I grabbed a cup of coffee in the staff area of the library, then retreated to the quiet room at the southeast corner of the main floor that served as my office. Since she hadn't called me, I would call her.
"How about that title?" I asked the author after the usual pleasantries.
Mrs. Bromley moaned. "I'm simply no good with titles, Hannah. It's a sad, sad truth, but my publishers always picked them for me."
"There's a review here somewhere," I said. "It describes you as… just a minute." I scrabbled around in the folder marked Reviews. "Ah, here it is. 'She is the consummate wordsmith,'" I read, "'whose writing style always has touches of poetry even when her subject is greed, power, murder, and retribution-and, as in Death Be Not Proud, the story of one woman's search for justice.'" I paused. "I am so disillusioned!"
Mrs. Bromley laughed. "How about 'The Collected Short Stories of L. K. Bromley,' then?"
"Borrrrrr-ing!" I paused for a moment. "You are a writer," I chided. "Words are your business."
"They've dried up, I'm afraid. When I traded in my pen for a paintbrush, Hannah, something happened. I'm having a hard time even remembering names."
"They say the proper nouns are the first to go," I chirped, regretting the words the instant they fell out of my mouth.
"That's supposed to be reassuring?" She chuckled, so I knew she hadn't taken it the wrong way. "So, Hannah, what do 'they' say about looking at your wristwatch and calling it a clock. I did that yesterday." She sighed. "Even the common nouns are deserting me. Discouraging."
"Noun deficiency anemia?" I quipped.
She laughed. "Yes, you might say that. Perhaps I should take up crossword puzzles. Use it or lose it, you know."
I doubted Mrs. Bromley had time for crossword puzzles. For the past year she'd been teaching art classes at Anne Arundel Community College three days a week. This semester, I knew, it was watercolors. Her students adored her.
"Okay, Mrs. B. Let's use it," I prodded. "First, I think we've got enough stories for two collections. Thirteen stories each."
"Really?" she said. "I'm amazed I wrote that many."
"More," I told her. "This is just the cream of the crop."
We batted titles around for a while, each more ridiculous than the last, before settling on "Maryland Is Murder" and "Chesapeake Crimes," the Collected Short Stories of L. K. Bromley, Volumes One and Two, respectively. We laughed, agreeing that the publisher would probably change the title anyway, to something more sexy, like "Bra Full of Bullets," and put a cartoon of a French maid blowing smoke off a revolver on the cover, but at least I'd checked one more thing off my To Do list.
Around four o'clock I took a break and brewed myself a cup of tea. Tina, the student aide, had just brought a copy of The Capital into the staff lounge. She checked the show times for movies at Annapolis Mall, then slid the newspaper toward me across the table.
Sipping my tea, I scanned the headlines. I don't know why I bothered. The SARS epidemic was still raging in the Far East, U.S. and British forces were still under fire in Iraq. Construction was still tying up traffic on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Depressing. With my cup to my lips, I turned the pages, checking the local news, gradually making my way back to the Letters to the Editor, which in our town were usually good for a laugh.
Since my recovery, I didn't normally read the obituaries. Too depressing, like Iraq. Three years to live, I'd think, if the deceased were older than me or, Whoops, should have been dead five years ago, if not. I hadn't any intention of reading the obituaries that day, either, but while skimming an article about a brave local dog that had lost his leg to cancer, a picture halfway down the right-hand side of the page caught my eye. A woman who looked a lot like Valerie Stone. Fuller face, though, and longer hair.
I stared at the picture, hard. I set my cup down unsteadily, sloshing hot tea all over the table. It looks like Valerie Stone because it is Valerie Stone, you idiot! I started to hyperventilate.
No, I told myself. It can't be Valerie. You just talked to her!
I folded the paper until I was staring at the headlines again. I counted slowly to ten, breathing deeply. Maybe I'd dreamed it.
But when I opened the paper to the obituaries again, there she was: Valerie Padgett Stone. On Monday, June 9, after a long battle with cancer. There was more, of course, about her father, the Honorable Fletcher J. Padgett of Saddle River, New Jersey. About the family receiving visitors on Friday at Kramer's Funeral Home. Something about in lieu of flowers that seemed to separate into individual letters that swam around the page, rearranging themselves like Scrabble tiles until they lost all meaning.
I blinked, eyes dry, too stunned, I think, to cry. Valerie can't be dead! We're going running tomorrow! I pictured Valerie as I'd seen her on Saturday, smiling at me and waving from the doorway of her beautiful new home, holding Miranda, who was sound asleep, in her arms.
Not Valerie, who could run a mile in six minutes flat. Not Valerie with her yoga-in-the-morning-Pilates-in-the-afternoon body. Not Valerie. No way. Valerie was in perfect health.
Still in denial, I scurried to my office and dug my cell phone out of my purse. I stared at the buttons for a while, then paged through my phone book until VAL-CELL appeared in the lighted window. I'll call her, I thought. She'll pick up.
But deep down I knew she wouldn't. I threw myself into my chair and dialed Paul at his office instead. It wasn't until I heard his cheerful voice saying "Ives" that I came completely unglued. "Valerie died!"
"What? Hannah, calm down! I can't understand a word you're saying."
"It's Valerie!" I sobbed. "Valerie Stone is dead."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Paul didn't want me to go to the funeral home alone. Or so he said. Then he smiled with sad cocker spaniel eyes, like a boy whose trip to Disney World was about to be spoiled by an airline strike. No way / was going to ruin his precious sailboat race!
"Go! Shoo! Scat!" I said, flapping my hand at him for emphasis.
I wanted, no, needed Paul to be on his way. In the two days that had passed since we learned of Valerie's death, he'd been smothering me with attention. You'd think he'd been assigned to suicide watch.
"Valerie was my friend, not yours," I reminded him.
He opened his mouth to protest, but I closed it with a kiss. If he said one more comforting, oh-so-understanding thing to me about Valerie, I knew I'd break down and start bawling again.
"Besides," I added a moment later, reaching up to ruffle his hair, "it'd be embarrassing to have you moping about the funeral home with a bumper sticker pasted to your forehead that says, 'I'd Rather Be Sailing.'"
After Paul had set off for the Annapolis Yacht Club, I put away my cheerful smile and dragged myself up to the bedroom. I stared into my closet-could have been minutes, could have been hours-grieving over Valerie, worrying about Miranda, and wondering about Brian.
No one could make me believe that Valerie had died of natural causes. But if I followed that thought to its logical conclusion…
I shivered. The husband was always suspect. But what could Brian's motive have been? Valerie's insurance money was long gone: the house, cruise, and car were proof of that. Besides, Valerie had died on Monday. Didn't Valerie tell me Brian would be out of town that day?
I sat down, hard, on the edge of the bed. I frowned. That meant Miranda…
Please, God, don't tell me Miranda found her mother's body! My eyes filled with tears for the third time since morning, and I scurried into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. In mid-splash I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and wished I hadn't. Puffy eyelids, bloodshot eyes with purplish pouches underneath. If I knew a makeup artist, I'd be using the emergency entrance.