Marcia Talley: In Death's Shadow

Mrs. Bromley's smile was unconvincing. "As well as could be expected, dear."

We were standing on the spotless concrete floor of a modem, three-car garage. Except for the van, it was empty. No tools lined the back wall, no paint cans, no old snow tires, no broken-down bicycles or rusty shovels. A Stepford garage. It wasn't natural.

Pottorff extended an arm and bowed slightly, like a headwaiter about to escort us to our table. "Please, follow me."

With Chet bringing up the rear, we followed Pottorff up a short flight of stairs, through a mud room where winter coats and rain slickers hung on hooks in an orderly row, into an eye-poppingly gorgeous gourmet kitchen. Valerie would have loved this, I thought. As we trooped past a high-tech appliance island, I stole a glance out the window, hoping to recognize the neighborhood, but it was impossible. Nick Pottorff's house, if this was his house, had been built on a heavily wooded lot. Through a thick canopy of leaves I thought I caught a glimpse of water, but I couldn't be sure.

Chet prodded me in the back. "Move along, lady."

Pottorff opened a door next to an antique Dutch cupboard and led us down a flight of stairs.

I feared we would find a dungeon at the end of it, or a dark, dank basement, but the stairs were broad and carpeted, and when we reached the bottom, we found ourselves in a luxurious family room right out of the pages of House Beautiful . A sixty-inch HDTV plasma screen was mounted on one wall, flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. To our right was an extensive bar of carved oak, modeled on an English pub. At least two kinds of beer seemed to be on tap, as well as a wide range of hard liquor, if the number of bottles on display was any indication. A beveled mirror reflected the light from a Tiffany-style tight fixture, and mounted above the mirror was the piece de resistance: a copy of Goya's Naked Maya . From her vantage point over the bar, the Maya enjoyed a view of a massive stone fireplace.

"You have a lovely home." My voice dripped acid.

Pottorff turned and studied me without smiling. "Please, give me a moment." He lifted a key from a hook mounted next to a decorative chalkboard that had "Happy Hour" painted on it, then ambled down a short hallway, at the end of which was a door made of dark wood, inset with etched glass.

I squinted. Curlicues and dolphins, I thought, or maybe they were mermaids. Hard to tell.

Pottorff unlocked the door, turned and waggled his fingers in a come-hither way.

With Chet at our backs to hustle us along, we toddled down the hallway past a glass front refrigerator filled with beverages. Like at 7-Eleven, only fancier.

"Please. Wait in here," Pottorff said, stepping aside.

"Wait for what?" I asked.

"Please." He opened the door wider.

"But it's a wine cellar," I said, stepping with some reluctance into the room.

Nick Pottorff turned to Mrs. Bromley. "Your daughter has remarkable powers of observation."

"And it's cold in here," Mrs. Bromley complained. "We don't have sweaters."

"Wine cellars are maintained at fifty-five degrees," I informed Pottorff. "Like a cave."

"Are you a tour guide now?" Pottorff grinned, revealing a row of crooked teeth. "You aren't going to be in here all that long," he said.

"You hope," added the despicable Chet.

Pottorff scowled. "Shut up, Chet, and get the ladies a blanket."

Chet turned and sauntered down the hall. With his back to us, I noticed the gun for the first time, tucked inside the waistband of his khakis. I felt my lunch beginning to crawl back up my esophagus. Chet returned in less than a minute carrying a red plaid blanket he'd snatched from the back of a leather sofa; I'd noticed it in the family room when we walked by. He tossed the blanket into the room, where it landed on the floor in an untidy heap.

Pottorff left, making an elaborate production of closing and locking the door behind him. The only light in the room came through the glass pane in the door. I managed to retrieve the blanket and drape it over Mrs. Bromley's shoulders.

"Whose house is this, do you know?" she whispered.

"I wish I did. Not Nick Pottorff's, surely. Every time I've seen him, he's been wearing the same brown suit. I doubt he could afford a place like this."

"His teeth need work, too," said Mrs. Bromley. Next to me, she shivered. "Jablonsky, then?"

"That'd be my guess. It's fancy enough for Fishing Creek Farm, although I didn't have the impression that Chet was driving in that direction. Whoever he is," I mused, "the guy's got money."

In the light coming through the glass pane, I could see Mrs. Bromley's worried face. "Help me find a light switch," I said. We ran our hands along the walls on both sides of the door, without success. "Must be on the outside," I grumbled, angry at myself for feeling defeated by a simple thing like a light switch.

Mrs. Bromley spread the blanket on the floor and sat down on it, leaning back against the stout leg of a tasting table that dominated the center of the room. She patted the floor next to her. "Sit, Hannah. Let's consider our options."

To tell the truth, I didn't think we had many options, but I plopped down next to her anyway. We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes while my eyes gradually became accustomed to the semidarkness.

At home, my "wine cellar" consists of six pine shelves that Paul brought home from IKEA and banged together in the pantry. Mrs. Bromley and I were being held captive in the kind of wine cellar you read about in Wine Spectator . I knew that nobody actually owned a wine cellar like this, except movie stars and dot-com kings.

"I'm going to case the joint," I told Mrs. Bromley. I stood and worked my way clockwise around our prison, running my hands along the wine racks like a blind man. They were smoothly polished and made of wood. To the left of the door, diamond-shaped bins lined the wall. When I turned the corner, my hands met more bins, then an alcove that included a small sink set flush with the countertop-marble, from the coolness of it. I reached up. Stemware was suspended from racks mounted overhead; when I touched them, they tinkled like wind chimes. This had to be a decanting table.

I moved on past the decanting table, where there were more bins, mostly with single slots, extending straight up to the ceiling, ten feet or more above my head. Set into a niche near the ceiling was an air conditioner that kept the wine at a constant 55 degrees, as I suspected. Even in the dim light, I could distinguish the two saucer-sized air vents that blew cool air into the room.

Suddenly inspired, I grabbed a bottle by the neck and eased it out of its slot. I stuck my hand into the slot up to my elbow, hoping I'd discover the walls were made of Sheetrock or something equally flimsy, but my fingers met only rough, cold stone.

I plopped back down next to Mrs. Bromley. "Well, that was the grand tour. Now what do I do?"

"I'm sorry, Hannah. This is all my fault."

"Not entirely your fault," I assured her. "I'm the one who lit the fire under Jablonsky, remember?"

I studied her profile, and even though her chin was quivering, I asked her the question I'd been meaning to ask for several hours. "I thought you were staying in Chestertown at a B and B! How did these creeps find you?"

Mrs. Bromley lowered her head and stared at her thumbs. "I changed my mind. I didn't go to Chestertown."

"Mrs. B!"

"I just said I was going to Chestertown so you wouldn't worry about me."

"So you planned to go after Chet with your camera?"

Mrs. Bromley nodded miserably.

I had toyed with the idea of not telling her about Gail, but this didn't seem like the time to begin keeping secrets from one another. "Mrs. Bromley, we're in real danger here." I informed her of Gail's murder, skipping over the details about my finding the body.