Marcia Talley
Daughter of Ashes
Book 14 in the Hannah Ives series, 2015
For Carol Chase
A good friend knows all your stories; a best friend helps you write them.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ernest Hemingway once said, ‘Writing, at its best, is a lonely life.’ And yet, this novel would never have made it into your hands without the help and encouragement of so many generous people. I’d like to thank my amazing team:
My family – husband, Barry Talley and daughters Laura Geyer and Sarah Glass – who support me every day in every way, even when I’m completely lost in ‘Marcialand.’
Crime writer, Kate Charles, for teaching the master class at St Hilda’s College in Oxford, England, where the seed of this novel was sown.
Friend and colleague, author Sarah Shaber, who told me a story at the Sisters in Crime writing retreat in Charlotte, North Carolina that changed everything.
Wally and Hannah Pickworth, who let me hang out at their Eastern Shore cottage on Butcher Creek in Virginia where the plot for this novel was cooked up over crab cakes and wine.
Jeannine Wayson, realtor with Coldwell Banker in Annapolis, Maryland, who in no way resembles any of the characters in this book, but if she did, she’d be dangerous.
W. Edward Hudgins (‘Judge Hudge’) for help navigating and interpreting historic court records.
Linda Sprenkle, fellow adventurer, location scout and long-time friend.
My colleagues in the Writers’ Circle in Hope Town, Abaco, Bahamas and to my partners in crime back in Annapolis, Maryland – Becky Hutchinson, Mary Ellen Hughes, Debbi Mack, Sherriel Mattingly, Shari Randall and Bonnie Settle – once again, for tough love.
And, as always, to Vicky Bijur.
Carl Sandburg, Smoke and Steel, ‘IV. Playthings of the Wind, 12. Prayers After World War,’ 1922
ONE
‘Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.’
The Dalai Lama XIV
In all the years since my diagnosis, I’ve never played the cancer card. I confess to being tempted when Paul was waffling over an opportunity to spend his sabbatical in the Bahamas. Came close when his responsibilities as chair of the Naval Academy math department made him second guess our decision to revisit friends we’d met during his faculty exchange year with Britannia Royal Naval College. But after decades of marriage Paul was tuned into me – almost eerily so. I’d just been thinking I’d toss back my hair in a Scarlett O’Hara kind of way and drawl, ‘Oh, dah’link, I hope ah can get back to England some day before ah die,’ when he fixed me with those bottomless-cup-of-coffee eyes and sucked the thought clean out of my head.
‘Of course we’ll go to Dartmouth,’ he said, brushing his lips against my cheek. ‘Start packing.’
In recent years, I’d begun hinting about owning a retirement cottage on the water. Shamelessly. I’d left brochures out on the coffee table, circled waterfront homes advertised for sale in the back pages of Chesapeake Bay magazine, clicked through to virtual tours on online realtor listings and even dragged Paul along to Sunday open houses in order to ‘familiarize ourselves with the market.’
‘Dream on, Hannah,’ he’d say, holding tight to his wallet, but agreeing to tag along on these outings simply to humor me.
On one such Sunday the previous winter, an agent from Barfield and Williams near Salisbury, Maryland had taken us to tour a three-bedroom, two-bath bungalow perched high on a bluff overlooking the Wicomico River, a property with a waterfront view that made both our hearts sing. Unfortunately, both the listing price and the state of the stock market at the time sang woefully out of tune.
I’d drooled over the open concept living room, dining room and kitchen area, waxed poetic about the screened-in porch and oohed and ahed over what the realtor’s listing described as a charming colonial, thoughtfully updated throughout with crown moldings and windows affording a breathtaking sunset view.
‘It’s my dream house,’ I’d gushed to Paul.
With a sideways glance at Caitlyn Dymond through a fringe of long lashes, he’d elbowed me in the ribs. ‘Shhhh.’ But it was too late. Caitlyn already knew she’d hooked a couple of live ones, so as time went on and the property didn’t sell, the agent emailed us periodically:
‘It’s a buyer’s market.’
‘Motivated sellers!’
‘Make an offer – all they can do is refuse.’
Still, we’d balked.
The following spring, shortly after we’d sprung forward into Daylight Savings Time, I came home from an evening out with my grandkids at Chick-Fil-A and movies at the mall to find Paul sitting at our kitchen table with reams of paper spread out before him. As I closed the kitchen door, Paul looked up, a Cheshire Cat grin lighting his face. ‘I think we can do this, Hannah.’
‘Do what?’ I asked, tossing the car keys on the counter.
‘Buy that house on the Wicomico.’
I took a deep breath, considered what part the three Miller Lite empties lined up on the sideboard had played in his decision and said, ‘You’re serious?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘How come we can afford to do it today when we couldn’t afford to do it last week?’
Paul raised an index finger. ‘Ah, well you may ask. Connie’s been offering to buy me out and, as you know, I’d resisted. But while you were at the movies tonight I called my sister and took her up on her offer.’
Paul’s sister raised rare breed cows and decorative gourds on the Ives family farm with her husband, Chesapeake County police lieutenant Dennis Rutherford. That Paul was willing to sell his half of the farm that he and his sister had inherited from their mother took me completely by surprise. I gaped, breathing slowly through my mouth.
‘I was only holding on to it out of sentiment,’ my husband explained. ‘We haven’t been down to south county for months.’
I pulled out a kitchen chair and plopped down next to him, trying to catch my breath. ‘Are you sure?’
He reached for my hand and folded it into his own. His was ice cold and damp from the beer bottle he’d been holding. ‘I hope the house will make you as happy as it will make me. It’ll be a perfect place for the grandkids. Sailing, kayaking, swimming, fishing. And that long pier…’ He paused, his eyes unfocused, dreamy. ‘Crabbing. Tie a chicken neck to a string, attach it to the dock and ease it into the water. Takes me back. I’d like them to experience that kind of carefree childhood, too.’
Lost in some childhood memories of my own that didn’t involve creative use of poultry, I didn’t answer right away. After a moment, Paul said, ‘So, are you with me?’
I ruffled his tight salt-and-pepper curls and kissed his forehead. ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’