh. We’re edging out of our pew, waiting as students and parents, teachers and administrators silently take their leave, rowby row. Some of the mourners I recognize from the Head’s party. The last time Dorothy was alive.
    Josh just smiles, a sorrow-tinged expression I’ve grown used to over the past twenty-four hours. We told Penny what happened. Our first experience, Dad and almost-Mom, explaining the unexplainable. Penny didn’t know Dorothy, of course. But she’s uncomfortable when people—as she puts it—“go away.” Divorce is never easy. Leaves a mark.
    My phone is vibrating again. I let it go to voice mail again as we file outside toward the receiving line forming in the entryway. It’ll be Millie. Alethia. Bursar Pratt. Minister Ashworth. The Head.
    “Josh?” A voice behind us. “A moment, please?”
    The Head, acknowledging me with a nod, draws Josh aside, across the