John Lennon’s opening scream in “Revolution” blared in Sophie’s iPod earbuds during her morning run at the exact moment a shiny, red Audi TT with New York plates whizzed past, in clear violation of the thirty-five mph speed limit.
The brake lights flashed and the car stopped, performed a three-point-turn and returned toward her. It slowed as she approached. The driver’s darkened window rolled down and she stared at a man with black disheveled hair. His lips moved, but all she heard were the Beatles, letting her know things would be all right.
She removed her earbuds but kept a safe distance. “May I help you?”
He wore sunglasses, the reflective kind. Always a little creepy. An image of her, wearing a knitted cap and knockoff Ray Bans, stared back from his lenses.
“I’m looking for Clear Brook Lane.” Crabbiness oozed from his tone. “Things aren’t marked very well around here.”
The street he wanted was near the expensive homes in Northbridge, not surprising given the snazzy vehicle.
“Another runner a few miles back said to turn at the red school building. All I see are houses.” He lifted his glasses and grazed her from wool cap to running shoes.
“That’s because the school is white.”
“White? Jesus. Why’d he say red?” His unzipped black leather jacket, plain dark T-shirt and snug leather driving gloves that gripped the steering wheel satisfied his hip theme. “Don’t they teach the color wheel around here?”
She was tempted to give this jerk another set of wrong directions. “The structure is a single-room school house, like the kind they used back in the olden days. Not a large building. It used to be red.”
His eyes flowed into an exaggerated roll.
Any interest she had in being polite to the outsider disappeared. Sophie lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You can afford a car like this but no GPS?”
He flinched, visibly shot down a notch from the direct statement. “I lost satellite.” His lips pressed tight and he studied her for several seconds. “Sorry. I’m just frustrated.”
Something was familiar about his face, but she couldn’t figure out what. Guess she’d cut him some slack. Anybody could have an off day.
Sophie pointed down the road. “Head back this way. The schoolhouse will be on your left. A small wood-framed building, not a modern day school. There’s a little glass and wood display near the entrance, the honor roll for the last graduating class.”
“How quaint.” His brows huddled and he studied her more closely. “You’re Sophie, right?”
“Have we met?”
“Trent Jamieson. Duncan’s brother. My dad used to take us to your family’s tackle shop.” He threw the car in park, lifted a large super-sized Starbucks cup from his console, and sipped. “A long, long time ago. You have an older brother, right? I used to talk to him.”
“Yes. Jay.” His remark jarred a new memory. The summer before ninth grade, Meg had developed a serious crush on a visitor, a brooding high school sophomore who came in with his father and brother then ignored them while they shopped and he talked to Jay. Meg had noticed him instantly. In contrast to her positive perkiness over life, Meg’s sonar often veered toward difficult men.
Suddenly, the entire Jamieson family crystallized in her mind. Even in those days, Trent’s miserable attitude glowed as if dotted in neon lights. He hadn’t changed much.
“I remember you.” She also now had a distant visual on young Duncan, short with freckles and bright copper hair, like Patrick’s.
“Duncan tells me your dad hasn’t retired and Jay still works at the shop. Doesn’t anybody ever want to leave this place?”
His comment pinched, as if someone had clamped the sensitive skin near Sophie’s upper arm. “This is a great place to live. Why do you keep knocking it?”
“I just prefer the city.” Trent’s jaw hardened. He crossed his arms and rubbed his biceps, “Jesus. Is it always this cold here?”
“Not in the summer.”
“Ha. Ha.” His lip curled upward as he reconsidered her.
Veronica’s comment on ladies’ night suddenly carried more weight. Had one of the Jamieson sons caused them to sell the house? Duncan didn’t act like a troublemaker, but Trent sure had the attitude for one. Had he caused enough trouble that their father felt a need to bribe police to clean up the records?
She crossed her arms to stay warm. “Being back in town must be interesting. Have you caught up with anybody you knew back then?”
Trent frowned. “No. We really weren’t close to anybody.”
“Hmm. Well, your project has a lot of support from some people in high places. Our Selectman, Buzz Harris, can’t stop extolling its virtues for our area.”
Trent shifted in his seat then wrapped a gloved hand around the steering wheel. He stared past her in the direction of Sunnydale Dairy Farm, his thoughts unreadable. “Yes. Seems like a decent place for a resort.” He looked at her. “Guess I’d better get going. Thanks for the directions.” He revved the engine and pulled out.
The car disappeared over the picket-fenced ridge near the farm. She turned to head back toward home. Time to do a little research on Trent Jamieson.
* * * *
Matt shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing one eye with a rounded fist, clad in a wrinkled AC/DC T-shirt with navy sweatpants. He stumbled on Sophie’s running sneakers, left near the sink when she downed a glass of water after her run. There were days she was no better than her kids.
“Mom? On Sunday afternoon—”
She held up her index finger and pointed to the phone handset next to her ear. The loosely followed rule in their house was that unless the place caught on fire or the zombie apocalypse had actually started, they were not to interrupt while she was on the phone. The odds were about fifty-fifty they remembered. Matt left the room.
Since coming back from her run, she’d scanned Google for any character-revealing fact she could find on Trent Jamieson. She’d learned he had worked at Jamieson, McDonald & O’Reilly as an attorney for several years, the father’s firm in Manhattan. There was no reason given for his leaving, but he now showed up on the web pages of RGI as a senior project manager. The lawyer angle had prompted her call to Marcus, whose brother-in-law was a big shot lawyer in Manhattan. The chance he knew Trent was slim, but worth asking.
On the second ring, a wave of guilt walloped Sophie. This call to her friend defied Duncan’s request to trust him.
Ring Three.
This could be classified as grade-A snooping.
Ring four.
Going behind Duncan’s back showed a lack of faith in his ability to investigate any manipulation at his firm, like he said he was doing.
On the fifth ring, she had convinced herself to hang up but Marcus answered. “Hey, Soph. What’s up?” Voices filled the background.
“Catch you at a bad time?”
“Yeah. I’m at work, but I’ve got a quick second for you. Hope you’re not calling about another slanderous article by my employer.”
“No, well, uh, I called because…” With a swift calculation of her dilemma, she concluded Duncan would never know she’d spoken to the other reporter. “I ran into Trent Jamieson this morning.” She gave him the details. “After meeting him, he made it to my list of suspicious characters at RGI. This is a long shot, but do you think your brother-in-law, the lawyer, might have any scoop on him?”
“There’s a chance. He’s been at the same firm for a long time. I’ll give him a call.”
Matt came in again and glanced in Sophie’s direction. He skulked to the refrigerator and stared inside, as if waiting for his choice to jump into his hands.
“Thanks. I owe you one. I’ll do more digging too.” She hung up.
“What’s up, Matt?”
He finally selected the orange juice, reached into the cabinet for a tall glass then poured. “Tomorrow afternoon, after church, can we go bowling at Sal’s Lanes?”
“Sure. You can go.”
“No. I mean all of us. Tia wants to bring two of her friends and I want to bring some of mine. Since the stupid law says I can’t drive with them until I’ve had my license a full year, you need to take us.”
“Oh. We really means me driving you there?”
He tipped back the large glass and nodded.
“Sure, but I can only fit five in my car.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’ve got another driver. You can take me, Tia, Katie, and Alyssa.”
“Okay. Any time after one-thirty is good.” She hopped off the stool to take a shower. “Who else is going?”
“Trevor Trafford and Pat. Mr. J’s driving them.”
Duncan. Guilt over the call to Marcus swarmed her conscience, but she swatted the horrible feeling aside. “Has Patrick ever been duck pin bowling before?”
“Nope.” Matt downed the juice remains. “Neither has Pat’s dad.” Leaving the glass on the counter, he headed toward the hallway. “Maybe you can play a few games with Mr. J.”
“Sure.”
She should’ve talked to Duncan more about Trent, not called Marcus.
“Matt?”
He stopped and looked back.
“Glass in the dishwasher, mister.”
* * * *
“Then this guy tells me to turn at a red school.” Trent threw up his hands and leaned into the kitchen table, moving closer to Duncan, nearly bumping his coffee. “I drive and drive. No red school building. Turns out he meant a teeny white schoolhouse, like they used a hundred years ago.”
Duncan hoped he calmed down by the time Buzz and Marion arrived. After all, this get-together was at his request. Trent’s edginess probably had to do with meeting Marion for the first time. It couldn’t be easy meeting his birthmother.
Trent’s adoption into the Jamieson family had never been a secret, but the details never interested Duncan. In late high school, Trent told Duncan he’d known for many years his real parents were from Northbridge, the town where they’d vacationed a few summers back. When his mother pushed for them to pursue the Tates’ property, Trent met Elmer Tate, who never showed any signs of discomfort with their history. Trent didn’t ask about Marion, only Duncan happened to meet her when he dropped by Buzz’s office in early December. When she learned who he was, her calm smile had vanished and she’d nervously said, “Nice to meet you,” then hurried out. Similar to how she’d acted the night he’d seen her talking to Sophie in the hallway at the zoning meeting. How would she act today while meeting her son?
Duncan sipped from his mug. “Buzz told me the historical society decided to restore the schoolhouse to its original color.”
“Whatever. Good thing I ran into your friend, Sophie. Her directions got me here.”
A jolt traveled up Duncan’s spine, not from caffeine. “Where’d you see her?”
“She was jogging. We had a nice conversation.”
Nice, by Trent’s definition, didn’t make him feel better.
Trent snorted a laugh. “You look worried. I didn’t tell her about your teenage crush.”
Duncan clenched his jaw. “Jesus, could you drop it? She knows, anyway. I was picking up Patrick at her house and we had a glass of wine. I told her.”
Trent’s brows raised then he shook his head. “Man, little brother. Didn’t any of my finely honed skills with women rub off on you?”
Duncan shrugged. “Look. You do what works for you. I like being honest.”
“Hey, she asked this strange question. Had we caught up with anybody we knew years ago? Did you say anything about why we’re really here?”
“No. Did she say anything else?”
“Only that Buzz really supported RGI’s plans.”
The questions made him wonder if Sophie was being completely honest with him. The harsh sound of his cell phone vibrating against the marble countertop distracted him. He got up from the kitchen table and glanced at the caller ID. “Hey, Buzz. Running late?”
“Sorry to call last minute. You know, I got up with good intentions of getting over there for breakfast, but nothing’s going right today.” A long explanation ensued, with several reasons why he couldn’t get there, all sounding made up. Was he uncomfortable, or maybe Marion? Trent would be disappointed.
While Buzz rambled on, Duncan snuck away from the kitchen and went to his office. Since the basketball game a week earlier, one question had bugged him.
He shut the office door. “We’ll reschedule. I need your help with something else, though. Has anything unusual ever happened on the Tates’ land? Anything that would concern Sophie?”
“Define unusual.”
Duncan almost laughed into the phone. Buzz’s caution sounded as pitiful as Bill Clinton’s request during a grand jury hearing, when he’d asked for clarification of “what ‘is’ is.” He understood why Clinton had stalled, but this reaction from Buzz, on a run-of-the-mill question, raised a red flag.
“Anything out of the ordinary.” A pause hung in the air and Duncan waited it out.
Buzz cleared his throat. “The Moore family settled the land a long time ago. They lost the property in a bet with Otis and Elmer’s father. Alan Moore’s always yapping about how he wants that deed back in his family’s name. That’s all I can think of.”
He couldn’t pinpoint why, but he didn’t believe him.