"Sit," he said, pointing to the sofa. When I sat, he handed me an afghan. I tucked it around my legs.
Paul disappeared into the kitchen and returned a minute or two later with a steaming bowl of oatmeal he'd apparently cooked up while I was passed out in the tub. He'd dotted it with butter and sprinkled it with brown sugar, just the way I like it.
"Thanks," I said, accepting the spoon he was dangling in front of me.
Paul watched me while I ate, then took the dirty bowl to the kitchen.
When he rejoined me on the couch, I stretched out my legs and lay down with my head in his lap, and we watched the movie, laughing ourselves silly, which was the whole point. When it was all over, I felt let down, as if I'd been holding a big, red balloon and it had suddenly deflated.
"What do you want to watch now, honey?"
"It's almost eleven," I said. "Turn on the news."
"Are you sure?"
I nodded, the denim on his leg moving roughly over my cheek. "Uh-huh."
We watched the final credits of a popular TV drama crawl by, minimized and distorted to unreadability in order to make room on the screen for the bronzed face and bleached buzz cut of the news anchor, cheerfully giving us a "heads-up" on what to expect at the "top of the hour." Gail Parrish's murder was the lead story.
Anne Arundel County Police are investigating the murder of an Annapolis
woman who was found shot to death in her Eastport home earlier this
afternoon. The body of the woman, a thirty-two-year-old receptionist, was
discovered by neighbors who grew worried when they saw her car in the
driveway and she didn't answer the telephone. Police have no suspects.
Release of the victim's name is pending notification of next of kin, but TV6 has
learned that the house is owned by Ian and Judith Fraser and that the Frasers
are presently out of the country. Neighbors tell us that the victim was house
sitting for the Frasers.
Before the anchor had finished reading the story, I was astonished to see myself appear on camera, emerging from the Frasers' front door-still red, still with that ridiculous knocker-accompanied by Officer Tracey, with Cindy tagging along behind.
As Tracey hustled us down the sidewalk, dodging cameras, a reporter was thrusting a microphone in my face, and I was waving it away as if I were Demi Moore or Madonna or something. But unlike Demi Moore, I looked like hell. My face was the color of grits, the subtle lines at each side of my nose had deepened to ravines, and since when had those railroad tracks been carved into my forehead?
After failing with me, the reporter tried to interview Cindy, but she merely gazed stupidly at the camera, sobbing uncontrollably.
Perversely, the reporter seemed pleased with that. "The neighbors are clearly shocked by this senseless act of violence in what has always been a friendly, quiet neighborhood," he was saying as the camera panned from his well-coiffed head to a view of a house across the street, where a youngster was shooting hoops in the driveway.
I thought I was going to barf. "Turn it off," I said.
Paul took aim with the remote and obliged. "I warned you."
"Why do they have to turn everything into a goddamn circus?"
"It's their job," Paul said reasonably.
We were discussing what movie to watch-I voted for Overboard, while Paul argued for Goldmember-when the telephone rang.
Paul raised an eyebrow. "Let the machine pick up?"
"No," I said, thinking about Officer Tracey. "Nobody calls after eleven at night unless it's important."
Paul let the phone ring once more before he answered it. He listened for a moment, then held the receiver out to me. "It's Dennis."
"I don't want to talk to him," I whispered. “Tell him I've gone to bed."
"I think you'll want to hear what he has to say."
Two against one. I was outnumbered.
I took the receiver from my husband's outstretched hand. "Hi, Dennis," I said, and before he could say anything, I forged ahead. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said to you last night. I was a little tipsy."
"I figured that. Don't worry about it. I didn't take it personally."
"Are you sure?”
“Yup. But that's not why I called. I just caught the news. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you on TV. Was that the woman you were telling me about? Works for Jablonsky?"
"Worked. She either quit or was fired last week. Why, I don't know. That's one of the things I was going to ask her."
"How did you end up discovering the body?"
Body. I cringed. Already the living, breathing Gail was being reduced to a thing. I cleared my throat and tried to explain about Google and the phone number, about Cindy and the house key. "The Annapolis police were great, Dennis, but they aren't telling me anything."
"Who's handling the case?"
I told him. Then I shared my theory. "I really think Gail was killed to prevent her from talking to me."
Dennis grunted. "But how would the killer have connected Gail with you?"
I hadn't really thought about that.
"Is it possible Nick Pottorff recognized you when you and your father went to Steele's office?" Dennis continued.
"No. I never saw Pottorff at Jablonsky's. Just his car."
"Do you think Gail said anything?"
I thought for a moment. "No. I can't think of any reason why she might have done that."
Dennis started to speak, but I interrupted him. "I think the key is Ginger Cove. That's what Gail was looking at when she talked to me. And that's where six people connected with Jablonsky have died."
"You may be right, Hannah. Look. Let me make a few calls and get back to you."
Paul handed me a tissue. I used it to wipe my nose. "Thank you, Dennis."
"You get some rest, okay?"
"I'll try."
"Put Paul on, will you?"
"No. You'll just tell him to make me some hot tea and send me to bed."
"That's good advice, actually. Put him on."
I handed the phone to Paul. "Yeah." Paul listened for a few seconds, then said good-bye, looking worried.
"So, what did he say?"
"I'm supposed to give you some tea and send you to bed."
I pinched Paul's cheek, hard. "Seriously!"
"Seriously?" Paul gathered me into his arms, resting his chin on top of my head. "He wants me to double lock all the doors and asks me to make sure you don't take any long walks by yourself."
My heart began to pound. "You're serious."
"Dead serious. Dennis thinks you may have stirred up a hornets' nest. And he doesn't want you to take any unnecessary chances."
I burrowed my head more deeply into the fleecy softness of Paul's Navy sweatshirt. At least I had someone warm to curl up against, I thought grimly, while Gail Parrish was lying on a refrigerated slab at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Baltimore.
I shivered.
"Decided on a movie?"
"I'm not in the mood for another movie, Paul."
"Me neither."
"Paul?"
"Hmmmm?"
"I've just thought of something." I sat bolt upright. "If Jablonsky didn't know about the connection between Gail and me before, he's sure to know about it now."
"Shit! TV, the newspapers."
"Exactly."
His arm snaked around my shoulders. "Don't worry, Hannah, I won't let you out of my sight."
We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes, then arm in arm made our way upstairs to the bedroom.
While Paul pulled down the covers on the bed, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, slathering Neutrogena cream all over my face, working it into the creases that, I swear, had not been there only the day before. In the mirror something caught my eye and I stopped rubbing. I stared at my reflection, then checked my hands. There were rust-colored traces underneath my fingernails.