With one arm, Daddy held the lobby door open for me and we passed out into the bright June sunshine.
Unexpectedly, Daddy tapped my shoulder. "Look, Hannah. There's your brown-suited man."
"Where?"
Daddy pointed to the far end of the parking lot, where a man who looked a lot like Nick Pottorff was climbing into a BMW. Pottorff started his car, revved the engine a couple of times to show how macho he was, backed out of the parking space, and sped past us, tires squealing. I'd seen that car before. As it flew by, I got a good look at the license plate, too: N4SIR.
I grabbed my father's arm. "That's the same car I saw in Gilbert Jablonsky's lot!" I leaned back against the fender of a blue Volvo. "Oh my God, Daddy! That means there's got to be a connection between Steele and Jablonsky!"
"Ba-da-bing, Ba-da-boom," Daddy said.
"What?"
Haven't you been watching The Sopranos on HBO?"
Of course I had, but I wasn't in the mood for light-hearted banter. "Listen to me! I am positive that car and its license plate were parked next to mine in Jablonsky's parking lot in Glen Burnie just one week ago! How can you not remember a vanity plate like N4SIR?"
"I don't know." Daddy stood straight and tall, hands thrust deep into his pockets, shaking his head. "Isn't that a little obvious, Hannah? Do you think he'd drive around with a plate like that if he really were a mafia enforcer?"
"I don't think the word 'subtle' appears in Nick Pottorff's dictionary," I said.
"In that case, sweetheart, we need to share what we know with Dennis ASAP and see what he advises."
"Are you busy tomorrow night, Daddy?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
"If Connie and Dennis are free, I thought we'd cook out in the backyard."
"Haven't had a good hamburger in a long time," Daddy said. "Count me in."
Daddy held the passenger door of the Chrysler open and I slipped in, ladylike, remembering, just in case anybody was watching, to keep my knees together, slide and swivel.
When Daddy got behind the wheel, he turned the key in the ignition, then leaned back in his seat. "The Producers,” he chuckled. "In New York City?"
"Sorry, Daddy. Steele was so full of shit, I just couldn't help myself."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I didn't ask for much. Just a casual backyard cookout, a small, intimate get-together in a friendly, stress-free environment where my brother-in-law could grab a few beers, sprawl in a lawn chair, put his feet up and forget, for a time, the rigors of keeping Chesapeake County a safe place for its citizens to live, work, and play.
I planned to ask Dennis what to do about ViatiPro later. After the burgers with everything on them. After the corn on the cob, drizzled with butter. After the still warm from the oven, deep-dish apple pie. (From the bakery. Fresh.)
A policeman in the family is an asset, I know. One mustn't abuse the privilege. Rule one: Don't ask him to bend the law for you. Rule two: Don't waste his time with trivialities. Rule three: Don't put yourself into situations where he has to ride to the rescue with a platoon of United States Marines.
I've never asked him to bend the law. Never knowingly wasted his time. Two out of three? Not bad.
So, like I said, it was to be a simple backyard cookout, two Rutherfords and two Iveses, plus Daddy, of course. And after Dennis was relaxed, I'd ease into the ViatiPro business, feeling my way.
But no.
I was dicing celery, green pepper, and scallions when Daddy called, asking to bring Cornelia Gibbs. Neelie was Daddy's girlfriend. How could I refuse? I lobbed another potato into the pot and kept on chopping.
Then my sister Ruth popped in bearing a singing bowl. "Something new I'm carrying in the store."
"Thanks, Ruth. I didn't know bowls could sing." I held it in my wet hands. It was about the size of a rice bowl, and heavy.
"It's made from brass and six other metals. You hit it with this wooden striker." She produced a cylindrical mallet from the pocket of her skirt and gave the bowl a whack. "Nice, huh? It clears negativity from the room, especially before you meditate." She narrowed her eyes. "You have been meditating, haven't you?"
The correct answer would have been no. "Whenever I get the chance, Ruth. Whenever I get the chance."
Ruth smiled semi-approvingly, then turned her attention to other things. "What'cha cooking?"
I had to confess. "Potato salad."
"Oh my God, I love your potato salad!"
It wasn't my recipe, it was our late mother's, but what could I do? The next thing I knew, Ruth was joining us, too, bringing along her lawyer friend, Maurice Gaylord Hutchinson, Esquire. What a perfect opportunity for "Hutch" (as she affectionately called him) to meet the parental unit. Hutch, an introspective, comfortable, reliable man (the polar opposite of Eric, Ruth's ex), had worked his buns off when some turd stole Ruth's identity and she'd nearly lost both Mother Earth, her new age store on Main Street and her sanity.
When Ruth breezed out the door to fetch Hutch, her long, salt and pepper hair streaming like a banner behind her, I tossed two more potatoes into the pot. I kneaded an egg and a cup of raw oatmeal into the hamburger, hoping it would stretch to serve eight.
And I kept chopping.
Paul came home from work around five, bearing a dozen ears of corn and a Box o' Wine he insisted we try. I sent him out on the patio to shuck the corn while I scraped the chopped vegetables into a bowl and took care of more important things: I opened the wine.
With my thumb, I punched a hole in the cardboard box and wrestled the plastic spout out of the hole, skinning my knuckles in the process. This is supposed to be easier than a corkscrew? No way.
I found a glass, thrust it under the spout, and pushed the button. Considering the way I'd tortured the spout while trying to extract the darn thing from the box, it was a miracle that it worked. I watched as the dark ruby liquid filled my glass halfway, then I swirled it around, testing its legs. I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip, for medicinal purposes. My skinned knuckles were feeling better already.
The wine was a merlot. Velvety, according to the label. Lush plum flavors, gently spiced, with a soft touch of oak. Who makes these terms up? Paul and I once went to a tasting where the wines were described as "assertive," "barn-yardy," or even "flabby." I took another sip of the merlot. Definitely not flabby.
When the potatoes were done, I drained the pot, doused them with cold water, and left them in the sink to cool. I grabbed another glass, tucked the wine box under my arm, and headed out to the patio to join Paul.
"Corn's shucked," he said. The naked ears were stacked up like a pyramid on the picnic table next to his elbow, and a paper grocery bag of corn silk and husks sat next to his feet.
I handed him the glass. "Have some wine."
Paul served himself from the box. "Thanks, hon."
We sipped in silence for a while.
"Nice of the weather to cooperate."
I nodded. A gentle breeze was discouraging the average, run-of-the-mill mosquito, and I'd lit citronella candles in small, galvanized buckets and placed them around the garden to intimidate any insects with kamikaze tendencies.
"Do you think I'm crazy, Paul?"
A smile spread slowly across my husband's face. "No, not crazy. But I think you have to be prepared, Hannah. All this could turn out to be some sort of weird coincidence."
"I don't think so. Neither does Daddy. And you should have seen Mrs. Bromley, Paul. She's usually so levelheaded. And she was frightened. Truly frightened!" I paused to take another sip of wine. "In fact, she's so jumpy that she's gone away for the weekend. She's hiding out at a B and B in Chestertown."
He squeezed my knee. "The trouble with you, Hannah, is you care too much. I know Valerie's death hit you hard and that you want to believe her chemotherapy wasn't responsible…"