Dark Passage
Table of Contents
Recent Titles by Marcia Talley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Recent Titles by Marcia Talley
The Hannah Ives Mysteries Series
SING IT TO HER BONES
UNBREATHED MEMORIES
OCCASION OF REVENGE
IN DEATH’S SHADOW
THIS ENEMY TOWN
THROUGH THE DARKNESS
DEAD MAN DANCING *
WITHOUT A GRAVE *
ALL THINGS UNDYING *
A QUIET DEATH *
THE LAST REFUGE *
DARK PASSAGE *
* available from Severn House
DARK PASSAGE
A Hannah Ives mystery
Marcia Talley
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Marcia Talley
The right of Marcia Talley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Talley, Marcia Dutton, 1943-
Dark passage. – (The Hannah Ives mysteries series; 12)
1. Ives, Hannah (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-437-9 (Epub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8278-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-486-8 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For Susan, Alison and Deborah … and for our sister, Katie,
alive forever in our hearts and memory.
What happens with sisters, stays with sisters.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing is a solitary business, yet it takes a team to put a novel into the hands of readers. With thanks to my incredible team:
My husband, Barry Talley, who agrees that going on luxury cruises is a fine way to conduct research. And it’s tax deductible, too.
My editor, Sara Porter, my can-do publicist, Michelle Duff, publisher Edwin Buckhalter and everyone else at Severn House who makes it such an incredibly supportive place for a mystery writer to be.
Daniel Stashower, who, before he became an award-winning author helping his friends invent ingenious devices like the Turbine of Terror, used to thrill young Cleveland audiences with his act, ‘Dan and Mike, Magician and Clown Extraordinaire.’
Glenn Cairns, Security Officer for ships in the Carnival Line, who taught me how to run a safe, secure ship. If Glenn had been in charge of security on my fictional liner, Phoenix Islander, there would have been no story.
Cliff and Liz Rowe, whose generous bid at a charity auction sponsored by the United Church of Christ in Lovell, Maine, bought them the right to play starring roles in this novel.
My friend, Marie Cherry, for the ‘ah-ha’ moment. When Hannah grows up, she wants to be just like you.
Jim Steinmeyer, internationally-acclaimed designer of magical illusions and theatrical special effects, for permission to quote from his fascinating book, Hiding the Elephant: How Magicians Invented the Impossible and Learned to Disappear, Da Capo Press, 2004.
Once again, my fellow travelers at various stations on the road to publication, the Annapolis Writers Group: Ray Flynt, Mary Ellen Hughes, Debbi Mack, Sherriel Mattingley, and Bonnie Settle for tough love.
To Kate Charles and Deborah Crombie, dearest friends, confidantes and advisors; surely the reason why Skype had to be invented.
And, of course, to Vicky Bijur.
‘The end result becomes a little work of theatre, a play with a simple plot that exists on a fairy tale level. The fantasies of a magic show can often be appreciated in everyday life: causing someone to disappear, becoming someone else, acquiring the ability to escape or walk through a wall. The play might be seconds long or be elaborately written to include a full story.’
Jim Steinmeyer, Hiding the Elephant,
Da Capo, 2004, p. 94
ONE
‘On the whole, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.’
W.C. Fields (1880–1946)
Philadelphia. The Birthplace of America. The Cradle of Liberty. The City of Brotherly Love.
Philly’s only two hours away from my home in Annapolis, but I hadn’t been there since the winter of 2008 when Navy trounced Army 34–0. I probably wouldn’t have visited Philly on that mild day in May, either, or found myself sitting on an overstuffed chair in a restored brownstone near Rittenhouse Square, flanked by my two sisters, except for a bit of Fatherly Love.
And Aunt Evelyn, of course.
Evelyn was the widow of our father’s older brother, Fred, who had died at the Battle of Inchon in 1950. She’d never remarried.
Ruth leaned into me. ‘Look, Hannah. She’s wearing the same outfit she wore to my wedding.’
I’d recognized it, too. A sequinned, ice-gray, gold-fringed tweed jacket and matching sheath that complemented her perfectly-coifed helmet of platinum hair. Her makeup, too, was perfect. Dark lashes, pale blue shadow, a touch of peach blush on her alabaster cheeks. Revlon’s ‘Love That Pink’ – Aunt Evelyn never wore anything else – colored her lips and nails.
‘I helped her pick out that suit,’ Ruth continued brightly. ‘At Nordstrom. Eleven hundred dollars, give or take.’
‘She looks amazingly good, doesn’t she?’ I said.
Georgina, on my left, stiffened. ‘No, she doesn’t. She looks dead.’
We stared at the open casket – solid walnut polished to a high gloss and decorated with antique bronze hardware – where our late aunt lay on a bed of soft, almond-colored tufted velvet.
‘Good for eighty-eight,’ I amended, nudging Georgina lightly with my elbow. ‘And under the circumstances.’
‘Daddy owes us,’ Georgina whispered. ‘I’m here, but to tell the truth, I neve
r liked Aunt Evelyn all that much.’
I shushed her. A shuttle bus from Riverview on the Schuylkill, the retirement complex where Aunt Evelyn had spent her final years, had just disgorged a stream of residents – on the high side of fifty-five and over – onto the plush, round Tabriz that decorated the marble floor of the funeral home lobby. As his sister-in-law’s only surviving relative, Daddy stood at the door, greeting the mourners as they filed by ones and twos into the parlor where his daughters sat on straight-backed upholstered chairs opposite the coffin like a trio of obedient see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil monkeys.
I had to admit that spending extended lengths of time with Aunt Evelyn had always been an act of charity, at least for me. In the early fifties – when the use of tamoxifen and targeted drug therapies for breast cancer lay well into the future – she’d undergone a radical mastectomy. Following my own bout with breast cancer – I’m totally fine, now, thank you very much – Aunt Evelyn sensed in me a kindred spirit, one who would surely never – as had her ever-dwindling circle of friends and bridge partners – tire of hearing lengthy tales about her debilitating surgery, her lymphedema, her phantom breast pain – in exhausting, clinical detail. Even Mother Theresa would have been driven to drink.
‘I have no patience with hypochondriacs,’ Georgina continued, keeping her voice low. ‘If anybody ever deserved the epitaph, “See, I told you I was sick,” it’s our own dear Aunt Evelyn.’
I bowed my head and stifled a giggle.
‘She kept her kidney stones in a glass jar, for heaven’s sake!’ Georgina added, upping the volume.
‘I didn’t know that!’ Ruth chirped.
A woman leaning on a walker swiveled her head in our direction, an artfully drawn ebony eyebrow raised.
‘Shhhh.’ I laid a hand on Ruth’s arm. ‘You were away at college during the kidney stone ordeal,’ I told her. ‘It was pretty spectacular. The pain was excruciating – for all of us.’
‘The doctor let her keep the stones?’ Ruth asked. ‘Gross.’
‘Not exactly,’ Georgina explained. ‘Every day Aunt Evelyn peed into a sieve until they passed. “I nearly died!” she quoted, pressing the back of her hand melodramatically against her forehead. “They were enormous! Big as marbles!” ’
With a gentle hand on the man’s arm, Daddy nudged a blue-suited octogenarian in the direction of his sister-in-law’s coffin, captured the hand of a younger woman next in line in both of his while sending a scowl aimed at us over her red plaid shoulder. If we didn’t clean up our act, there’d be hell to pay at the dinner we planned to have at Parc, a nearby brasserie, following the viewing.
Feeling chastened, I mused, ‘You know, it’s a shame that we only get together for occasions like this – weddings and funerals. I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that there’s always so much else going on that we really don’t have time to visit each other properly. How long has it been since you’ve been to Annapolis, Georgina?’
Georgina bristled. ‘I have four children, remember.’
As if I could forget. When Georgina’s family came down from Baltimore for a visit – a short thirty-five-mile drive – it was like a military operation, requiring a movement order – ten typewritten pages, with appendices. Before I could think up a snarky reply, Ruth leaned across my lap and said, ‘I think there’s enough guilt to go around. I haven’t been the best of aunts myself, but now that I have a full-time shop assistant at Mother Earth, there’s no reason I can’t pop up to Baltimore to visit with you and the kids more often, Georgina.’
I’d been about to elaborate on the amount of time I spend helping to care for my grandchildren – Chloe, Jake, and Tim – while my daughter Emily and her husband Dante are busy managing Paradiso, their luxury health spa, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. ‘I think we should do something special,’ I said after a moment. ‘Just sisters. Just us girls.’
Georgina’s sea green eyes sparkled with interest. ‘Like what?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The idea just popped into my head.’
‘Sisterly bonding,’ Ruth mused. ‘We could use a bit of that.’
Georgina squinted at a wall sconce, looking thoughtful. ‘I know! We could go for a mani-pedi!’
Ruth, our superannuated flower child who had never, to my knowledge, even set foot inside a beauty parlor, let alone dipped her toes into a pedi-spa, grunted.
‘With tea afterwards, and little sandwiches, or …’ Georgina bounced in her seat, looking directly at me. ‘If we asked nicely, do you think Scott would spring for a weekend getaway package at Spa Paradiso?’
Although scenically (and expensively!) situated at the far end of Bay Ridge Drive on a bank overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, Spa Paradiso was only three short miles from my home on Prince George Street. ‘I mean away away,’ I said.
‘The Inn at Perry Cabin?’ Ruth suggested, naming a popular luxury hotel in St Michael’s on Maryland’s eastern shore.
I shook my head. ‘Further away than that.’
‘The Mirbeau Inn and Spa in upstate New York? How about the Golden Door in Colorado?’ Ruth’s encyclopedic knowledge of luxury spas didn’t astonish me, since she had copies of Feng Shui World, Aromatherapy Today and Tathaastu scattered all over her coffee table at home. ‘Ten Thousand Waves in Santa Fe?’ she continued.
Before she could whip out her iPhone and sign us up for some exotic hideaway in the Maldives where rooms start at $1400 per night, I raised a hand. ‘Just so you know, I draw the line at treatments for the extremely rich and insane, like being massaged by snakes or elephants. Or soaking in hot tubs full of red wine.’
Georgina giggled. ‘You’re making that up!’
‘Am not. There’s a spa in Alexandria where teeny, tiny carp nibble dead skin off your toes.’
‘Clearly, I lead a sheltered life,’ Georgina whispered.
Several of Aunt Evelyn’s friends wandered over to extend their condolences, so we squeezed hands, smiled and nodded as the orchestral strains of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ drifted out of the in-ceiling speaker directly over our heads. By the time our aunt’s friends had moved on, the orchestra had segued into a piano and cello duet of ‘Red Sails in the Sunset.’
As if prompted by the tune, Ruth said, ‘How ’bout this? We could take a cruise. Didn’t you and Paul have a fabulous time crossing the Atlantic on the Queen Mary Two?’
‘It was divine,’ I agreed with a grin. ‘So classy. I should have packed my furs and brought along a pair of Irish wolfhounds with diamond-studded collars. And a man servant to walk them, of course.’
‘Must have been nice,’ Georgina pouted. She leaned across my lap in order to catch Ruth’s eye. ‘Scott and I aren’t made of money, you know. And the twins are starting college in the fall.’
Ruth flapped a hand. ‘After that mess with the Costa Concordia, not to mention the economy, which is tanking big-time in case you hadn’t noticed, cruise lines are practically giving cruises away.’ She patted my knee. ‘Besides, we wouldn’t be staying in the presidential suite, or whatever, like Hannah and Paul did.’
‘Queen Suite, you moron,’ I teased, batting her hand away. ‘Paul and I had a plain vanilla stateroom with a balcony on the Queen Mary. Period. Nothing fancy.’
Ruth rolled her eyes. ‘So you say, but I saw the pictures.’ She began rooting around in her handbag. When she thought none of the mourners was looking, she pulled her iPhone out and swiped it on. ‘Last week, one of my customers thought I looked frazzled and needed a break. We got talking about the Caribbean, so she forwarded an email about cheap cruises.’ She tapped a few keys, then used her index finger to scroll quickly through the entries. ‘Ah, here it is. Cruise for cheap dot com.’ She squinted at the tiny screen, used her thumb and index finger to enlarge the image. ‘Where do you want to go?’
I shrugged. ‘Who cares? If we’re going to be bonding, the destination hardly matters. It’s the voyage that counts.’
‘My vote goes to any plac
e that takes U.S. dollars and they speak our language,’ Georgina said.
‘Quite a few cruise liners are home-ported in Baltimore these days.’ Ruth leaned forward, addressing Georgina. ‘The cruises listed here are incredibly cheap. Can you afford six hundred dollars?’
Georgina raised an eyebrow. ‘Probably, but I’ll have to discuss it with Scott first.’
‘We’ll all have to do that,’ Ruth said. ‘Husbands!’
‘What about husbands?’ While we had been plotting our getaway, Daddy had crept up on us.
Ruth blushed and dropped her iPhone back into the cavernous depths of her quilted handbag. ‘Nothing!’
‘Good. I’m relieved. I thought you were going to give me another pep talk about Neelie.’
Cornelia – nicknamed Neelie – was my widowed father’s longtime companion. The Alexander girls – my sisters and I – thoroughly approved of Cornelia Gibbs and couldn’t imagine why our father hadn’t popped the question. It had been more than a decade since our mother died, but we knew from experience that there was little to be gained by pushing the man. There’s not much you can tell a retired navy captain. They’re accustomed to being in charge.
As if to prove my point, Daddy tapped his watch. ‘Visiting hours are over, duty’s done, and I’m starving. How about you?’
I glanced around the parlor, surprised to find it empty except for the four of us and the funeral home director, standing discreetly near the heavy oak door, hands folded, looking somber. And poor Aunt Evelyn, of course, whose last meal before her fatal heart attack had been a chicken cordon bleu served up on a white plate with gold trim in the Riverview’s posh dining room, accompanied by a glass of fairly decent Chardonnay. In the shuffling off this mortal coil department, I figured that was a fine way to go.
There would be no funeral service for our aunt. She was to be cremated, as per her request, and eventually – when Arlington National Cemetery slotted it into their way-too-busy calendar – she would be buried there with her husband, Captain Frederick T. Alexander, U.S. Army, in Section 35.