In Death's Shadow (21 page)

"Where can we find your husband, ma'am?"

"Where you can always find him on Monday," she commented dryly. "At his office."

Leaving the evidence technicians to do their work, Paul and I left with Officer Tracey. As I climbed into the car, I turned to Paul. "Remind me to find out who her cleaning lady is."

Late Tuesday evening my brother-in-law showed up after dinner, bringing us a progress report. While we waited for the decaf to brew, I telephoned Daddy. Within ten minutes he joined us at the kitchen table, where I was already serving dessert.

"I don't even know his last name," I said as I set the container of half and half on the table.

"Whose name?"

"That gardener, Chet."

"He goes by Laidlaw," Dennis told me. "But he's got a record in Louisiana under Charles Lewis, the name his own sweet mama gave him."

"So, what's happening with those creeps?" I asked, sitting down.

"There's a whole lot of speechifying and finger-pointing going on, and that's just the lawyers!" He grinned. "It'll take Tracey and his crew a couple of days to sort it all out, but Chet Laidlaw's been a busy boy, implicating Pottorff and Jablonsky in the murders. They've got Laidlaw dead to rights on the shooting of Gail Parrish. The slug we took out of her body matches the gun he was carrying. As for the others." He held out his cup for a re-fill. "Tracey's getting an exhumation order for Clark Gammel and Tim Burns. After that, we'd see."

"Chet Laidlaw
admitted
to smothering those people," I reminded him. "So, what are they looking for?"

"If they were burked, there'd be petechiael hemorrhages in the eyes, perhaps some blue-hued congestion about the face and neck caused when blood with a low oxygen content got trapped above their lungs."

"Oh," I said simply, thinking again about Valerie and being almost sorry I asked.

"How about Steele?" my father wanted to know. "He's the one
I
want to see behind bars."

Dennis sipped his coffee. "Well, Jablonsky is pointing the finger back at Steele and being quite forthcoming in describing their joint role in a multistate viatical investment scam."

Daddy shook his head. "But I still don't understand why
Jablonsky
wanted Valerie Stone, Gammel, that Burns fellow, and all those others dead. Jablonsky already sold their policies. It was Steele and
his
investors who stood to gain by their deaths."

"I think I can answer that question," I said. I'd spent the afternoon with Donna Hudgins and Harrison Garvin at Victory Mutual, briefing them on my report. It had turned out to be a very interesting meeting.

"At first," I said, "Steele either didn't know or didn't care that the policies he was buying from Jablonsky were bogus. Steele was under pressure to purchase more policies for the investor money that kept pouring in, some of which he used not to buy policies, but to support his lavish lifestyle."

"Lavish," my husband remarked. "That's putting it mildly."

"Opulent, then." I gave Paul a friendly punch in the arm. "So, when some of Steele's investments turned sour and a significant percentage of ViatiPro's policy portfolio was rescinded by the insurance companies that issued them, it put a serious crimp in his cash flow."

"He would be facing ruin," Daddy interjected.

"Exactly. I figure Steele threatened Jablonsky. Either Jablonsky could arrange for the legitimate policies he sold ViatiPro to 'mature' or Steele would blow the whistle on him."

"Enter Nicholas Pottorff and his good little Do-Bee, Chet Laidlaw," Daddy said.

During the whole course of our conversation, something Dennis
hadn't
mentioned kept nagging at me.

"Dennis, you haven't said anything about Valerie Stone."

Dennis leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Hannah, Laidlaw has copped to the murders of Gail and all those folks out at Ginger Cove, but he insists he had nothing to do with any 'Hillsmere broad.'"

"I can't believe you're telling me this! He must have done it! It can't be just a coincidence!" I shook my head angrily. "Absolutely no way!"

Dennis waited for me to finish sputtering before he continued. "Anne Arundel County is working with the New Jersey D.A. for an exhumation order, but Valerie's family is throwing up road blocks. Eventually I think they'll allow the exhumation rather than put up with all the negative publicity, but so far they're adamant. Nobody's going to dig their daughter up."

"This is ridiculous! I'm going to call Brian. He'll talk some sense into those in-laws of his."

Dennis shook his head. "It's my understanding that Brian Stone doesn't want the exhumation, either."

That was odd. If Paul died unexpectedly, I'd demand an autopsy. If someone were responsible, I'd sure as hell want to know about it.

I'd been waving my fork in the air. Before I put somebody's eye out, Dennis grabbed my hand and pushed it down on the table. "Let the police do their work, Hannah. Trust me, they know what they're doing."

I scowled at my brother-in-law. Maybe the police knew what they were doing and maybe they didn't, but either way, I couldn't see any reason why I shouldn't talk to Brian Stone. I'd call him. First thing in the morning.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

Brian was avoiding me. He didn't return my
phone calls. My e-mails went unread.

I was taking it personally, working myself up to a full-blown sulk until I telephoned Kathy Carpenter. "Oh, Brian's been away," his next door neighbor told me. "He's in New Jersey, visiting with Miranda."

So, Brian had gone over to the Dark Side. I decided to wait until he returned to Annapolis before tackling him about Valerie. After hobnobbing with the country club set, it'd take about a week of beer and crab cakes to deprogram him.

Besides, I'd volunteered to help Mrs. Bromley with her art show, and the day was fast approaching. Naddie had promised to call with details, but I still didn't know much more than what I'd read on the postcard I'd received in the mail. Saturday, eleven to four, Markwood Gallery, Maryland Avenue. And it was Thursday already.

Considering Naddie's broken arm, I was wondering if the show was still on.

"Hey, Naddie," I said when she answered my telephone call. "Sorry to bother you when you must be so busy, but isn't your show this weekend?"

"So it is, and I'm so glad you called! Didn't you say, in some rash moment, that you wouldn't mind helping me out?"

"It wasn't a rash moment, and I don't mind a bit. So, are you feeling okay?"

"Much better, thanks."

Naddie had prevailed upon the local Ginger Cove talent to load the paintings into her station wagon, but needed help unloading the paintings once she got to Markwood Gallery.

"Sure, just tell me what time and I'll be there."

"How about an hour?"

I laughed. "When were you going to call me? When you pulled out of the parking lot?"

"Well, the last time I saw you, you looked a little the worse for wear."

"I still do, thank you very much, but I'm feeling fine. See you in about an hour."

I was bored, and restless, and a little bit glum. As I puttered around the kitchen I turned the radio to WBJC, but it's hard to sing along to Bach, and the Barber "Adagio for Strings" made me feel like jumping off the Bay Bridge, so I switched to WINX Shore Country radio. Stompin' songs from Jimmy Buffett, Alabama, and the Soggy Bottom Boys can perk me up every time.

I was polishing the copper bottoms on my pots when they started playing selections from a Dixie Chicks album. I wasn't very familiar with the Dixie Chicks, but I was really getting into the twangy guitar and the plunky mandolin that introduced the song. Then I froze. Natalie Maines was covering "Landslide," a Stevie Nicks hit from the Fleetwood Mac album that Valerie and I had loved.

"Can I sail thru the changing ocean tides," Natalie crooned. Instinctively, I opened my mouth to sing along, but nothing came out but a strangled whimper. How many times had we sung those words together, Valerie and I, harmonizing on the "uh, uhs" and "well maybes," wondering if, like the singer, we'd survive to grow older, too? I sat down at my kitchen table, wet hands and all, and started to bawl. I felt like the landslide the Chicks were singing about had brought us all down.

My heart ached for Brian and Miranda. I cried for the wedding that Valerie would never see. I wept for the sailboat that Gail would never sail. I wept for my lost breast, all kidnapped children, and the AIDS-afflicted people of Africa.

I was caught in a downward spiral, and if I didn't get out of the house, pronto, I'd cry until my eyelids swelled shut.

I splashed cold water on my face, blew my nose and dried my eyes as best I could, then walked briskly out my front door, down the street to Maryland Avenue. While I waited for Mrs. Bromley, I tried a little retail therapy, but many of the shops had not opened yet, so I was unable to give my Visa card the workout it deserved.

Parking is tough on Maryland Avenue; the street is narrow and cars are allowed on the east side only. When a parking place opened up directly across from the Markwood Gallery, I borrowed a chair from Mimi at Aurora Gallery, centered the chair in the parking spot, and sat down in it, reserving the spot for Mrs. Bromley, much to the dismay of one urban warrior in her monster SUV.

Mrs. Bromley arrived several minutes later, saw me sitting there and grinned. She waved her broken arm, which was encased from elbow to wrist in a cast of bubblegum pink.

"You look spiffy," I said, peering at her through the open passenger side window. "The cast matches the stripes in your blouse."

"Chosen for the occasion," Mrs. Bromley said. "When they change the cast in a week or two, I'm getting lavender."

I glanced into the back of the station wagon. It was loaded almost to the ceiling with canvasses, wrapped in bubble wrap and cardboard. As Mrs. Bromley took the parking space, I moved the chair onto the sidewalk. I patted its seat. "You sit here and supervise," I ordered when she emerged from the car.

"You are a tough taskmaster," she said, grinning, but she sat down as instructed.

"You look tired, Hannah," Naddie commented as I passed her with an armload of paintings.

So, she'd noticed my eyes. I decided not to mention my little spell. "Bumps and bruises," I said. "A little stiff." I rolled my shoulders. "I don't feel much different from the day after I started taking aerobics. All that exercise was probably good for me."

Inside the gallery, I located the owner and one of Mrs. Bromley's art students who was only too happy to help me unload. Once the station wagon was empty and all the paintings were leaning against the walls in a back room of the gallery, Mrs. Bromley came in.

"Oh, let's not do that now," she said to my suggestion that we start unpacking. "I don't think I could make one more decision today, Hannah. We still have tomorrow. Let's do it then."

As we left the gallery, Mrs. Bromley turned to me and asked, "Would you like to get coffee?"

“Twist my arm," I said.

Arm in arm we walked across the street to City Dock Coffee, one of Annapolis's hidden treasures, always a welcome relief from the cookie-cutter sameness of Starbucks. City Dock Coffee occupied an old storefront, and every square inch had been put to good use.

In the display window on the left, burlap bags of coffee, boxes of tea, cups, teapots, and other decorative crockery had been arranged. In the window on the right, the owner had installed a comfortable sofa, slip-covered in a fabric with a coffee cup design. Two people were sitting on the sofa, coffee cups in hand, but they weren't paying much attention to their coffee.

I recognized the girl, or to be more precise, I recognized her shoes. The last time I'd seen that set of red shoes and slim ankles had been from the vantage point of a four-year-old while kneeling on the floor of the ladies' room at

Kramer's Funeral Home. Now, though, some guy with short blond hair had his nose buried in her neck.

"For heaven's sake," I said. "And on a public street no less."

"That's Corinne Winters," Naddie volunteered, "one of my students." She checked her watch. "Corinne was supposed to be at the gallery today, helping out."

"Looks like she got distracted," I said.

Naddie turned to me. "Corinne is always distracted."

I looked at the girl again. She had closed her eyes, and her companion had begun some major-league nuzzling. "Get a hotel room!" I muttered.

“Too late," Naddie said. "Corinne's pregnant."

I could see that now. Under her stretchy black top the girl's belly gently swelled.

Naddie tugged on my arm. "Don't gawk, Hannah!"

I stood firm. "If they don't want people to see them, why the hell are they sitting in the window?"

Mrs. Bromley punched me playfully with her cast, then reached for the doorknob of the coffee shop with her good arm.

Before I could follow Mrs. Bromley through the door, Corinne opened her eyes and noticed me standing on the sidewalk. She straightened, adjusted her top with one hand and shoved her companion away with the other.

The neck nuzzler turned. He had cut off his ponytail, but there was no doubt about it. The nuzzler was Brian Stone.

Hot rage boiled up inside me as I did the math. Corinne was showing. That meant she was four to five months gone. Four to five months ago, Valerie Stone had still been alive.

I rapped on the window. Brian started. He blushed from the pale curly hairs sticking out of the neck of his shirt all the way up to his scalp, where the hair was thinning.

I knocked again. I waggled my fingers.

Brian stood up, tucking in his shirt.

The door had already closed behind Naddie, so I yanked it open and stalked into the coffee shop. I don't know what I planned to do. Punch Brian out, maybe?

"Hannah! Good to see you." He'd decided to play it cool.

Behind him, Corinne was struggling against her low center of gravity, trying to get up from the sofa.

Brian turned and offered Corinne a hand. "You remember my friend, Corinne Winters?"

I glared at Brian as pieces of the puzzle began tumbling into place.

"Coffee, Hannah?" Mrs. Bromley was saying behind me. “Tea?" If she was hoping to distract me, she'd need something more than coffee. A bomb, maybe, with a short fuse, placed directly under my feet.

Corinne was Brian's "friend"? Give me a break! I skewered the creep with my eyes. "Valerie didn't die soon enough for you, Brian?"

He took a step backward. I took one forward, closing the gap.

I poked a finger, hard, in his chest. "Thought you'd have all that glorious money to yourself, did you?" I poked him again. "Thought you'd be able to spend it all on Corinne here and . . . and—” I waved in the direction of Corinne's bulging midsection. ". . . and little Whatsitsname.

"When's the baby due, Corinne?" I held up my fingers and counted them off. "Let's see. June, May, April, March, February . . . am I getting close?" Corinne's face was colorless.

"January!" I crowed. "That means you and lover boy were having it off even before he took Valerie on that cruise. How did you feel, Corinne, when he took his wife away on the QE2 instead of you. Jealous?"

"Bitch!" Corinne had found her tongue a last.

I turned to Brian. "So, this is the woman you've chosen to be the mother of your children? The woman who'll be Miranda's stepmother?
Excellent
choice!"

Brian held up his hands defensively. If he hoped to deflect my words, he was dead wrong. "You don't understand—" he began.

"Oh, I understand perfectly. So does Mrs. Bromley here." I turned to Naddie, who was standing silently next to the pastry case.

"Valerie was sick. She was
dying
!” Brian choked. "She was so weak. We couldn't . . . we didn't—"

"How fortunate that Corinne was there to comfort you in your hour of need."

"You don't understand," he whimpered.

But I understood perfectly, more than he knew. During my own chemotherapy, Paul had been desperate to comfort me, but I'd kept him at arm's length. By some perverse logic, I'd convinced myself that I was damaged goods, that he was being nice to me only out of pity. I'd actually suspected Paul of being unfaithful, but when the opportunity—in the form of an attractive student—had come his way, Paul had resisted.

"Didn't work out the way you intended, did it, Brian?" I pressed. "Valerie got well, Corinne got pregnant. What were you going to do?"

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mrs. Bromley tapping her cast against her fingertips, making a desperate "time-out" sign. But I was taking no prisoners.

"The only thing I don't understand is how you did it. How did you murder your wife?"

Corinne doubled over and made a mad dash for the rest room at the back of the shop, where presumably she would upchuck her latte. Brian stared after her with a worried look on his face, but although I must have provoked him, he said nothing.

"I wonder what the phone records will show, Brian?"

"I was miles away when Valerie died, in Harpers Ferry, working on a story."

"So you said. The police left a message on your cell phone, didn't they?"

Brian nodded.

"And you returned the call."

"That's right."

"They can track those things, you know, Brian. Cell phones." I mused, "One hundred forty million human-tracking devices. When you place a cellular phone call, your phone seeks out the nearest receiving tower, which serves a distinct area. Know what they call those areas, Brian? Cells. The tower routes the call to its destination. Your cell phone provider keeps a record of that."

Brian blanched.

"I wonder where your cell phone company will tell the police you were when you made that call?"

Everything about Brian was clenched: his teeth, his jaw, his fists.

"How did you do it, Brian? With a pillow? Did you put a pillow over your wife's face and hold it there until she stopped struggling?"

"You are out of your fucking mind." He emphasized every syllable.