But I needn’t have worried about St. George’s, at least not that day. The prelude was glorious, the hymns traditional-a little Ralph Vaughan Williams makes my heart soar-the choir small, but excellent, and the sermon inspirational, delivered as an extra bonus by a twinkly priest with a neat, slightly graying beard. I relaxed, even enjoying the inspired goofiness of Eucharistic Prayer C: “At your command all things came to be: the vast expanse of interstellar space, galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses, and this fragile earth, our island home.”
Island home? My mind wandered, I couldn’t help it. Palm trees, gentle ocean breezes, a little Parrot Head music on the steel drums. Now that was symbolism I could live with.
During the Prayers of the People, I offered up a proper prayer for my speedy delivery from whatever evils might be lurking in the cold, hard hearts of the FBI, reiterated my request during the post-Communion prayer, and in the time it took to play the postlude, I sat, head bowed, praying for the wisdom to know what to do.
After the service, everyone streamed in the direction of the parish hall, but Chris had said she’d skip the fellowship hour and meet me on the steps of the church. I waited there, as instructed, leaning against the iron railing of the handicapped ramp, my eyes fastened on the massive wooden doors.
When Chris came out, I recognized her at once: the tall, reed-thin soprano who had been singing in the back row of the choir. The pink suit, which was actually a particularly violent shade of fuchsia, had been covered by her choir robe. Chris’s blond hair tumbled about her ears in a tousled bob that must have cost big bucks to achieve that casual, just-slept-in look. She’d draped a paisley scarf over one shoulder and secured it with a jeweled safety pin. In unrelieved checkerboard, I looked comparatively dowdy, like a black and white movie. Chris, however, was in dazzling Technicolor.
I’d told her I would be carrying a copy of Newsweek magazine, so I held it up. She noticed, caught my eye, smiled and hurried over. “Emily?”
I nodded, feeling like the world’s biggest fraud by answering to my daughter’s name. I hated to con the woman, but other than sending a surrogate, I was running out of options.
“Let’s go someplace quiet where we can talk,” Chris said. “There’s a Starbucks by the Metro station, near the clock tower? Do you know it?”
“Yes, I noticed when I got off.”
“Right. I have some loose ends to clear up here, then I’ll pick up my coat and join you in about ten minutes. I’ll have a regular coffee, black.”
When Chris found me, I was still standing at the Starbucks fixings bar, sprinkling vanilla powder on my cappuccino. “Here’s your coffee,” I said, handing it to her. “Chocolate chip cookie, too,” I said, pointing to the counter where I’d set down a cookie the size of a salad plate, wrapped in waxed paper.
She peeled the lid off her cup and took a sip. “Thanks. Where do you want to sit?”
I shrugged. “Anywhere is fine with me.”
With Chris in the lead, we migrated toward a table in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Chris slipped her arms out of her coat and turned the shoulders inside out over the back of her chair. I kept my coat on. In the first place, I felt cold. In the second place, I figured I might need it if I had to blow the joint once she found out who I really was.
“Where did you get my name, Emily?” she asked before I could even make a dent in the foam on top of my coffee.
“Jennifer Goodall,” I said, watching her face carefully for any sign of a reaction.
Chris blinked twice, then set her coffee down, using both hands to steady it. “She’s-”
“I know,” I said. “It was a terrible thing.”
Chris stared over my shoulder at something so far away that even the Hubble telescope couldn’t bring it into focus. After a long silence she said, “So, how did you know Jennifer?”
“We met when she came to the Academy.” That was the truth, at least.
“Jen and I were classmates at Annapolis,” Chris volunteered. “After graduation, we went our separate ways, but we met up again at the Pentagon.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Were you close?”
“At one time, yes, very, but not since she went back to Annapolis.”
“Still, it must have been a shock.”
Chris shuddered. “It’s not something I care to think about.” She stared into her cup for a few seconds, then took a sip. It seemed to fortify her. “So, Emily, tell me. How can I help you?”
“Well, first I need to be honest with you. My name’s not Emily Shemanski. I was afraid if I told you my real name, you wouldn’t agree to see me.”
“In my line of work,” Chris said with a small smile, “I’m used to dealing with people who are reluctant to use their real names. With ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell,’ secrecy is the name of the game. Let me assure you that anything you tell me stays with me, Emily. So, tell me, what’s the problem?”
I took a deep, steadying breath. “My problem is…” I paused, backtracking a little. “First, promise me you’ll hear me out, no matter what.”
“Of course I will. I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you otherwise.”
I studied my thumbs for a minute, then looked up. “After I finish, I will understand perfectly if you want to throw your coffee in my face and walk out, but I don’t know who else to turn to.”
“For heaven’s sake, Emily, relax. I don’t bite.”
Taking her at her word, I squared my shoulders and said, “My real name is Hannah Ives, and my problem is that I’ve been arrested for a murder I didn’t commit.”
Chris studied me with pale, almost translucent blue eyes. “Hannah Ives? My God, you’re the woman-”
I reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing hard, holding on to keep her from bolting. “I’m sorry for giving you a false name, but I couldn’t take the chance that you’d refuse to see me.”
For what seemed like an eternity, she stared at me, her eyes hard as winter ice. “Okay, then, Hannah.” She slung my name back at me like an epithet. “Tell me why I should give you the freaking time of day.”
“Because I came all the way from Annapolis to see you, hoping you could tell me something, anything, that might help me figure out who really killed your friend and get me off this great big hook.”
“Seems to me that’s your lawyer’s job,” she said, gently extracting her hand from my grasp.
“Of course it’s my lawyer’s job, but he can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Ives… Ives…” Chris laced her fingers together and rested her chin on the tips of her thumbs. “Didn’t Jen claim that your husband-”
I cut her off. “Yes, but that was lies from one end to the other.”
Suddenly Chris was no longer looking at me, but studying a poster on the wall. “I know,” she said in a voice so soft that I almost missed it.
“What do you mean, you know?” Every muscle in my body clenched. “You were at the Academy then. If you knew the truth, how could you have kept silent? My husband’s reputation was on the line! His job was in jeopardy!”
She raised her hands, palms out. “Sorry. So very sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that I knew about it at the time. It was several years after the fact before Jennifer hinted to me-just hinted, mind you-that there might not have been anything really going on between her and Professor Ives, and by then the charges against your husband had long been dropped. Jen had moved on with her life.”
Moved on. And with absolutely no concern over the boats that got swamped in her wake. The little bitch.
Chris’s face softened, and almost as if she had read my thoughts, she said, “Jen was putting pressure on your husband, wasn’t she?”