Heat Wave Read Online Free PDF

steering wheel and her
foot on the gas pedal ignored ought-to’s, and she found herself
driving east, toward the heart of Brogan’s Point, to the grassy
square bordered by the Catholic church, the Unitarian church, the
Methodist church, the town library, the charming old brownstone
that housed the Historical Society and the Brogan’s Point Seafaring
Museum, and, on the northwest corner, Town Hall.
    Brogan’s Point’s Town Hall building was a
classic New England structure: red brick, tall windows flanked by
black shutters, a portico adorned with classic white columns, and
broad steps leading from its double doors down to the sidewalk. The
driveway cutting around the building to a parking lot at the rear
was currently clogged with vans bearing the logos of several news
stations out of Boston, and a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk at
the base of the stairs. Meredith eased her car past the vans to the
parking lot, turned off the engine, and stepped out into the muggy
late-afternoon heat.
    Joining the throng on the sidewalk, she
noticed a podium positioned about halfway up the stairs, with a
microphone clamped to it. A few TV reporters stood on the grass,
speaking into wireless microphones while camera operators filmed
them, using the bucolic town green as a backdrop. Meredith
recognized two of the reporters from local news broadcasts.
    So Mr. Solomon truly was
going to hold a press conference. Meredith felt absurdly
insignificant. When it came to her minor transgression, of course
he was done .
    I can’t keep from
crying, she thought, then snorted. She was
tough. If Mr. Solomon dropped her case, she’d hire someone else. Or
fight the citation herself. If worse came to worst and she was
denied tenure—or fired—she’d find another teaching job. And dress
in a burka, so her students wouldn’t get crushes on her.
    She realized she wasn’t even close to tears.
The words had come to her in a driving rhythm, lyrics from the song
she’d heard at the Faulk Street Tavern yesterday.
    “Heat Wave” was an appropriate song, given the sultry weather.
But something told her the weather had nothing to do with that
song’s having become stuck inside her head. It was because she was
about to see Mr. Solomon. Because they’d shared that song in some
way.
    The front doors of the Town Hall swung open,
and Mr. Solomon emerged, along with a slightly paunchy, balding
older man. The reporters raced to the sidewalk at the foot of the
steps. A camera operator on Meredith’s left jostled her and she
moved a step back, out of his way. She didn’t want to stand too
close to the front of the crowd. If Mr. Solomon spotted her, he
might think she was a pest, bothering him about her silly
misdemeanor when he was busy with a case meriting a press
conference.
    Despite the heat, he was dressed formally,
in a pale gray suit and a dark gray tie, the knot tight against the
collar of his tailored shirt. His hair was not quite as
conservative as his apparel; parted on one side, it flopped onto
his brow, and he jerked his head to toss it off his face. The man
with him was dressed marginally more casually, in khaki trousers, a
polo shirt and a navy blue blazer. He looked like someone on his
way to the country club for a round of golf. Meredith thought she
might have seen him somewhere before, but she couldn’t recall
where. She’d probably seen dozens of men like him at her parents’
club; maybe that was why he looked familiar.
    Mr. Solomon nudged the man toward the
podium. The man shot him a quick look, then pulled a folded sheet
of paper from an inner pocket of his blazer and leaned toward the
microphone. “I have a brief statement,” he said, then read from the
paper. “This morning, the district attorney of Essex County
produced an indictment against me, charging me with having
embezzled $864,225.00 from the Brogan’s Point employees’ pension
fund. This indictment is based solely on the allegations of Sheila
Valenti, our former town