"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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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.
I was caught in a downward spiral, and if I didn't get out of the house, pronto, I'd cry until my eyelids swelled shut.
I splashed cold water on my face, blew my nose and dried my eyes as best I could, then walked briskly out my front door, down the street to Maryland Avenue. While I waited for Mrs. Bromley, I tried a little retail therapy, but many of the shops had not opened yet, so I was unable to give my Visa card the workout it deserved.
Parking is tough on Maryland Avenue; the street is narrow and cars are allowed on the east side only. When a parking place opened up directly across from the Markwood Gallery, I borrowed a chair from Mimi at Aurora Gallery, centered the chair in the parking spot, and sat down in it, reserving the spot for Mrs. Bromley, much to the dismay of one urban warrior in her monster SUV.
Mrs. Bromley arrived several minutes later, saw me sitting there and grinned. She waved her broken arm, which was encased from elbow to wrist in a cast of bubblegum pink.
"You look spiffy," I said, peering at her through the open passenger side window. "The cast matches the stripes in your blouse."
"Chosen for the occasion," Mrs. Bromley said. "When they change the cast in a week or two, I'm getting lavender."
I glanced into the back of the station wagon. It was loaded almost to the ceiling with canvasses, wrapped in bubble wrap and cardboard. As Mrs. Bromley took the parking space, I moved the chair onto the sidewalk. I patted its seat. "You sit here and supervise," I ordered when she emerged from the car.
"You are a tough taskmaster," she said, grinning, but she sat down as instructed.
"You look tired, Hannah," Naddie commented as I passed her with an armload of paintings.
So, she'd noticed my eyes. I decided not to mention my little spell. "Bumps and bruises," I said. "A little stiff." I rolled my shoulders. "I don't feel much different from the day after I started taking aerobics. All that exercise was probably good for me."
Inside the gallery, I located the owner and one of Mrs. Bromley's art students who was only too happy to help me unload. Once the station wagon was empty and all the paintings were leaning against the walls in a back room of the gallery, Mrs. Bromley came in.
"Oh, let's not do that now," she said to my suggestion that we start unpacking. "I don't think I could make one more decision today, Hannah. We still have tomorrow. Let's do it then."
As we left the gallery, Mrs. Bromley turned to me and asked, "Would you like to get coffee?"
“Twist my arm," I said.
Arm in arm we walked across the street to City Dock Coffee, one of Annapolis's hidden treasures, always a welcome relief from the cookie-cutter sameness of Starbucks. City Dock Coffee occupied an old storefront, and every square inch had been put to good use.
In the display window on the left, burlap bags of coffee, boxes of tea, cups, teapots, and other decorative crockery had been arranged. In the window on the right, the owner had installed a comfortable sofa, slip-covered in a fabric with a coffee cup design. Two people were sitting on the sofa, coffee cups in hand, but they weren't paying much attention to their coffee.
I recognized the girl, or to be more precise, I recognized her shoes. The last time I'd seen that set of red shoes and slim ankles had been from the vantage point of a four-year-old while kneeling on the floor of the ladies' room at
Kramer's Funeral Home. Now, though, some guy with short blond hair had his nose buried in her neck.
"For heaven's sake," I said. "And on a public street no less."
"That's Corinne Winters," Naddie volunteered, "one of my students." She checked her watch. "Corinne was supposed to be at the gallery today, helping out."