In Death's Shadow

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I didn't ask for much. Just a casual backyard cookout, a small, intimate get-together in a friendly, stress-free environment where my brother-in-law could grab a few beers, sprawl in a lawn chair, put his feet up and forget, for a time, the rigors of keeping Chesapeake County a safe place for its citizens to live, work, and play.

I planned to ask Dennis what to do about ViatiPro later. After the burgers with everything on them. After the corn on the cob, drizzled with butter. After the still warm from the oven, deep-dish apple pie. (From the bakery. Fresh.)

A policeman in the family is an asset, I know. One mustn't abuse the privilege. Rule one: Don't ask him to bend the law for you. Rule two: Don't waste his time with trivialities. Rule three: Don't put yourself into situations where he has to ride to the rescue with a platoon of United States Marines.

I've never asked him to bend the law. Never knowingly wasted his time. Two out of three? Not bad.

So, like I said, it was to be a simple backyard cookout, two Rutherfords and two Iveses, plus Daddy, of course. And after Dennis was relaxed, I'd ease into the ViatiPro business, feeling my way.

But no.

I was dicing celery, green pepper, and scallions when Daddy called, asking to bring Cornelia Gibbs. Neelie was Daddy's girlfriend. How could I refuse? I lobbed another potato into the pot and kept on chopping.

Then my sister Ruth popped in bearing a singing bowl. "Something new I'm carrying in the store."

"Thanks, Ruth. I didn't know bowls could sing." I held it in my wet hands. It was about the size of a rice bowl, and heavy.

"It's made from brass and six other metals. You hit it with this wooden striker." She produced a cylindrical mallet from the pocket of her skirt and gave the bowl a whack. "Nice, huh? It clears negativity from the room, especially before you meditate." She narrowed her eyes. "You have been meditating, haven't you?"

The correct answer would have been no. "Whenever I get the chance, Ruth. Whenever I get the chance."

Ruth smiled semi-approvingly, then turned her attention to other things. "What'cha cooking?"

I had to confess. "Potato salad."

"Oh my God, I love your potato salad!"

It wasn't my recipe, it was our late mother's, but what could I do? The next thing I knew, Ruth was joining us, too, bringing along her lawyer friend, Maurice Gaylord Hutchinson, Esquire. What a perfect opportunity for "Hutch" (as she affectionately called him) to meet the parental unit. Hutch, an introspective, comfortable, reliable man (the polar opposite of Eric, Ruth's ex), had worked his buns off when some turd stole Ruth's identity and she'd nearly lost both Mother Earth, her new age store on Main Street and her sanity.

When Ruth breezed out the door to fetch Hutch, her long, salt and pepper hair streaming like a banner behind her, I tossed two more potatoes into the pot. I kneaded an egg and a cup of raw oatmeal into the hamburger, hoping it would stretch to serve eight.

And I kept chopping.

Paul came home from work around five, bearing a dozen ears of corn and a Box o' Wine he insisted we try. I sent him out on the patio to shuck the corn while I scraped the chopped vegetables into a bowl and took care of more important things: I opened the wine.

With my thumb, I punched a hole in the cardboard box and wrestled the plastic spout out of the hole, skinning my knuckles in the process. This is supposed to be easier than a corkscrew? No way.

I found a glass, thrust it under the spout, and pushed the button. Considering the way I'd tortured the spout while trying to extract the darn thing from the box, it was a miracle that it worked. I watched as the dark ruby liquid filled my glass halfway, then I swirled it around, testing its legs. I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip, for medicinal purposes. My skinned knuckles were feeling better already.

The wine was a merlot. Velvety, according to the label. Lush plum flavors, gently spiced, with a soft touch of oak. Who makes these terms up? Paul and I once went to a tasting where the wines were described as "assertive," "barn-yardy," or even "flabby." I took another sip of the merlot. Definitely not flabby.

When the potatoes were done, I drained the pot, doused them with cold water, and left them in the sink to cool. I grabbed another glass, tucked the wine box under my arm, and headed out to the patio to join Paul.

"Corn's shucked," he said. The naked ears were stacked up like a pyramid on the picnic table next to his elbow, and a paper grocery bag of corn silk and husks sat next to his feet.

I handed him the glass. "Have some wine."

Paul served himself from the box. "Thanks, hon."

We sipped in silence for a while.

"Nice of the weather to cooperate."

I nodded. A gentle breeze was discouraging the average, run-of-the-mill mosquito, and I'd lit citronella candles in small, galvanized buckets and placed them around the garden to intimidate any insects with kamikaze tendencies.

"Do you think I'm crazy, Paul?"

A smile spread slowly across my husband's face. "No, not crazy. But I think you have to be prepared, Hannah. All this could turn out to be some sort of weird coincidence."

"I don't think so. Neither does Daddy. And you should have seen Mrs. Bromley, Paul. She's usually so levelheaded. And she was frightened. Truly frightened!" I paused to take another sip of wine. "In fact, she's so jumpy that she's gone away for the weekend. She's hiding out at a B and B in Chestertown."

He squeezed my knee. "The trouble with you, Hannah, is you care too much. I know Valerie's death hit you hard and that you want to believe her chemotherapy wasn't responsible…"

His words hit me like a bucket of cold water. If my own husband wouldn't believe me… et tu Paul? I covered his hand with my own. "Let me ask you this, Paul. If I died tomorrow, would you say, 'Oh well, must have been the chemo'?"

Paul blinked, clearly rattled.

"You saw how fit Valerie was," I said. “Trust me, it wasn't the chemo."

"Maybe not. But isn't it possible, just possible, that your concern over Valerie's death has caused your vision to be slightly skewed? You've convinced me that Jablonsky and this Steele fellow are crooks… but murderers? Are you sure you aren't blowing things just a bit out of proportion?"

I pressed my palms over my ears. "I'm not listening to you!"

"Okay, let's see what Dennis has to say and go from there. But Hannah?" He pulled one hand off my ear. "At least sit the man down with a beer before you pounce. Promise?"

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Promise."

It should have been a wonderful party.

Daddy arrived first, Neelie on his arm. "Good to see you again, Hannah." She kissed both my cheeks, then thrust a bag of designer cheese straws into my free hand.

"Thanks, Neelie," I said. "You look sharp." And she did, in a bright red blouse tucked into crisp white slacks, neatly belted. Her snow-white hair was parted slightly to one side, pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck and finished with a silver barrette.

Daddy beamed. The man was besotted. The last time he'd looked at a woman that way, it'd been Mother.

I took a gulp of wine and swallowed, hoping to dull the ache in my heart. "Paul's manning the bar," I said, gesturing with the bag of cheese straws. "Club soda and lime, straight ahead."

"Is Dennis here yet?" Daddy asked me as Neelie pushed her way through the screen door and went out onto the patio ahead of him.

I shook my head. "Paul made me promise to give Dennis a few minutes before we spoiled his evening. So if I open my mouth too soon, you may have to sit on me." I put Neelie's cheese straws down on the kitchen table.

"Hannah, Hannah," Daddy said. "I think you were three years old the last time I was able to keep you from doing something once you set your mind to it." He started to follow Neelie, then turned back. "I know it was serious business yesterday, sweetheart. Thanks for trusting me to go along."

"Are you kidding? I would have been lost without you. You were terrific! Academy Award material. Now, shoo! Check in with Paul. I'm sure the charcoal needs starting."

Daddy patted my head and left me to my salad dressing.

Using scissors, I cut fresh herbs into a bowl, added a clove of garlic, and smashed them together with a pestle. I scraped the green goo into a bottle, added oil and vinegar, and shook vigorously. I tasted it. Bleah! Forgot to put in the salt. I corrected the seasonings, shook the mixture again, and dumped the dressing on the potato and vegetable mixture, tossing it lightly.

Through the kitchen window, I could see that Ruth and Hutch had arrived via the side gate. Ruth wore lavender harem pants and a loose, Indian-style shirt. In his business suit, Hutch was overdressed. As I watched, Ruth helped him off with his jacket. Smiling, he loosened his tie and drew it slowly out from under his collar. Take it off, take it off, take it all off, I chanted silently. Performing nightly at Chez Ruth's! Heeeeeerre's Hutch! At least I hoped so. Ruth had been through a long dry spell.

I went out to greet the new arrivals.

"Hutch." I extended my hand. "Nice to see you again."

"Ditto," he said, shaking mine.

"Drink?"

"G and T, if you have it."

I smiled. "I think that could be arranged." I pointed to Paul. "Check with the bartender over there."

"Mind if I smoke?" Hutch patted his pocket. Through the cotton I could see the outline of a pack of Marlboros.

Yes, I minded. I minded a lot. If I had my way, every pack of cigarettes would carry this Surgeon General's warning: Danger: Smoking killed my mother. Do you want to die, too?

"Just not in the house," I warned, already moving away.

I went looking for Paul, slipped my arm around him, held up my glass. "Barkeep, more wine!" He was happy to oblige.

When Connie and Dennis finally arrived, the corn water had just come to a boil. I clapped a lid on the pot and turned the heat to low. "Hello, hello!" Connie caroled as she made her way down the hallway to the kitchen.

She burst through the door, all smiles. I hugged her tightly. "Connie, I've missed you."

"It's only been three weeks," she said.

"I know. But I missed you all the same."

With one arm still wrapped around Connie's shoulders, I extended my hand to Dennis. "Thanks for coming, Dennis. I'm looking forward to talking with you."

Dennis stared at me. "You okay, Hannah?"

I swiped at my eyes, astonished to find that my eyelashes were wet. "Onions," I lied.

Connie shot me an oh-yeah-sure look. "Hannah, what's wrong?"

My face grew hot. Connie and Dennis began to shimmer, as if they were about to be beamed up to the starship Enterprise. "I'm sorry. It's just that the last time I saw you, at the race, Valerie Stone was still alive."

Connie located the tissues in a box on top of the refrigerator and handed one to me, standing by while I used it to dab at my eyes. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

I flapped a hand in front of my face, waving away my tears. "I'll be fine in a minute."

"Here," Connie said, taking charge. With a sweeping glance, she surveyed the kitchen. "Is the potato salad ready?" When I nodded, she said, "Dennis, you take that out and put it on the table. I'll join you in a minute. Is there wine?" she asked me. I nodded again. "Fix me a glass of wine, too, Dennis, will you?"

I'd left my wineglass on the table. Connie picked it up and handed it to me. "Here. Drink this. You'll feel better."

"Thanks." I took a couple of swallows then looked up at my sister-in-law. "It's not just Valerie," I said. I walked my wineglass over to the window. "Come here. I want you to see something."

When Connie joined me, I pointed out to the garden swing where Daddy and Neelie were sitting side by side. As we watched, Daddy said something and Neelie threw back her head and laughed. He grinned slyly, reached out and took her hand.

"I know nothing can bring my mother back… nothing. And I'm happy for my father, I really am. I adore Neelie. But when I see him like that, laughing. Ooooooh," I moaned. "It makes me miss my mother so much!"

Using both hands, I pressed the tissue into my eyes while Connie rubbed my back sympathetically. "I understand, Hannah, believe me. And I'm sure Paul does, too. It's been years since our mother died, but not a day goes by that I don't miss her. Sometimes I think of something I want to tell her and I'll actually pick up the telephone-" She shuddered.

"That's happened to me, too."

Connie stood with me silently by the window for a few more minutes, then took a breath and let it out slowly. "So, madam, what can I do to help?"

I crumpled the tissue and lobbed it into the trash. "Here," I sniffed. I handed her the platter of hamburger patties. "Can you take these out to the chef?"

"Who's cooking?"

"Paul volunteered."

"Just don't give them to Dennis," she warned. "The last time I put him in charge of the grill, he earned the nickname the Great Incinerator."

I laughed, feeling better already. "And can you bring in the corn? The water's ready."

The burgers were juicy, the corn sweet, the pie was like manna from heaven. I'd enlisted Ruth's help-she and Neelie were on cleanup crew in the kitchen-while Hutch blew smoke rings all by himself in the back garden.

All evidence of our recent feast had been cleared from the patio table except for the Box o' Wine, a carafe of decaf coffee, and a plastic tray of cream and sugar. As a courtesy to the kitchen crew, we'd graduated to plastic cups and spoons.

"More coffee, Dennis?" I asked.

He held out his cup. "Thanks."

Daddy looked at me.

I tugged on my right ear. It was our prearranged signal. Time to begin.

With his chair legs screeching against the concrete, Daddy scooted closer to the table. "Hannah and I would like to talk to you about something."

Dennis glanced from my father to me, the cup halfway to his lips. "I think I hear my mother calling."

Connie punched her husband in the arm. "Be serious, Dennis."

"I am serious! When have you not known me to be serious?"

Connie smiled helplessly. "You can dress him up, but you can't take him out."

"Dennis," I said, "we need your advice."

"Is this going to get me into trouble?"

I glanced sideways at Daddy. "I don't think so."

"That's a relief." Dennis looked straight at me.

"But it might take a little time to explain," Daddy amended.

Dennis sipped his coffee. "That's okay. As long as my beeper doesn't go off, I have all the time in the world."

"Have you ever heard of viaticals?" I asked.

"No. What's a viatical?"

And so I began. I told Dennis how I'd learned about viaticals from Valerie, what I found out about the business when I visited Jablonsky, how I took that information to Brad and ended up working for Victory Mutual, and how, eventually, Daddy and I ended up playing dress-up in Steele's fancy office in Laurel, Maryland.

In the flickering light from the citronella candles, Dennis looked puzzled. "So, let me understand this. People are making money selling secondhand life insurance policies."

I nodded.

"How can that be legal?"

I don't know how long Hutch had been standing behind us, listening. He pulled up a chair. "Oh, it's perfectly legal," Ruth's boyfriend confirmed. "First people like this guy Steele were trying to make money from people on their deathbeds. Now they're trying to make money from the people who want to make money from people on their deathbeds."

"And sometimes," Daddy added, "they get greedy."

"Remember my friend, Valerie? She was terminally ill. She was supposed to die within a year. So she soldher life insurance policy to Steele through Jablonsky. Some total stranger became her beneficiary. And then…" I paused and looked around the table. "… she went into remission."

Dennis started to say something, but I held up a finger. "Hold that thought," I said. "Let me fast forward."

I filled Dennis in on what I'd learned from Mrs. Bromley about senior settlements and the missionary work Jablonsky seemed to be doing at Ginger Cove.

"Jeesh," Dennis said.

"Sick," said Connie.

"It gets worse," Daddy added.

On cue, I pulled Mrs. Bromley's list from my pocket and spread it out on the table. "Here's a list of nine people, all of them residents of Ginger Cove." Reading down the list, I ticked them off on my fingers. "Clark Gammel, dead. Tim Burns, dead. Wyetha Hodge, dead. James Mc-Gowan, dead-" I paused. "Of the nine people on this list, six of them are dead. And the one thing they all had in common is that they sold their life insurance policies to ViatiPro through Gilbert Jablonsky."

Connie laid a hand on her husband's arm. "And Hannah's friend, Valerie? Don't forget she died unexpectedly, too."

I drank some more of my wine. “Tell Dennis about Pottorff, Daddy. Enforcer?"

"Enforcer?" Hutch's eyebrows went up.

Daddy frowned. "N-4-S-I-R. That's his vanity plate. Cute, huh? The guy must be a mental giant." Once again he turned to Dennis. "Anyway, Hannah saw this guy in a brown suit, Nick Pottorff, coming and going from both Steele's and Jablonsky's offices, and we don't think he's simply carrying company papers."

I nodded vigorously.

"So, where's this going?" Dennis asked.

"I think Steele persuaded a lot of people to invest in viaticated life insurance policies. I think he used Jablonsky to meet that demand. Then, I think Steele got greedy. People who were supposed to be terminally ill, like AIDS patients on protease inhibitors and people like my friend Valerie, weren't dying fast enough, so Steele hired Pottorff to speed things along."

"We think Pottorff's job was to make sure the policies 'matured' in a timely fashion," Daddy explained.

In the candlelight, Dennis's eyes flashed. "You think Pottorff's a contract killer?"

I nodded. "I think he murdered Valerie, and I think he murdered the people on this list."

"But there'd be evidence-" Dennis began.

I shook my head. "Only if you're looking for it. Who's going to think twice when an eighty-five-year-old man is found dead in his bed? Who's going to ask questions when a terminally ill cancer patient simply doesn't wake up?"

Perhaps it was the wine lubricating my brain cells, but suddenly I knew how it was done. "They were smothered," I said with confidence. "Someone put a pillow over their faces. There'd be signs then, wouldn't there? I saw it on CSI." I leaned forward and laid my hand gently on top of Mrs. Bromley's list. "I want you to dig them up, Dennis. I want you to dig them all up. I want you to look for signs of petechiael hemorrhaging."

Paul, who had been silent until then, finally weighed in. "Hannah-"

But I wasn't going to be silenced. "And I want you to exhume Valerie Stone's body, too."

They probably didn't think I noticed, but I did. A look passed between Dennis and Paul. I'm sure Connie caught it, too. Dennis unfolded his long legs and stood up, walked around the table, and stopped behind my chair. "Come with me for a minute, Hannah. I want to talk to you in private."

With one hand resting on the table for support, I rose unsteadily to my feet. Dennis took my elbow and led me into the back garden where-was it my imagination?-the stale smell of Hutch's last cigarette still clung to the leaves of the rhododendron.

"Hannah," Dennis began when he got me alone. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't exhume even one of those bodies. You seem to forget, I'm a Chesapeake County police officer. Anne Arundel County is not in my jurisdiction." He took a deep breath. "And even if it were my jurisdiction, I couldn't even justify a search warrant with the information you've just given me. I'm quite sure my colleagues in Anne Arundel County couldn't, either."

"But-" I felt ill.

"Octogenarians and desperately ill women die every day," Dennis continued reasonably. "This business about life insurance policies, it's all circumstantial."

"But Pottorff-" I began, tears welling up in my eyes. "The license plate."

Dennis rested his hands on my shoulders. "Sure, there could be a connection, but it's probably perfectly legitimate. The men were in business together, Hannah. Think about it!" His voice softened. "I know how close you were to Valerie Stone, but the police simply can't go forward with this. There's no probable cause."

"But-"

"You're bucking the Supreme Court, Hannah. Rumor, mere suspicion, and even strong reason to suspect are not equivalent to probable cause. We'd need a lot more to go on than a license plate and a hunch."

It was crystal clear to me. Daddy was on board. How could someone as bright as Dennis Rutherford fail to see it, too?

"But how about ViatiPro? And Victory Mutual?"

"That's about the only thing you're doing right," he said gently. "Informing the insurance company the way you did. Let them sort it out with the Maryland Insurance Administration. That's their job."

Although I'm sure he didn't mean to, Dennis's words stung: The only thing you’re doing right. I began to sob.

"Hannah!" he said, and drew me to his chest. He was warm, slightly sweaty, and his shirt smelled of barbeque smoke and Tide.

My head spun, my stomach roiled. I wanted the ground to open under my feet and swallow me. After all I'd done, how could this be happening? Why wasn't Dennis listening to me? How could he let Valerie down? How could he let Mrs. Bromley continue to live in fear?

The breeze freshened, cooling the tears on my cheeks. I pushed my brother-in-law away. "Just go away, Dennis! Go away and leave me alone!"

Reeling, I swept past him, past my guests still seated around the patio table, past Neelie and Ruth as they polished up my kitchen. Somehow I managed to get up the stairs and into my bedroom, where I threw myself facedown on the bed and began to bawl.

Like I said. It should have been a wonderful party. Leave it to me to foul things up.