Free Drive Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

nave and into a tapestried corner. Josh turns, briefly waving me outside. “One minute,” he mouths, holding up a finger.
    Now I’ll be able to check my voice mail.
    One hand is already in my tote bag, searching blindly for my cell as I follow the congregation out the massive oak-and-stained-glass double doors and onto the steep stone steps of Bexter Chapel. Got it.
    “Charlotte McNally?”
    My hand comes out of my purse as I turn, facing back now toward the chapel doors. On the step above me stands an elegant gentleman in a charcoal coat, one gloved hand on the railing. Perfectly tailored alpaca sets off his snow-white temples and clipped beard. A paisley silk-and-wool muffler is knotted around his neck. I recognize him from pictures in the newspaper.
    “Mr. Fielder?” I’m surprised. Loudon Fielder, the owner of WWXI radio, has children at Bexter? More likely to be grandchildren.
    I reach out to shake his offered hand. “So sad about Dorothy.”
    “A very special person. Always remembered everyone’s name,” he replies. He looks down the steps, apparently recognizing someone. “Ah, my apologies. Someone I need to speak to. But I am looking forward to your fill-in appearances on Wixie. Lovely to have you on our air while our Maysie is tending to her baby. Perhaps radio will become your second career.”
    “Thank you, that would be—”
    And he’s gone. I shrug. I suppose he was just being polite. Time to check my voice mail.
    “Sweetheart. I have news.” Josh is behind me, his voice is close to my ear. “Let’s walk, and I’ll fill you in.”
    My phone goes back into my purse.
    “The Head says it was an accident,” Josh tells me, keeping his voice low as we walk, arm in arm, down the church steps. “She had too much brandy, or whatever she was drinking, maybe fell asleep with the car running. Way too much carbon monoxide in her blood. The medical examiner is going to sign the death certificate. Accident.”
    “So that’s that,” I say. We come to the bottom and stand on the Chapel Road sidewalk, looking out over the Bexter Common. The organ has changed to Bach. Milky sunshine glints off the snow still sticking to the lofty evergreens.
    “Yes,” Josh replies. “That’s that.”
     
     
    “How many times did you have to call? I probably lost weight in my left thigh from all that vibration.”
    “I only called you twice. Maybe three times,” Franklin replies. “Anyway—”
    “Never mind,” I interrupt. Maybe it was only three times. I called him back without even checking messages. I’m huddled, facing the wall, in a corner of the lobby of Landman Hall. It’s called Main since it’s Bexter’s main building. Long tables, covered with damask cloths and the lilies from the chapel, offer tiny lemon cookies anddelicate quarter-cut sandwiches. Everyone from the memorial service is here. I’m feeling guilty. I should be at work. “What’s up?”
    “Michael Borum.” Franklin savors the syllables, drawing them out, as if saying the name is a pleasure. “B-o-r-u-m. Mr. Blue Mustang. The owner. The registry came through. It’s a real break for us. J.T. and I are headed to his house in the South End right now. So. Can you meet us there?”
    Now what am I supposed to do? I have to be here, for Josh’s sake. I have to be with Franklin, for our story’s sake. I lean my forehead against the dark paneling, trying to make an impossible decision. How can I be two places at once?
    I delegate. “You guys go. Check it out, see if the car’s there. Get some shots of it. And get the VIN if you can. Don’t trespass. Too much. Then let me know.”
    “Will you answer your phone when I call next time?”
    “If you’re lucky.” I glance toward the room behind me. Josh is waiting, alone, over by the silver tea samovars. He catches my eye and signals, hurry up.
    “What if Borum comes out?” Franklin persists. “What if he wants to talk? Or what if he gets angry, yells at us? It would be terrific