Marcia Talley: In Death's Shadow

"I don't even know his last name," I said as I set the container of half and half on the table.

"Whose name?"

"That gardener, Chet."

"He goes by Laidlaw," Dennis told me. "But he's got a record in Louisiana under Charles Lewis, the name his own sweet mama gave him."

"So, what's happening with those creeps?" I asked, sitting down.

"There's a whole lot of speechifying and finger-pointing going on, and that's just the lawyers!" He grinned. "It'll take Tracey and his crew a couple of days to sort it all out, but Chet Laidlaw's been a busy boy, implicating Pottorff and Jablonsky in the murders. They've got Laidlaw dead to rights on the shooting of Gail Parrish. The slug we took out of her body matches the gun he was carrying. As for the others." He held out his cup for a re-fill. "Tracey's getting an exhumation order for Clark Gammel and Tim Burns. After that, we'd see."

"Chet Laidlaw admitted to smothering those people," I reminded him. "So, what are they looking for?"

"If they were burked, there'd be petechiael hemorrhages in the eyes, perhaps some blue-hued congestion about the face and neck caused when blood with a low oxygen content got trapped above their lungs."

"Oh," I said simply, thinking again about Valerie and being almost sorry I asked.

"How about Steele?" my father wanted to know. "He's the one I want to see behind bars."

Dennis sipped his coffee. "Well, Jablonsky is pointing the finger back at Steele and being quite forthcoming in describing their joint role in a multistate viatical investment scam."

Daddy shook his head. "But I still don't understand why Jablonsky wanted Valerie Stone, Gammel, that Burns fellow, and all those others dead. Jablonsky already sold their policies. It was Steele and his investors who stood to gain by their deaths."

"I think I can answer that question," I said. I'd spent the afternoon with Donna Hudgins and Harrison Garvin at Victory Mutual, briefing them on my report. It had turned out to be a very interesting meeting.

"At first," I said, "Steele either didn't know or didn't care that the policies he was buying from Jablonsky were bogus. Steele was under pressure to purchase more policies for the investor money that kept pouring in, some of which he used not to buy policies, but to support his lavish lifestyle."

"Lavish," my husband remarked. "That's putting it mildly."

"Opulent, then." I gave Paul a friendly punch in the arm. "So, when some of Steele's investments turned sour and a significant percentage of ViatiPro's policy portfolio was rescinded by the insurance companies that issued them, it put a serious crimp in his cash flow."

"He would be facing ruin," Daddy interjected.

"Exactly. I figure Steele threatened Jablonsky. Either Jablonsky could arrange for the legitimate policies he sold ViatiPro to 'mature' or Steele would blow the whistle on him."

"Enter Nicholas Pottorff and his good little Do-Bee, Chet Laidlaw," Daddy said.

During the whole course of our conversation, something Dennis hadn't mentioned kept nagging at me.

"Dennis, you haven't said anything about Valerie Stone."

Dennis leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Hannah, Laidlaw has copped to the murders of Gail and all those folks out at Ginger Cove, but he insists he had nothing to do with any 'Hillsmere broad.'"

"I can't believe you're telling me this! He must have done it! It can't be just a coincidence!" I shook my head angrily. "Absolutely no way!"

Dennis waited for me to finish sputtering before he continued. "Anne Arundel County is working with the New Jersey D.A. for an exhumation order, but Valerie's family is throwing up road blocks. Eventually I think they'll allow the exhumation rather than put up with all the negative publicity, but so far they're adamant. Nobody's going to dig their daughter up."

"This is ridiculous! I'm going to call Brian. He'll talk some sense into those in-laws of his."

Dennis shook his head. "It's my understanding that Brian Stone doesn't want the exhumation, either."

That was odd. If Paul died unexpectedly, I'd demand an autopsy. If someone were responsible, I'd sure as hell want to know about it.

I'd been waving my fork in the air. Before I put somebody's eye out, Dennis grabbed my hand and pushed it down on the table. "Let the police do their work, Hannah. Trust me, they know what they're doing."

I scowled at my brother-in-law. Maybe the police knew what they were doing and maybe they didn't, but either way, I couldn't see any reason why I shouldn't talk to Brian Stone. I'd call him. First thing in the morning.

Brian was avoiding me. He didn't return my phone calls. My e-mails went unread.

I was taking it personally, working myself up to a full-blown sulk until I telephoned Kathy Carpenter. "Oh, Brian's been away," his next door neighbor told me. "He's in New Jersey, visiting with Miranda."

So, Brian had gone over to the Dark Side. I decided to wait until he returned to Annapolis before tackling him about Valerie. After hobnobbing with the country club set, it'd take about a week of beer and crab cakes to deprogram him.

Besides, I'd volunteered to help Mrs. Bromley with her art show, and the day was fast approaching. Naddie had promised to call with details, but I still didn't know much more than what I'd read on the postcard I'd received in the mail. Saturday, eleven to four, Markwood Gallery, Maryland Avenue. And it was Thursday already.

Considering Naddie's broken arm, I was wondering if the show was still on.

"Hey, Naddie," I said when she answered my telephone call. "Sorry to bother you when you must be so busy, but isn't your show this weekend?"

"So it is, and I'm so glad you called! Didn't you say, in some rash moment, that you wouldn't mind helping me out?"

"It wasn't a rash moment, and I don't mind a bit. So, are you feeling okay?"

"Much better, thanks."

Naddie had prevailed upon the local Ginger Cove talent to load the paintings into her station wagon, but needed help unloading the paintings once she got to Markwood Gallery.

"Sure, just tell me what time and I'll be there."

"How about an hour?"

I laughed. "When were you going to call me? When you pulled out of the parking lot?"

"Well, the last time I saw you, you looked a little the worse for wear."

"I still do, thank you very much, but I'm feeling fine. See you in about an hour."

I was bored, and restless, and a little bit glum. As I puttered around the kitchen I turned the radio to WBJC, but it's hard to sing along to Bach, and the Barber "Adagio for Strings" made me feel like jumping off the Bay Bridge, so I switched to WINX Shore Country radio. Stompin' songs from Jimmy Buffett, Alabama, and the Soggy Bottom Boys can perk me up every time.

I was polishing the copper bottoms on my pots when they started playing selections from a Dixie Chicks album. I wasn't very familiar with the Dixie Chicks, but I was really getting into the twangy guitar and the plunky mandolin that introduced the song. Then I froze. Natalie Maines was covering "Landslide," a Stevie Nicks hit from the Fleetwood Mac album that Valerie and I had loved.

"Can I sail thru the changing ocean tides," Natalie crooned. Instinctively, I opened my mouth to sing along, but nothing came out but a strangled whimper. How many times had we sung those words together, Valerie and I, harmonizing on the "uh, uhs" and "well maybes," wondering if, like the singer, we'd survive to grow older, too? I sat down at my kitchen table, wet hands and all, and started to bawl. I felt like the landslide the Chicks were singing about had brought us all down.

My heart ached for Brian and Miranda. I cried for the wedding that Valerie would never see. I wept for the sailboat that Gail would never sail. I wept for my lost breast, all kidnapped children, and the AIDS-afflicted people of Africa.