I grabbed a metal nail file and started digging. It was going to be a long and sleepless night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When I pried my eyelids open, Paul was standing over me with a mug of coffee in one hand and the Sunday paper in the other. "Wake up sleepyhead!" He'd accomplished that task by jiggling the bed with his slipper-clad foot. Mathematicians are not noted for their subtlety.
I groaned and glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It was nearly noon. The digital clock and I were old friends. The previous night, as I lay in bed, I'd watched the lighted number indicating the hour click from two to three to four before I fell into a light and troubled sleep.
"Good morning," I mumbled around a tongue that was as dry as the Mojave Desert. "Or perhaps I should say good afternoon."
Paul held the mug out where I could reach it.
I rearranged the pillow more comfortably between my back and the headboard and accepted the coffee from him gratefully.
Paul waited until I'd taken a sip before tossing the newspaper onto the bedcovers. "You made the front page," he said.
I cringed. With my free hand, I picked up the paper. The story about Gail had made the Baltimore Sun front and center, directly above the fold. The police must have contacted Gail's parents, because she was named in the story and they had published a picture of her, one that I recognized from her desk at MBFSG: Gail and the Labrador retriever she'd had as a teen, with the dog neatly Photo-Shopped out.
My picture was featured on A12, where the article continued from the front page. Fortunately, it'd been taken at a distance, and in profile. I still looked like hell, but that might be a good thing. If Jablonsky were reading the paper that morning, he'd have a difficult time connecting the haggard old woman pictured in the newspaper with that well-dressed, impeccably made-up, ditzy dame who had showed up in his office last week, all chirpy and ready to charm his socks off.
According to The Capital, the police had interviewed Gail's employer. Predictably, Jablonsky had told them that Gail quit work the previous Friday, giving him no notice.
Jablonsky was shocked, shocked by this, of course. Gail had always been so reliable. Blah-de-blah-de-blah. It was Jablonsky's understanding, the paper went on, that the murdered woman had been planning a move to Las Vegas to join her boyfriend, Ross Bankson.
Ross Bankson. Ah-ha. Ross must be the ex-.
The paper had gotten one thing right. According to one witness (that was Cindy), Ms. Parrish had been estranged from Mr. Bankson. Naturally, police were hoping to talk to him. Through the dead woman's telephone records, they had traced Bankson to an apartment in Baltimore, but when they called at the apartment, Bankson had not been at home.
"It says here that the police are looking for Gail's ex-boyfriend," I read out loud. Paul was standing in front of the bathroom sink in his undershirt, shaving. The door to the bathroom stood ajar.
"Uh-huh."
"I think they're barking up the wrong tree," I commented. "Gail hinted that her boyfriend was a jerk, but sure as God made little green apples, I don't think Bank-son had anything to do with her murder.''
"Uh-huh."
I closed the paper angrily. "Paul? Are you even listening to me? This is important. My God, it looks like the cops are falling for all this crap Jablonsky is feeding them. Oily bastard!"
Paul emerged from the bathroom, patting his face dry with a towel he had draped around his neck. "Of course I'm listening. Boyfriend didn't do it. Jablonsky's an S.O.B." He bent down to kiss me.
I kissed him back, letting my lips linger on his for a while before gently pulling away. I grinned at my husband, then used a corner of the bed sheet to wipe a dollop of shaving cream off his ear.
Paul lobbed the towel into the bathroom, missing the dirty clothes basket by miles, then opened the door to his closet and pulled out a pair of gray pants and a light blue dress shirt.
I stared in disbelief. "It's Sunday, Paul. We missed church. Why on earth are you getting all dressed up?"
Paul stepped into his pants. "Sorry, sweetheart. While you were sleeping, Bailey called. I've got to go into the Academy. There's an emergency meeting of the department at one-thirty. Not sure what's up, but it's something big because the superintendent's legal officer is going to be there."
"Shit."
"My sentiments exactly."
I crossed my arms, rested my head back against the pillow and scowled at the ceiling. Bailey was chairman of the math department. The last time he'd called a meeting like this it was because a final exam had been stolen.
"This can't be good news."
"Nope." Paul leaned closer to the mirror, adjusting his tie. "If it's a compromised exam, then we're screwed. The mids are gone for the summer. We'd have to decide whether to call them back for a retake."
Midshipmen spent their summers sailing the seven seas. Calling them back would require a military mobilization not unlike that of Operation Desert Storm. "Maybe it won't come to that," I said.
Paul slipped into his loafers, then crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He picked up my hand. "I hate to leave you alone, Hannah, particularly after yesterday." He brought my hand to his lips and held it there. "Promise me… promise me you'll keep the doors locked. Promise you won't go anywhere until I get back."
I stared at him without speaking. Paul really thought my life might be in danger! Since I'd seen the newspaper, I felt a little less freaked. The article hadn't mentioned my name, and the picture could have been of any bag lady.
"Hannah?"
"Okay," I agreed. Paul had enough to worry about with his stupid meeting. He didn't need to be worrying about me, too. "But only if you escort me out to dinner when you get back. I have a hankering for some good, old-fashioned Irish stew."
Paul kissed my forehead. "Galway Bay it is. That's one promise I'll be happy to keep."
By the time I crawled out of bed and got myself dressed, it was already one-thirty; Paul's meeting at the Academy would just be getting underway. As I wandered around the house making sure all the dead bolts were in place, I worried about the meeting. Not because Paul's job was in danger-this wasn't one of those one-on-one, call you on the carpet, hand your head to you on a platter kind of meetings. I worried because however it came out, especially if the legal officer was involved, it would mean extra work for Paul and his colleagues.
And if the press got wind of it? I could forget about seeing my husband until the dawn of the next Ice Age. Paul spent most of his waking hours at the Academy already. I would begrudge them even one hour more.
I decided to spend the first half hour of my voluntary home arrest composing a condolence message to Gail's parents. From the newspaper, I learned that Gail had been brought up in a rural town in western Kentucky. A quick search of the Internet provided her parents' mailing address.
I sat at my desk and selected a suitable note card from a packet of all-occasion cards I'd bought at a Naval Academy crafts fair. I chewed for a while on the retractor button of my pen, trying to decide on an equally suitable sentiment. When my mother died, I'd received dozens of beautifully illustrated, well-meaning sympathy cards but only one that had spoken directly to my heart. I combed my memory for the exact wording.
I began with a brief paragraph about how I'd met Gail and how much I had liked her. I mentioned our joint love of sailing. I closed with, "Sorrow is not forever. Love is." And signed my name.
I was rummaging through the cubbyholes on my desk, trying to find the first class stamps, when the telephone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hannah! Oh, thank God I got you!" It was Mrs. Bromley, speaking in a hoarse whisper.