Maybe there was a chance for me.
Paul was waiting for us in Murray’s BMW out on Lombard Street. He grabbed me by the shoulders and folded me into his arms, crushing my nose against his chest. He kissed the top of my head, my forehead, my cheek.
Murray tossed his briefcase onto the backseat of the car. “Take Hannah away for the weekend, Paul.” He handed my husband a set of keys. “These keys go to a cabin on Deep Creek Lake. It belongs to a client of mine. He won’t be using it this weekend.”
Paul curled his fingers around the keys and held his fist close to his chest, as if he were afraid they might disappear. “You sure?”
“Positive. He’s doing three to five years for tax evasion at Allenwood.”
I turned in Paul’s arms to gape at my attorney. “Murray! I thought you’d never lost a case.”
Murray shrugged. “Everyone thought he’d get ten.”
Paul tucked the keys into his pocket, then pumped Murray’s hand. “Thanks, Murray. I can’t tell you how much this means to Hannah and me.”
“Just don’t take her out of the state, Paul, and make sure I know where to reach you.”
Murray gave us directions to the cabin in the mountains of western Maryland. I gave Murray my cell phone number, and a great, big bear hug, too.
But it wasn’t Murray who rang through on my cell phone at “Sweet Shelter,” the lakefront cabin that securities fraud had built at the end of a winding dirt road just outside of McHenry, Maryland. It was my daughter, Emily.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Mother,” Emily said without preamble.
“Hello to you, too, sweetheart.”
“I just saw the Washington Post.”
I fell back on the pillows that formed a mound between my back and the solid oak headboard. We had known it was only a matter of time before the Post picked up the story, but I’d hoped for at least one, maybe two, days of peace. “What did it say?”
There was a rustling of paper. Emily cleared her throat. “‘Annapolis Woman Charged with Murder of Naval Officer.’”
The article was mercifully brief, but the reporter had found out about the hammer, and the sweatshirt, too. “Damn!” I said.
My daughter’s voice rang with false cheerfulness. “You didn’t do it.”
“No.”
In the background I could hear the cartoon channel going full blast. “Mom?” Emily’s voice broke. “Are you okay? Really?”
“I’m fine. Your father is seeing to that.”
She sniffed. “There’s something I need to tell you, then. Dante said I shouldn’t bother you with this, but I said you needed a diversion.”
I could guess what was coming next. I’d heard that tone of voice before, whenever young Emily’s allowance ran out, or she needed $500 for a skiing trip, or just a thousand, please, for a down payment on a car, I’ll pay you back. I plumped up the pillow behind my head, hardened my heart, and said, “Yes?”
“Dante’s put together enough investors to build his spa.”
If I hadn’t been firmly wedged on the bed between pillows, I would have fallen to the floor in shock.
“Emily, that’s terrific news!”
She laughed. “It’s so storybook, you won’t believe it, Mom. Dante has this client? She’s a widow from McLean? She put up thirty-five percent.”
“Holy cow!”
“And you said there was no future in massage.” Emily could never resist a good dig.
Paul chose that moment to wander in from the soaking tub wearing nothing but a goofy grin. He grabbed a piece of toast from the breakfast tray. “Who’s on the phone?” he asked, munching.
I flapped a hand at him, urging him to be quiet.
“And that’s not all,” Emily continued. “Come August, you and Dad are going to be grandparents again.”
Back in the soaking tub with my husband, nestled together like spoons, I learned that Emily’s pregnancy was news to Paul. The spa, it turned out, wasn’t. We were five percent shareholders.
“How can we afford-” I began, thinking of all the equity Paul had just tied up to spring me from jail.
Paul nibbled on my earlobe, cutting me off in mid-whine. “We won’t lose the house,” he said. “You’re not going to skip town, are you?”
I turned in his arms and smiled up into his face. “Not unless you skip town with me.”
He kissed me, softly at first with his tongue just tickling my lips in the way that makes me crazy. I responded, kissing him back harder, with more urgency.
“Everything’s going to be all right, Hannah,” he breathed against my lips. “You know that, don’t you?”
I wrapped my legs around his waist. “I have to believe it, Paul, because life without you simply wouldn’t be worth living.”
Later, drowning in the luxury of the cabin’s down bedding, with a fire crackling in the fireplace, we made love like newlyweds. And I fell asleep, at ten o’clock in the morning, with the reassuring beat of Paul’s heart warm against my cheek.
CHAPTER 15
Sit tight. Easy for Paul to say. I’d been sitting tight all week with nothing but my paranoia for company.
On Thursday, Paul went out for a meeting, leaving me safely (or so he thought) kneading bread in the kitchen while watching Dr. Phil on the black and white TV on top of the refrigerator.
“Talk is cheap,” said Dr. Phil. “Life rewards action.”
I transferred the flour from my hands to my apron and adjusted the rabbit ears on the TV. “Taking action can be risky,” he was telling some blonde with a severe overbite. “But you are worth that risk.”
I covered the dough with a damp cloth and left it to rise, then turned my attention back to Dr. Phil. “It’s what you do that determines the script of your life,” the good doctor continued.
“Right on, Doctor,” I said to the TV. I reminded myself to have a word with that playwright. The script I’d been given had been pretty shitty lately.
Monday, using an old recipe from The Joy of Cooking, I’d put up a batch of bread and butter pickles.
Tuesday, I made an angel food cake, from scratch.
Wednesday, I washed, starched, and ironed the kitchen curtains.
Today I was baking bread.
I might be earning points with Martha Stewart, I thought, but not with Dr. Phil. “Life rewards action,” he had said.
I shook a floury finger at the TV. “Okay. I hear you, Dr. Phil, but if that action gets me into any more trouble, I’m gonna throw up my hands and blame it all on you.”
The only way I knew to achieve a happy ending lay right at the beginning, with Jennifer Goodall. And I was already one step ahead of the cops because I knew I hadn’t killed her.
If so, who had?
I washed my hands, hauled out the phone book, and looked her up. Jennifer Goodall had lived at Chesapeake Harbour, an upscale waterfront community near Back Creek, a small tributary of the Severn River that ran into the Chesapeake Bay. I decided to check it out.
But I needed a disguise. For the past three days my picture had been all over the Annapolis paper; somebody was bound to recognize me. Nobody notices joggers, I decided, but the only jogging gear I owned was none too subtle: blue and gold with a big capital N on it.
If anybody deserved a little retail therapy, it was me. Leaving my bread to do its thing without me, I hopped into my orchid-colored LeBaron and drove to Annapolis Mall. I parked in the garage directly under Nordstrom and rode the escalator up to the second floor, where a sales associate in Juniors persuaded me to buy an outfit that would have made Emily proud-a bright turquoise Juicy Couture velour hoodie with matching pants. I might be $172 poorer, but Juicy’s slogan was, “Be happy, wear Juicy.” If it worked, I figured I’d be worth the money.