This Enemy Town

by Marcia Talley

  I turned in his arms and smiled up into his face. “Not unless you skip town with me.”

  He kissed me, softly at first with his tongue just tickling my lips in the way that makes me crazy. I responded, kissing him back harder, with more urgency.

  “Everything’s going to be all right, Hannah,” he breathed against my lips. “You know that, don’t you?”

  I wrapped my legs around his waist. “I have to believe it, Paul, because life without you simply wouldn’t be worth living.”

  Later, drowning in the luxury of the cabin’s down bedding, with a fire crackling in the fireplace, we made love like newlyweds. And I fell asleep, at ten o’clock in the morning, with the reassuring beat of Paul’s heart warm against my cheek.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sit tight. Easy for Paul to say. I’d been sitting tight all week with nothing but my paranoia for company.

  On Thursday, Paul went out for a meeting, leaving me safely (or so he thought) kneading bread in the kitchen while watching Dr. Phil on the black and white TV on top of the refrigerator.

  “Talk is cheap,” said Dr. Phil. “Life rewards action.”

  I transferred the flour from my hands to my apron and adjusted the rabbit ears on the TV. “Taking action can be risky,” he was telling some blonde with a severe overbite. “But you are worth that risk.”

  I covered the dough with a damp cloth and left it to rise, then turned my attention back to Dr. Phil. “It’s what you do that determines the script of your life,” the good doctor continued.

  “Right on, Doctor,” I said to the TV. I reminded myself to have a word with that playwright. The script I’d been given had been pretty shitty lately.

  Monday, using an old recipe from The Joy of Cooking, I’d put up a batch of bread and butter pickles.

  Tuesday, I made an angel food cake, from scratch.

  Wednesday, I washed, starched, and ironed the kitchen curtains.

  Today I was baking bread.

  I might be earning points with Martha Stewart, I thought, but not with Dr. Phil. “Life rewards action,” he had said.

  I shook a floury finger at the TV. “Okay. I hear you, Dr. Phil, but if that action gets me into any more trouble, I’m gonna throw up my hands and blame it all on you.”

  The only way I knew to achieve a happy ending lay right at the beginning, with Jennifer Goodall. And I was already one step ahead of the cops because I knew I hadn’t killed her.

  If so, who had?

  I washed my hands, hauled out the phone book, and looked her up. Jennifer Goodall had lived at Chesapeake Harbour, an upscale waterfront community near Back Creek, a small tributary of the Severn River that ran into the Chesapeake Bay. I decided to check it out.

  But I needed a disguise. For the past three days my picture had been all over the Annapolis paper; somebody was bound to recognize me. Nobody notices joggers, I decided, but the only jogging gear I owned was none too subtle: blue and gold with a big capital N on it.

  If anybody deserved a little retail therapy, it was me. Leaving my bread to do its thing without me, I hopped into my orchid-colored LeBaron and drove to Annapolis Mall. I parked in the garage directly under Nordstrom and rode the escalator up to the second floor, where a sales associate in Juniors persuaded me to buy an outfit that would have made Emily proud—a bright turquoise Juicy Couture velour hoodie with matching pants. I might be $172 poorer, but Juicy’s slogan was, “Be happy, wear Juicy.” If it worked, I figured I’d be worth the money.

  Back home, I squeezed into my new Juicy, reminding myself it was supposed to fit snugly, and checked myself out in the mirror. Hannah Ives, the turquoise sausage.

  I clapped a ball hat on my head. A sausage wearing a hat.

  I added dark glasses. I was a sausage wearing a hat with dark glasses, but with the addition of the sunglasses, even my sweet, sainted mother wouldn’t have recognized me.

  Wearing my disguise, I drove over the bridge into East-port and out Forest Drive to Chesapeake Harbour, fully expecting to have to talk my way through the gate, but when I slowed at the guardhouse, the turnstile was up and the guardhouse abandoned. Dear me, I sighed. Cutbacks everywhere.

  Once through the gate, I wound slowly around the complex, a labyrinth of three-story town houses with a numbering system clearly designed by a dyslexic builder. It took several circuits before I figured the system out and was able to pull into a visitor’s space in front of Jennifer’s building.

  At the front door, I ran my finger down the buttons on the resident directory until I found the one labeled 3C. There was no answering buzz, of course, and I would have fainted dead if there’d been one.

  I wandered back to my car and looked up, counting floors, trying to figure out which balcony belonged to Jennifer’s apartment. Third floor, to the left, I guessed. I could see a hanging plant, a lounge chair. With my eyes still on the balcony, I backed up and crossed to the sidewalk opposite, where I stood on tiptoes. Through partially opened drapes I could see a floor lamp and a portion of a wing-back chair.

  “Are you lost? Looking for someone?”

  A woman had crept up behind me and was jogging quietly in place. She wore a pink fleece track suit, her brown hair tucked into an Orioles ball cap.

  “Morbid curiosity, I guess.” I flashed her a smile. “Isn’t that Jennifer Goodall’s apartment? The woman who was murdered at the Naval Academy?”

  “I didn’t know her very well,” the jogger admitted. She poked at the frames of her round, gold-rimmed eyeglasses, pushing them farther up her nose. “But, yes, that’s her apartment.”

  Suddenly she stopped jogging and studied me closely, her blue eyes enormous behind the thick lenses. “Who are you?”

  “Emily Shemanski,” I ad libbed, using my daughter’s name and hoping the jogger didn’t recognize me from my picture in the paper.

  “Sorry, you just looked so familiar,” she said. After a thoughtful pause, she added, “You live around here?”

  I smiled. “Just jogging through. I live near Bembe Beach.” I pointed in a vague northerly direction toward a neighboring community.

  She smiled. “I’m Marisa Young. I live in the next building over.”

  I slipped my fingers into the pockets of my workout pants and smiled at her. “Jennifer and I were in the same book club,” I improvised. “We met at her place a couple of times, but it was always at night.” I turned to face Jennifer’s building. “It’s so strange seeing her apartment in the daytime. It doesn’t look like anybody’s touched anything, though, does it? Her furniture’s still there.”

  “Oh, that’s not Jennifer’s stuff,” Marisa confided. “They moved it all out at the end of the month. That hanging basket, barbecue, and stuff belong to the new tenants.”

  “Boy, they don’t waste any time, do they?”

  Marisa shrugged. “There’s a huge waiting list for these condos. After the cops finished with her place …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Who took Jennifer’s stuff, do you know?”

  “Dunno. Her parents, I imagine.”

  “She must have had a lot of friends in the neighborhood.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Jennifer kept pretty much to herself. I sailed with her a couple of times, on the Academy boats, you know. We worked out together on occasion.”

  “Worked out? You mean you jogged together?”

  “That, too,” Marisa said. “But we usually worked out at Merritt Gym over on Moreland Parkway. We both signed up during one of those open houses. After the free month ran out, it got too expensive for me, but I think Jennifer is still a member.” She swallowed hard. “Was.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Marisa patted a chunky thigh. “I should probably give the gym another try.”

  “Story of my life. I used to jog with a friend,” I said, “but since she died….” I turned my face toward the bay, fighting the tears that usually came whenever something reminded me of Valerie, who had died tragically, and too young, leaving a four-year-old daug
hter behind.

  Marisa laid a hand lightly on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about your friend.” She let her hand fall to her side and said, “I wonder if what they said in the paper is true?”

  “About Jennifer?”

  “No. About that terrible woman who killed her.”

  I tried to keep my face neutral. “But didn’t Jennifer bring false charges against that woman’s husband?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And pick a big fight with her?”

  Marisa nodded. “Still, that’s no reason to kill somebody.”

  “I liked Jennifer and all,” I lied glibly, “but she could be a bit driven, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think she was lonely,” Marisa said in defense of her friend.

  “But someone as attractive as Jennifer must have had boyfriends,” I mused. “Did you ever meet them?”

  “She mentioned someone in D.C. she was seeing from time to time, but I never met him.” Marisa adjusted her eyeglasses more comfortably on the bridge of her nose, then began pumping her arms. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, but I better get back to my run.” She jogged a few steps, turned, and jogged backward. “I just hope they lock up that horrible Ives person and throw away the key. Send her to the electric chair.”

  A chill ran along my spine. “I don’t think Maryland has an electric chair,” I told her.

  “Lethal injection, then!” she shouted, and sprinted down the sidewalk in the direction of the community marina.

  As I watched her go, something occurred to me and I jogged after her. “Marisa!”

  “Yes?” she replied, not even breaking stride as I caught up with her.

  “Did Jennifer keep anything at the gym, in a locker or something?”

  “She did.” As we pounded around the corner past the fuel dock, she added, “Jennifer usually went to the gym before work, so she kept her exercise clothes there.”

  “You don’t know the locker number, by any chance?”

  “They don’t assign locker numbers at Merritt. You just take one that’s available and slap a padlock on it.”

  “Jennifer had a padlock?”

  “Yes, a combination lock, and if it’s still there, you can’t miss it. I had to laugh, because it looked so much like everyone else’s that she tied it with a red ribbon.”

  “Thanks, Marisa,” I panted.

  “No problem,” she said, then stopped. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I loaned Jennifer a pedometer,” I said, thinking quickly. “I thought maybe she might have left it there.”

  “Oh,” said Marisa. “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for!”

  “So do I, Marisa,” I told her departing back. “So do I.”

  Merritt Gym was a long five miles from Chesapeake Harbour, down Forest Drive and across to West Street. The facilities were state-of-the-art, I would soon discover, but so were the Academy’s. Why didn’t Jennifer use them?

  Maybe she decided that working out at the Academy would feel too much like going to work early. The Naval Academy was pretty intense. Maybe she needed a break from the place.

  As a faculty wife, I was authorized to use the Academy’s equipment, and I’d tried it once or twice, but all the testosterone sloshing about had been too much for me. Maybe it had been too much for Jennifer, too.

  I turned off West Street at the used car dealership, drove past the turnoff for The Capital newspaper, wound down Moreland Parkway and found a place to park behind a convoy of moving vans.

  Inside the gym, I stood for a moment, taking in the ka-thwup, ka-thwup emerging from the racket ball court and the squeep of tennis shoes on the composite floor, then I turned to the woman behind the reception desk, laid both hands on the counter and smiled what I hoped was a tragic, wistful smile. “Hi, I’m hoping you can help me. I’m here to pick up my neice’s things? Jennifer Goodall?”

  The receptionist looked up, her eyes wide and bright. Then her smile vanished. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “I don’t know. This has never happened before.” She turned, her ponytail lashing her shoulders. “Pete!”

  Across the lobby, a young hunk wearing white shorts and a blue polo shirt froze in mid-stride, pivoted and trotted over.

  “This lady’s Jennifer Goodall’s aunt?” the receptionist explained. “Okay if she picks up her things?”

  Pete winced. “Hey, that’s tough.” After an awkward silence, he led me past the reception desk, down a long hallway. “Here we go.” Pete stood to one side and indicated the door marked Women. “Know where her locker is?”

  I nodded. “Uh-huh. I was here with Jen a couple of times. She gave me the combination. Thanks, Pete.” I smiled wanly and pushed through the door.

  Wooden benches and walls of lockers surrounded me. I groaned. Even if I found Jennifer’s distinctive lock, what would I do about the combination? As I scanned the ranks of lockers, I ran through the information I had gleaned about Jennifer from the Internet—her apartment number, her phone number, her Social Security number, her license plate, and her birth date. If one of those or a combination of them didn’t work, I was doomed.

  I found the lock easily enough, tied with a strand of red embroidery cotton. I nestled the lock in the palm of my hand, studying the three numbered tumblers, feeling unaccountably sad about that red embroidery cotton, wondering if Jennifer had been into needlepoint and how many projects had she left behind unfinished. I tugged on the lock, and to my utter amazement, it sprang open.

  Jennifer hadn’t even locked it.

  And no wonder. There was nothing in the locker worth protecting. A pair of ripe athletic shoes, long past their sell-by date. Blue and gold jogging shorts. A white camisole top, clean and neatly folded.

  I poked gingerly at the shoes with an index finger. Nothing was stuffed inside. I checked the pockets of the shorts and found two pink While You Were Out slips dated three weeks ago. One was from a Midshipman Lucas Judd. No phone number. The other had no name, just a number with the 443 prefix I usually associated with a cell phone. I shoved the slips into my own pocket, closed the locker, and replaced the lock.

  I was about to slam the lock home when a flash-forward jerked me up short. Richard Knowles, the Assistant U.S. Attorney trying my case, standing before the judge saying: And furthermore, Your Honor, Mrs. Ives was tampering with evidence!

  So I left the lock exactly as I had found it. Almost. Using the tail of my shirt, I wiped it clean of fingerprints.

  When I emerged from the locker room, Pete, who had taken over at reception, appeared to notice my empty hands. “Find everything you need?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Pete. Jen must have taken everything with her.”

  “Well, okay then. You take care, hear?”

  I bowed my head theatrically and scuttled out the door.

  “Nice outfit!” he called after me.

  I was still smiling over the compliment when I jogged past a guy in a dark green Taurus reading a newspaper, a FedEx delivery truck, and a moving van executing a three-point turn. Once inside my car, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the 443 number. After three rings James Earl Jones cut it, telling me that my call had been forwarded to an automatic answering device and that somebody named Chris was not available to take my call. Would I care to leave a message after the tone? I certainly would—Who the hell are you?—but when I heard the beep, I chickened out and pressed End instead.

  I tucked the pink slip of paper with Chris’s phone number on it into my purse and headed out West Street toward Route 50. At the Rowe Boulevard exit I checked the rearview mirror for merging traffic and noticed a dark green Taurus dogging my tail. Was that the same car I’d seen outside of Merritt? Was I being followed?

  Nonsense, I told myself. There are hundreds of dark green Tauri. Don’t be paranoid, Hannah.

  The Taurus stuck with me through the detour around the Spa Creek bridge construction, but when I turned left on Bladen Street, the driver continued straight on Northeast. I breathed a sigh of relief
and headed home.

  And just in time, too. The dough I’d left to rise had quadrupled in size, threatening to overwhelm the kitchen. I punched it down—thinking of Richard Knowles the whole time—then separated the dough into two loaves. By the time I’d had a cup of tea and shoved the loaves into the oven, I had formulated a plan to track down and have a word with the mysterious Chris.

  CHAPTER 16

  When Paul returned from his meeting, the seductive aroma of baking bread filled the house, and I was busily whipping up my famous turkey tetrazini casserole—turkey, mushrooms, heavy cream, gruyere and parmesan cheeses, linguini, and my secret ingredient, a dash of Marsala wine, not that paint thinner you get at the grocery store, but the real thing, Superiore Riserva, from Sicily.

  I’d heard the front door slam, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise when he crept up behind me, lifted my hair and kissed the nape of my neck. “Yum. You smell like cinnamon.”

  “You are hallucinating,” I said.

  “Faculty meetings can do that to you.” He inhaled noisily. “God, that smells good. Will the bread be ready in time for dinner?” He leaned over my shoulder, snitched a noodle from the casserole I was stirring and lowered it into his mouth. “Staying home appears to agree with you.”

  I scowled. “That remark is so sexist that I’m not even going to dignify it with a response.” I whacked Paul’s hand with the back of my wooden spoon, then attacked the turkey noodle mixture savagely with it. “On second thought, I want to make it clear that although you appear to be the beneficiary of my staying home—in a culinary and domestic sense, that is—it has not agreed with me, Mr. Paul Everett Ives. I can’t tell you how much I hate being cooped up.”

  Paul’s mischievous grin vanished. “Whenever you use all three of my names, I know I’m in trouble.”

  I waved the spoon, gloppy with cheese sauce. “They might as well have clapped me into an electronic ankle bracelet.”

  Paul eased the spoon out of my hand and laid it on the table, cupped my chin in his hand and tipped my face up to his. “Hannah, you must know that I was teasing.”