“I guess I panicked. The cast and crew would be showing up pretty soon, so I ran off the stage and wrapped the hammer in the first thing that came to hand and threw it in the Dumpster.”
“That was my sweatshirt.”
“I know,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry.”
“How can you tell me you’re sorry when you deliberately told the police that you saw me throw the hammer in the Dumpster? I thought we were friends, Dorothy.”
“I don’t know why I told them that!” she wailed, fresh tears cascading sideways down her cheeks. “I get so confused!” She covered her eyes with her hands, her freshly manicured and painted nails a stark contrast to her ravaged face.
I was trying to work out how it was that my fingerprints, and not hers, were found on the hammer, and then I remembered the gloves she always wore to protect her nails.
“Were you wearing your gloves when you hit her?”
She nodded miserably.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up!” Somebody was chanting in a tinny, faraway voice.
After a confusing second or two, I realized Dorothy’s cell phone was talking to me. I must have set it down on the terrazzo after leaving the message for Paul.
I raised the phone to my ear. “Paul?”
“What the hell is going on? I was out sprinkling salt on the sidewalk, and when I came in I heard voices coming in over the answering machine. Hannah, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Paul, so to speak. Did you hear everything?”
“Yes, I did. And the answering machine did, too.”
CHAPTER 27
With Admiral Hart shipped off to Norfolk, Virginia, where the Navy could keep a close eye on him, and Dorothy in police custody, I figured Kevin could use a friend. It had been three days since his mother’s arrest, and he was still at Bethesda, but we heard from Emma that he’d turned his room into a command post and was directing his mother’s defense from there.
“I’m glad Dorothy’s in a hospital,” I said as Paul eased his Volvo into the heavy stream of traffic moving counterclockwise around the Washington Beltway. “I couldn’t bear to think of her locked up in a cell.”
“Dorothy’s sick, Hannah. Cheevers won’t let her go to jail.”
Kevin’s father had recommended a lawyer for his wife, but Kevin turned him down flat. When Kevin asked for my advice, I’d sent him to Murray Simon. Nobody, after all, could be more familiar with the Goodall case than Murray. But citing conflict of interest, Murray handed Kevin off to James Cheevers, his colleague at Cheevers, Tanner and Greenberg, a firm that specialized in criminal law. We’d met Jim once, at Concert of Tastes, a fund-raiser for the Annapolis Symphony. Aside from a fetish for novelty ties—on symphony night he’d been wearing one decorated with cellos—Cheevers was the best, and Dorothy Hart, poor thing, was going to need him.
Paul took the Wisconsin Avenue exit and drove the short distance south to the National Naval Medical Center, the multistory hospital with the distinctive central tower, familiar to millions of television viewers as Bethesda, the hospital that had saved the lives of several U.S. presidents and a goodly number of congressmen, too. Paul flashed his Naval Academy faculty ID for the sentry, who waved us through into the parklike grounds.
Five minutes later we left our car on the second level of the parking garage and made our way across a footbridge into the hospital proper.
Paul took my hand and squeezed it three times. I—love—you.
“Me, too,” I said aloud. “And aren’t you glad you’re not married to a criminal?”
“You know what’s criminal?” he said, punching the Up button on the elevator.
“What?”
Paul stepped into the elevator and dragged me in after him. After the door slid shut, he pulled me into his arms. “What’s criminal,” he said before planting his lips firmly on mine, “is how gorgeous you look even with your arm in a sling.”
We found Kevin on 5C, in a sterile white-on-white room, sitting up in bed with an IV feeding into his arm. Emma was perched at the foot of the bed, while Jim Cheevers, wearing a wool scarf and a tweed overcoat, occupied the single chair in the room that was reserved for visitors. A Navy lieutenant dressed in khaki, her blond hair twisted into a braid and secured with a silver clip, bent over a computer terminal, typing away. I could tell from her collar device that she was a nurse.
“Hi, Kevin,” I said.
The lieutenant turned a dazzling smile on at her patient. “Midshipman Hart, this is your official notification that you are now exceeding the regulation visitor allotment by two individuals.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Aaronson,” Kevin replied with no hint of concern in his voice. “I’d like you to meet Professor and Mrs. Ives, from Annapolis.”
Lieutenant Aaronson grinned, shook our hands, and relented. “But since you’ve come all this way …”
Kevin winked at Emma. “See. She is putty in my hands.”
“Behave yourself, Kevin!” Emma slapped his leg where it rested underneath the blanket.
“Excellent advice, Midshipman,” Lieutenant Aaronson shot back over her shoulder as she busied herself again at the terminal.
Kevin’s face grew serious. He turned to Cheevers, who, we soon learned, had arrived only minutes before us. “What’s going to happen to my mother?”
Jim Cheevers unwound his scarf, shrugged out of his overcoat, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the briefcase that lay across his knees. “She’s been arraigned, but the court has ordered a complete mental and physical evaluation. She’s up at the University of Maryland Medical Center right now.”
I nodded. “That’s good, Kevin. My mother was a patient there. They couldn’t have been more wonderful.”
“Have the doctors found anything yet?” Kevin asked.
Cheevers’s flyaway salt and pepper eyebrows hovered over his eyes, round and dark as chocolate drops. He nodded.
I was almost afraid to ask. “Is it the cancer?”
“No, something else entirely. Because of the migraines, the confusion, the problems she was having from time to time with her coordination, the doctors suspected that something was putting pressure on her brain.”
Kevin’s good eyebrow shot up. “A tumor?”
“Because of her medical history, they suspected a tumor, of course,” Cheevers said, “but the MRI showed no evidence of that. They did find something else, though. Your mother may be suffering from normal pressure hydrocephalus, which in spite of the name, isn’t normal at all. In layman’s terms, it’s an abnormal buildup of cerebrospinal fluid in the ventricles of the brain. The fluid is often under pressure and can compress the brain, causing all kinds of difficulties.”
“Are you talking about water on the brain?” I wondered. “I thought that happened with babies.”
Jim Cheevers nodded. “Exactly. But the disease can occur in adults, too.”
Lieutenant Aaronson stepped away from the monitor. “Excuse me for interrupting, Mrs. Ives, but I think I can respond to that. We don’t know why, but this condition is becoming increasingly common with older adults. And if you’ll allow me to climb up on my soap box for a moment, it’s very often misdiagnosed as senile dementia or even Alzheimer’s disease because of the symptoms. We get it with the veterans all the time.”
“What kind of symptoms?” Paul wanted to know.
Lieutenant Aaronson ticked them off on her fingers. “Headaches, nausea, vomiting, blurred vision, fatigue, irritability, incontinence, personality changes, and problems with coordination. In advanced stages, it can even cause paranoia.”
I couldn’t believe it. Dorothy Hart was a textbook case, a poster child for the disease. We’d mistaken her symptoms for the side effects of chemo. “Can it be treated?” I asked the nurse.
“It’s amazingly simple. Doctors install a shunt in the brain that lets the excess fluid drain away, thereby relieving the pressure.”
“So Mom will be cured? Once a shunt is installed she’ll be comp
letely normal?”
Lieutenant Aaronson nodded. “More than likely, she’ll be completely normal.”
Normal. Everyone in the room kept silent while the significance of that word sank in. How could anything be normal when you were being accused of murder?
After Lieutenant Aaronson left the room, Cheevers got to his feet and approached Kevin’s bed. “She’ll plead not guilty by reason of insanity.”
Kevin nodded.
“We’ll waive a jury trial,” Cheevers continued. “We’ll let the judge decide, but, yes, I believe she’ll be acquitted.”
“Do you think Mom will have to spend any time in jail?”
“A hospital, maybe, but just until the court determines that she’s no longer a danger to herself or to society.”
Kevin relaxed against his pillow. “Good. That’s good.”
“Not so fast, young man.” Jim Cheevers raised a cautionary hand. “There’s still the matter of the attack on Hannah.”
I flashed back to the time I had spent in the jail cell, the hours that dragged on like eternity, and I didn’t wish it on anyone, especially someone who had been legally insane at the time. “I’m not going to press charges.”
“You may have no choice, Hannah,” Cheevers interrupted.
“It was an accident,” I insisted. “Dorothy and I were dismantling the sets, she dropped the box cutter and it fell on my arm.” I glanced from my husband to Dorothy’s lawyer, searching their somber faces for any sign of support. “That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”
Paul’s mouth gave a twitch of a smile. “Right.”
Cheevers adjusted his tie, a masterpiece in bright blue, decorated with battleships, circa World War II. “An accident.”
That “accident” had required fifteen stitches. With my bandaged arm, I saluted Kevin’s bandaged cheek. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”
Kevin grinned.
“How’s the eye, Kevin?” Paul asked.
“Absolutely A-okay, Professor. The antibiotics are doing their thing. The IV comes out today, then I’ll have to take pills for a while.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “The doctor says the eye will be good as new.”
“I was thinking,” Emma said from her perch at the foot of Kevin’s hospital bed. “It’s just like Sweeney Todd.”
Cheevers, who hadn’t seen the musical, asked, “In what way?”
“Well, you know at the end, where Sweeney kills the poor, mad beggar woman he didn’t recognize as his wife? Kevin’s mother spiked Adam’s Dr Pepper, thinking that he’d be drinking it, but she ended up drugging Kevin instead.”
Emma was right, I thought. Sweeney was blinded by revenge, and in the end destroyed the one person in the world that his poisoned heart still loved. And Dorothy? In her obsession over her son’s career, she nearly took it from him.
I stepped forward and joined the huddle of people gathered around Kevin’s bed. “Kevin, I’ve been puzzling over something. On the day of the matinee, you went to Mahan, drank the Dr Pepper, went down to the makeup room and then went out and got in your car. What the heck did you do that for?”
Kevin smiled. “It sounds a bit weird, doesn’t it? It’s like this. I was eating Sunday dinner at my sponsors’ when I got the call that I’d be going on in Adam’s place, so I high-tailed it over to Mahan and got into the Beadle’s costume.”
“It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” another voice interrupted. Professor Medwin Black, swathed against the February cold in wool from head to foot, bustled into the room, instantly bringing Kevin’s visitor count to three over quota. “You may recall that Adam Monroe played the Beadle bald. We had such a good bit of stage business going with it that I insisted Kevin wear a pate.”
“Pate?” Paul’s handsome brow wrinkled attractively.
“A bald wig,” Kevin explained. “We couldn’t get it to fit right,” he said, continuing the story. “I looked like a kid wearing a Halloween costume from Kmart, so I said the hell with it, I’ll just go back to the Hall and shave my head. That’s where I was going when the wall ran into me.”
Emma rested her hands on her hips. “So, how come you drank Adam’s soda, Kev?”
“I figured if I had his part, I could have his stupid soda, too.”
“I’m glad you didn’t shave your head, Kevin,” Emma said, giving him a sisterly peck on the cheek.
“I don’t know about that.” Kevin grinned. “Simone might find it very attractive.”
“Who’s Simone?” I asked.
“My nurse. She’s hot.”
I remembered the attractive blonde who had just left the room after recording Kevin’s vitals, and although I suspected my advice might fall on deaf ears, I said, “Kevin! You can’t date a lieutenant. She outranks you.”
“My God, Kev, they’ll fry you for frat!”
“What she said,” I agreed, pointing a finger at Emma.
Kevin threw me an exaggerated wink. “If you don’t ask, Mrs. Ives, I will never, ever tell.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the real-life Pair-o-Docs—Barry Talley and David White—who together have produced musicals that have thrilled, delighted, and astonished Annapolis audiences for two decades. Thanks for agreeing to go on sabbatical for the duration of this book so those two other guys could direct Sweeney Todd.
To Helen Arguello for help building sets, and Ensign Paul Wood, USN, producer of the 2004 Glee Club musical and backstage guide extraordinaire. From the dressing rooms below to the dizzying heights of Mahan Hall’s amazing clock tower … ooooh, thanks, especially for manning the camera while I was cowering on the balcony. And to Randy Martell, who has all the keys.
To Vice Admiral Ronald A. Route, Naval Inspector General, for advice on Navy policy and procedure; Capt. Keith Bowman, USN, who responded to my request for information by inviting me on a tour of the Pentagon; Lt. Jonathan Glass, MC, USNR, for valuable help with the medical bits; and Special Agent Marina Murphy, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Annapolis Regional Authority, who answered a bazillion questions about FBI investigations. If I got it wrong, it’s my mistake, and not theirs.
I have been overwhelmed by the generous outpouring of support from my Naval Academy friends—midshipmen, faculty and staff, both past and present. I based all the cool characters on you, of course. The rotten ones I made up.
To friend and fellow mystery author, Donna Andrews, who was nearly arrested while checking out a location for me in Fairfax, VA. Be careful where you point your camera, and of course I would have bailed you out! Does Homeland Security take VISA?
To Luci Zahrey, the “Poison Lady” who would be very, very dangerous should she ever turn to crime.
To my writers groups—Sujata Massey, John Mann, Janice McLane, and Karen Diegmueller, in Baltimore, and Janet Benrey, Trish Marshall, Mary Ellen Hughes, Ray Flynt, Sherriel Mattingly, and Lyn Taylor, in Annapolis—for tough love.
To my amazing editor, Sarah Durand; her can-do assistant, Jeremy Cesarec; to my publicist, Danielle Bartlett, and everyone at Harper Collins who makes it such an incredibly supportive place for a mystery writer to be.
To my web diva and lunch buddy, Barbara Parker. Come see what Barbara can do at www.marciatalley.com.
To Marisa Young and James Cheevers, whose generous bids at charity auctions sponsored by Malice Domestic, Inc. and the Friends of the Annapolis Symphony Orchestra, respectively, bought them the right to be characters in this book.
And to Kate Charles and Deborah Crombie—Plot Fest Forever! And, when are we going to do another one?
About the Author
MARCIA TALLEY is the author of four previous books featuring Hannah Ives. A winner of the Malice Domestic writing grant and an Agatha Award nominee for Best First Novel, Ms. Talley won an Agatha and an Anthony Award for her short story “Too Many Cooks.” She is the editor of two mystery collaborations, and her short stories have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies. She lives with her husband in Annapolis, Maryland. You can vi
sit her website at www.marciatalley.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Resounding praise for Agatha and
Anthony Award winner
MARCIA TALLEY
and
HANNAH IVES
“Hannah Ives is an appealing, believable heroine who would rather face a killer than her own post-cancer emotions, and Marcia Talley perfectly catches her ambivalence.”
Margaret Maron
“[Characters] so real they must exist somewhere beyond the page.”
Anne Perry
“Talley’s thoughtful handling of Hannah’s bout with breast cancer and the emotional and physical recovery … add depth … [Her] characters shine.”
Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“A writer and a character we want to see again—and soon.”
Washington Times
“[Her] characters are well drawn and the dialogue sparkles.”
Baltimore Sun
“Hannah Ives is a welcome addition to the mystery landscape.”
Laura Lippman
Other books by Hannah Ives Mysteries from Marcia Talley
IN DEATH’S SHADOW
OCCASION OF REVENGE
UNBREATHED MEMORIES
SING IT TO HER BONES
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THIS ENEMY TOWN. Copyright © 2005 by Marcia Talley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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