Read Online Prime Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
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on this.
“Give me a little time,” I reply. “Let me see what I can come up with.”
Charlie McNally, girl detective, on the way to get some answers. I’m buzzing up the turnpike, high on journalism, wishing my Jeep had a convertible top to put down.
There was no Mack Briggs in my Internet database, but there was an instant hit on one Joshua Ives Gelston, no DOB listed, head of the English department at the oh-so-exclusive Bexter Academy. I know that’s the revered alma mater of countless moguls, hotshots, corporate patricians and even a few presidents. The school’s Web site says he’s been on the faculty for years, adviser to the honor society and Latin club, and director of the school’s drama program. Sounds like an interesting old coot, but his world seems completely alien to Brad Foreman’s accounting/pharmaceutical universe. Wonder what they have in common?
I carefully lift my steaming latte-to-go from the Jeep’s cup holder and take a few sips while I plan my approach.
Obstacle number one: this Mr. Gelston has no idea I’m on the way. If Bexter Academy has guards, or a locked gate, that may present a problem. I’m envisioning driving blithely in, parking somewhere, sauntering into some easily recognizable building and finding Gelston’s office. My plan doesn’t include rent-a-cops.
Obstacle number two: this Mr. Gelston has no idea I’m on the way. So even though it’s a school day, it’s possible Gelston’s not even there. I shake my head, dismissing the negative vibes. My plan doesn’t include disappointment.
I put my latte back, carefully keeping my eyes on the road the way you’re supposed to, and wonder yet again whether I should have called first. But, after debating the issue with Franklin, I decided to take my chances.
Giving a quick glance in my rearview mirror, I turn the Jeep up Bexter’s winding maple-lined driveway. I have to drive slowly, the draping canopy of crimson leaves making it more like dusk than daytime. As I emerge from the shadows, a blast of sunshine flares into my line of sight.
When my vision clears, I’ve obviously been teleported into a photo shoot for some documentary on the lives of the rich and preppy. Impossibly adorable mop-haired teenagers perch on artfully whitewashed fences; other youngsters sprawl fetchingly on the manicured lawn. I wince in momentary confusion, startled, as something metallic shimmers just over my car’s path. It’s a Frisbee. A tawny-haired, argyle-sweatered boy lifts a languid hand as he retrieves it from beside the road.
Still a little unnerved from the close encounter, I steer the Jeep into a space marked Visitors. I push the gearshiftinto Park, which knocks the lid off my latte, spilling the last dregs of my coffee onto the passenger seat.
I scrounge into the console for my stash of napkins, remembering, too late, I used the last of them after Botox threw up on the way to the vet. All that’s in there now is my disposable camera (for insurance purposes in case I get in a crash), and about a million forks and straws. In case I’m stranded someplace where they don’t have forks and straws. As I’m cleaning up with a page from my reporter notebook, there’s a knock at my car window.
As I buzz it down, I see Frisbee Boy (even more photogenic close up) leaning in and looking repentant. “Sorry I almost nailed you,” he apologizes engagingly. “Can I help you with anything?”
And that’s why, a few minutes later, I’m knocking on the burnished oak door of Landman Hall, room 117.
“Come in!” I hear. My stomach gives a little maybe-there’s-a-good-story flutter. I step into possibility.
Gelston has his back to me as I enter his office. “May I help you?” he says, without turning around. He’s standing behind a battered but beautiful old wooden desk, and looks as if he’s trying to find something in a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
“Hello, Mr., uh, Professor Gelston?” I put on my humble and needy
“Give me a little time,” I reply. “Let me see what I can come up with.”
Charlie McNally, girl detective, on the way to get some answers. I’m buzzing up the turnpike, high on journalism, wishing my Jeep had a convertible top to put down.
There was no Mack Briggs in my Internet database, but there was an instant hit on one Joshua Ives Gelston, no DOB listed, head of the English department at the oh-so-exclusive Bexter Academy. I know that’s the revered alma mater of countless moguls, hotshots, corporate patricians and even a few presidents. The school’s Web site says he’s been on the faculty for years, adviser to the honor society and Latin club, and director of the school’s drama program. Sounds like an interesting old coot, but his world seems completely alien to Brad Foreman’s accounting/pharmaceutical universe. Wonder what they have in common?
I carefully lift my steaming latte-to-go from the Jeep’s cup holder and take a few sips while I plan my approach.
Obstacle number one: this Mr. Gelston has no idea I’m on the way. If Bexter Academy has guards, or a locked gate, that may present a problem. I’m envisioning driving blithely in, parking somewhere, sauntering into some easily recognizable building and finding Gelston’s office. My plan doesn’t include rent-a-cops.
Obstacle number two: this Mr. Gelston has no idea I’m on the way. So even though it’s a school day, it’s possible Gelston’s not even there. I shake my head, dismissing the negative vibes. My plan doesn’t include disappointment.
I put my latte back, carefully keeping my eyes on the road the way you’re supposed to, and wonder yet again whether I should have called first. But, after debating the issue with Franklin, I decided to take my chances.
Giving a quick glance in my rearview mirror, I turn the Jeep up Bexter’s winding maple-lined driveway. I have to drive slowly, the draping canopy of crimson leaves making it more like dusk than daytime. As I emerge from the shadows, a blast of sunshine flares into my line of sight.
When my vision clears, I’ve obviously been teleported into a photo shoot for some documentary on the lives of the rich and preppy. Impossibly adorable mop-haired teenagers perch on artfully whitewashed fences; other youngsters sprawl fetchingly on the manicured lawn. I wince in momentary confusion, startled, as something metallic shimmers just over my car’s path. It’s a Frisbee. A tawny-haired, argyle-sweatered boy lifts a languid hand as he retrieves it from beside the road.
Still a little unnerved from the close encounter, I steer the Jeep into a space marked Visitors. I push the gearshiftinto Park, which knocks the lid off my latte, spilling the last dregs of my coffee onto the passenger seat.
I scrounge into the console for my stash of napkins, remembering, too late, I used the last of them after Botox threw up on the way to the vet. All that’s in there now is my disposable camera (for insurance purposes in case I get in a crash), and about a million forks and straws. In case I’m stranded someplace where they don’t have forks and straws. As I’m cleaning up with a page from my reporter notebook, there’s a knock at my car window.
As I buzz it down, I see Frisbee Boy (even more photogenic close up) leaning in and looking repentant. “Sorry I almost nailed you,” he apologizes engagingly. “Can I help you with anything?”
And that’s why, a few minutes later, I’m knocking on the burnished oak door of Landman Hall, room 117.
“Come in!” I hear. My stomach gives a little maybe-there’s-a-good-story flutter. I step into possibility.
Gelston has his back to me as I enter his office. “May I help you?” he says, without turning around. He’s standing behind a battered but beautiful old wooden desk, and looks as if he’s trying to find something in a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
“Hello, Mr., uh, Professor Gelston?” I put on my humble and needy
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