Indian Head is a charming waterfront community in southern Maryland, about twenty-five miles south of the Capital Beltway, where Mattawoman Creek meets the Potomac River. I’d visited several times, most recently when my father-a retired naval officer with decades of experience in the aerospace industry-had been considering a job at NAVSEA. “How come nobody’s bought the developer out?” I asked.
“Phyllis says there have been a number of interested parties, but nobody’s come up with the money so far. The realtor thinks they may be willing to sell the club in a separate parcel. Oh, Mom, it’s perfect!” she raved. “It’s twenty-five acres, and right on the water! You should see the pictures!” Emily was in full exclamation mark mode.
Truthfully, I loved to look at model homes and homes under construction. And visiting with the grandkids was an added incentive.
Once I had agreed to go, Emily got serious. “Mom, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Now don’t take this wrong.”
Don’t take this wrong. I knew for sure that I wasn’t going to like what was coming.
“Phyllis doesn’t know anything about your present, um, predicament, so I’d appreciate your not mentioning it.”
I felt as if I’d been slapped, and considered reneging on the spot. “You think I’m proud of being arrested, Emily?” I sputtered. “What do you think I’d say? ‘Good morning, Mrs. Strother. So pleased to meet you. I’ll very much look forward to having tea with you after I get out on parole.’”
“Mooooother!”
“Well?” There was a long silence during which I was left to fill in the blanks.
“Okay. Maybe I’m being silly, but I don’t want anything to jeopardize this deal. Dante has worked soooooo hard to put it together, and Phyllis is soooooo enthusiastic.”
I bet. Even the name Phyllis Strother sounded like it belonged to an astute businesswoman who recognized a good thing when she saw it. Whatever else you may say about my son-in-law, Daniel Shemanski, Haverford College dropout, from shiatsu to rolfing, the man knew his massage. New Life Spa had hired him away from the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs, one of the most prestigious spas in the country. At New Life, nestled in the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, he’d gone on to make himself quite a reputation, attracting a regular Who’s Who of clients, including Exhibit A, Phyllis Strother.
I had no idea what went into running a health spa. My only qualifying experience was the occasional massage that I managed to squeeze in while on vacation.
Thinking about Indian Head, I said, “Emily, southern Maryland is kind of provincial. Do you think there’ll be enough customers who are willing to pay-”
Emily cut me off. “I know what you’re thinking, but the place is growing by leaps and bounds. And the Navy’s got all kinds of things in the vicinity.”
“But what if Congress cuts Navy funding?”
“Not going to happen. NAVSEA’s been there for over a century. Besides, there’s Pax River, and the Weapons Center Testing Facility, and the Naval Electronic Systems Engineering Activity…” She ticked them off so skillfully that I suspected she was reading from a brochure.
“But think about the kids. How about the schools?”
“Charles County has great schools,” Emily claimed. “But for heaven’s sake, Mom, we’re just looking. It’s not a done deal.” She lowered her voice. “Besides, if Phyllis doesn’t like it, the deal’s dead.”
So, early Wednesday morning, I packed an overnight bag, tossed it into the backseat of my LeBaron, and two hours later found myself checking into the only motel in town, a Super 8 on Indian Head Highway, with my grandchildren for roommates. The roommates were my idea.
The green Taurus had followed me as far as the Capital Beltway, but when I turned south on 210, I was handed over to a dark blue Crown Vic. I smiled when I noticed the switch in my rearview mirror. Smooth as clockwork-the Taurus continuing straight across the Wilson Bridge into Virginia, the Crown Vic easing into traffic from the breakdown lane.
After a potty break at the Super 8, we lunched at McDonald’s while the Crown Vic idled in the parking lot, envying us our french fries, no doubt. Then we piled into my son-in-law’s SUV and drove to Charlesmeade with the Crown Vic staying a discreet twenty car lengths behind.
Dante glanced in the rearview mirror. “Who’s that following us?”
“My bodyguards,” I said. “They won’t let me out of their sight.”
Emily turned her head so suddenly I feared she’d get whiplash. “Mother! I thought you were kidding about being tailed.”
“Not kidding. Frankly,” I added, with a casual wave to whomever was keeping tabs on me from the comfort of the Crown Vic, “I’m kinda flattered by the attention.”
“Well,” commented Emily matter-of-factly, “at least nobody will be kidnapping you, not while the FBI is on the job.”
With my shadow bumping along behind, we turned right onto a narrow one-lane country road and rattled along for about half a mile before Dante brought the SUV to a stop in front of a sign, still bright with new paint. I rolled my window down for a better look. CHARLESMEADE GOLF CLUB AND COUNTRY ESTATES, the sign said, 250 SINGLE-FAMILY HOMES. LOTS STILL AVAILABLE! LAND, WATER AND GOLF. IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU’D BE HOME NOW.
“This is it!” he announced. After Emily had read the entire sign out loud to Chloe, Dante eased his foot off the brake and accelerated up the winding drive that led to the club, a sprawling one-story colonial-style building, painted white. The driveway was edged with boxwood alternating with saplings that had been so recently planted, they were still supported by stakes. Dante pulled under the pillared portico behind a black Lincoln town car and a Honda Civic. It didn’t take much detective work to figure out which vehicle belonged to Phyllis Strother.
The minute the emergency brake went on, Chloe unfastened her seat belt and was hot to trot. As I struggled to extract Jake from his car seat, Dante slid open my door and offered me his hand. I hopped out, plucked Jake from his seat, and stood beside the van, holding the children’s hands while Dante helped his wife out of the passenger side. The Crown Vic, I noticed, was idling at the bottom of the hill.
We found our realtor, Guy Winebarger, just inside the club, behind revolving glass doors that had been beautifully etched with sketches of Chesapeake Bay flora and fauna. He was dressed in dark blue chinos, a blue oxford shirt, and a yellow power tie, but in spite of the cold weather, wore no jacket. I hoped he’d left it in his car.
Phyllis Strother, on the other hand, was sensibly dressed for late February. As she approached from the end of a long hallway, I took in her gray A-line skirt, white blouse, and gray and pink boucle jacket under a Burberry raincoat that flapped open as she chugged our way. From her knees down, Phyllis wore dark gray tights and a pair of no-nonsense stacked heels.
“Dante!” she exclaimed. She grabbed his hand, her bronze-colored page boy swinging from side to side with the vigorousness of the handshake. “And this must be your family.” Under her bangs, her green eyes twinkled as she smiled at me, then turned to Emily and shook her hand, too.
“Phyllis, this is my mother, Hannah Alexander.”
Alexander? Emily had used my maiden name. For a moment I stood there speechless, amazed that nobody heard my molars grinding. Was Emily afraid that Phyllis would recognize my name? Call the deal off? If she hadn’t been my only child, the mother of my grandchildren, I’d have flattened her on the spot. Instead, I shot her a look-we’ll talk about this later-and stuck out my hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Strother,” I managed, dredging up some of the southern charm I’d inherited from my mother.