Occasion of Revenge Page 5

  I watched Emily skip upstairs with Chloe’s head bobbing joyfully over her shoulder. Two minutes later I heard the bath water running. While Paul put the kettle on to boil for tea, I slipped a selection of Christmas CD’s into the changer and happily unwrapped and hung our collection of ceramic angels while singing the alto part to “Silent Night” and “Angels We Have Heard on High.” In the middle of a particularly fine glo-o-o-ria, Ruth materialized in a multilayered swirl of scarves, sweaters, and cold air. She froze when she saw the tree, her eyes glistening.

  “You OK?” I asked. “You’re not crying, are you?”

  Ruth shook her head, then ran a mittened finger under each eye. “Just the cold.”

  I didn’t believe her.

  Ruth took off her mittens, stuffed them into the pocket of her sweater, and walked slowly around the tree, touching familiar ornaments. “Hannah, it’s gorgeous.” She knelt to inspect the Brio train that circled the tree stand on a lumpy green-and-white felt skirt. With a long index finger, she pushed the engine forward a foot. “I wish Daddy were here tonight.”

  “So do I, Ruth. I invited him, but he said he had other plans.”

  Ruth stood. “Right. Urgent business in Chestertown.”

  I looked at my sister and said what I knew she must be thinking. “I wonder if he’s decorating Darlene’s tree tonight.”

  Ruth shrugged.

  “With—who is it?—Darwin and Deirdre?”

  “Darryl,” Ruth corrected. “Darryl and Deirdre.”

  “The Darling D’s,” Paul added. He set the tea tray down on top of the piano and drew Ruth to him in a one-armed hug.

  “Darling?” Ruth ducked out from under Paul’s arm and turned to face him. “Darling? Try dreadful, Paul. Or how about dangerous?”

  I could tell by the look on his face that Paul didn’t want to go there. “Tea?” He smiled, teeth gleaming, and gestured toward the tray.

  “I need something stronger than tea tonight.” She peeled off a Kaffe Fassett design I knew she had knit with her own two hands, laid it across the arm of the sofa, then fell onto the cushions, her legs sticking straight out in front of her. “How about a scotch on the rocks?”

  While Paul went off to fix Ruth’s drink, I moved empty boxes off the chair opposite my older sister and sat down in it. “What makes you think Darlene’s dangerous?”

  “Are you kidding, Hannah?” She sat up and leaned toward me, elbows resting on her knees. “Three men walked down the aisle with that hussy and none has lived to tell the tale.”

  Paul returned, carrying a tumbler full of crushed ice and a generous measure of scotch. “Your slushee, madame.” It was ironic that none of us would have drunk like this around Daddy.

  Ruth took a sip, smiled a thank-you to Paul, then looked directly at me, her eyes like coal. “I don’t want Daddy to be Number Four.”

  “Neither do I, at least not until we’ve had a chance to check Darlene out thoroughly.”

  Holding her glass in both hands, Ruth took another sip of her drink, then melted into the cushions. “So, what do you suggest?”

  “I’ve already searched the Internet for Darlene Tinsley.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing much, except her name appeared in the register of the Chestertown Garden Club. Then I tried just plain Tinsley and there were so many hits the blasted computer froze up on me.”

  Paul balanced himself on an arm of the sofa and raised his mug in a mock toast. “Thank you, Bill Gates.” He took a sip of tea. “How about the son, Darryl? Didn’t your father say he worked at McGarvey’s?”

  “Yes.” I felt my face redden with embarrassment. “I even stopped by McGarvey’s to talk to him. I told the guy at the bar I was Darryl’s aunt, but he’s taken a week off. He’s on a ski trip out west somewhere. Won’t be back until Monday.”

  “And darling Deirdre?”

  I glared at my sister. “Ruth, get a grip. Deirdre could be a perfectly nice woman.”

  Ruth gave me an I-don’t-care shrug and concentrated on her drink.

  “But I couldn’t find her, either. Directory assistance doesn’t list her in Bowie and the university, as you might expect, is not in the home telephone number sharing business.”

  Paul set his mug down on the end table. “I have a radical idea! Why not just ask your father?”

  “I did,” I said, a bit miffed that he’d think I hadn’t already thought of that.

  “So did I,” Ruth added.

  “Paul, Daddy doesn’t know any more about Darlene’s past husbands than we do. He says that any time he mentions the subject, Darlene gets all choked up and teary-eyed. It’s just too, too hard to talk about.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Maybe so, but he feels sorry for the woman and isn’t about to push it.”

  Paul looked thoughtful. “Except for Tinsley, we don’t even know their last names, do we? It’s not common knowledge …” He drew an exaggerated breath. “… like Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Kotinsky.”

  I applauded appreciatively. “Very good! I doubt I could dredge that up out of my creaky database!”

  “Before you go handing out any medals, I have to confess I saw it on A and E the other night.”

  “Nut!” I beamed at my husband, loving his crooked smile, his bright, intelligent eyes, and the unruly way his hair, slightly gray as if touched by frost, curled over the tips of his ears.

  “Earth to Hannah.” Ruth punched my arm.

  “Uh, what I was going to say is that I asked my librarian friend, Penny, at Whitworth and Sullivan to run a search on the name Darlene Tinsley in the newspaper databases—”

  “And?” Ruth interrupted.

  “Nexis turned up nothing. And nothing for Darryl or Deirdre, either.”

  “You guys plotting again?” It was Emily, holding Chloe, pink from her bath and stuffed like a plump sausage into a blue-footed sleeper with Winnie-the-Pooh appliquéd on her chest.

  I rose and gathered Chloe, slightly damp and smelling of Johnson’s Baby Powder, into my arms.

  “How old’s this Darryl guy, anyway?” Emily asked.

  “Twenty-five.” I kissed the top of Chloe’s head and felt a twinge. Emily had smelled just this way as a baby.

  Emily, the grown-up, smiled. “Why don’t you leave Darryl to me?”

  Paul hugged his daughter, then took her chin in his hand and looked directly into her eyes. “Poor schnook will never know what hit him.”

  Emily shrugged. “Proud to do my bit for God and country.” She held her arms out for Chloe. “Say good night to your grandma and grandpa and Auntie Ruth.”

  Anchored firmly in Emily’s arms and swaying from side to side like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Chloe planted sloppy kisses on cheeks all around before Emily took her upstairs to bed. Paul watched them disappear before turning to me. “Motherhood has certainly agreed with Emily, hasn’t it?”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “It’s like a miracle. Last Sunday in church I was saying to myself, Lord, I don’t know who this young woman is, but I think we’ll keep her.”

  Ruth balanced her glass on the arm of the sofa. “Maybe she left the evil twin back in Colorado?”

  “Emily was never evil, Ruth. Just difficult.”

  “You call running away from home for months and months at a time ‘difficult’?”

  I sighed. “That’s all in the past.”

  “Following that rock group?”

  Thankfully Emily bounced back into the room just then, saving us from further Ruth-isms. We finished decorating, then sat back and relaxed, listening to the music, admiring the tree, and enjoying the cozy warmth of the fire as it burned ever lower in the grate. Ruth finished off a third scotch on the rocks and was so limp-limbed and mellow that when the time came, Paul had to drive her back to Providence in her own car, with me following.

  Back at home, lying in the darkened bedroom next to my husband with a midnight showing of Stalag 17 casting flickering
shadows on the wallpaper, he asked, “Think Ruth’s going to be OK?”

  “Of course. I gave her a bottle of water and watched while she took two aspirins. Couldn’t get her out of her clothes, though.” I ran my hand slowly down Paul’s arm. “She might be moving a little sluggishly in the morning.”

  “Come here, sweetheart,” growled the Humphrey Bogart of Prince George Street.

  Sometime later, we fell asleep with the TV on.

  When the telephone rang, I struggled to open my eyes. On the screen, Lenny Briscoe sat opposite Mike Logan in Law & Order, pawing through some papers on his desk. Why doesn’t he answer his damn phone? I patted around the covers, feeling for the remote, found it, and clicked off the TV.

  But the phone kept ringing.

  Three-oh-five. Shit! Nobody ever calls at that hour unless it’s bad news. In the seconds before I picked up the receiver I remember thinking, Thank goodness Emily is safe in her bed. I prayed it would be a wrong number. A kid. A prank. “Hello?”

  “Hannah! It’s me, Ruth. The police called. There’s been an accident!”

  My head swam. “What?”

  “A car accident! It’s Daddy!”

  “Is he OK?”

  “They wouldn’t say. It’s a head injury. They’ve taken him to the emergency room. I’m going over there right now.”

  “Wait a minute!” I was already shaking Paul awake. “Don’t you dare get behind the wheel, Ruth. Paul will be right over to pick you up!”

  I turned on the bedside lamp. Paul looked at me with molelike eyes, rapidly blinking.

  I covered the receiver with my hand. “Get dressed. Daddy’s been in an accident, and you’ll need to pick up Ruth. I’m going over to the hospital as fast as I can.”

  By the time I threw on the jeans I had abandoned on the carpet the night before, pulled a sweatshirt over my head, stuffed my bare feet into a pair of old jogging shoes, grabbed my parka from the front closet, and headed out the door, Paul was just pulling out of a precious parking spot directly across the street from our house. He powered the window halfway. “Get in. I’ll give you a lift.”

  I leaned over, my breath a white cloud. “No. I’d rather walk.”

  “Hannah, it’s nearly four in the morning! Get in this car!”

  How could I explain? Eight months ago I was heading out this same door for the same emergency room, but that time I was in an ambulance with a pair of paramedics who were struggling to keep my mother’s heart beating. How could this nightmare be happening again?

  I kissed my fingers and pressed them against the window where they left misty white impressions on the glass. “Go get Ruth. I’ll meet you at the hospital.” And I turned and jogged away from him down Prince George Street.

  chapter

  5

  It was the same receptionist. The same one, I swear, who was asking me the same damn questions in the same flat, emotionless voice. She’d probably taken a course—Pacification 101: Dealing with the Distraught Customer. My fingernails dug into my palms as I fought the urge to scream. I wanted to scream until I ran out of breath, until I fell, blue-faced and exhausted, to the cold, hard floor.

  “I don’t know his Social Security number.”

  The receptionist, Miss Prozac of 1999, managed a cool, dispassionate smile, but her fingers hadn’t budged from the keyboard.

  “I don’t have a clue about his health insurance! Look in your computer! Look up my mother. My poor, dead mother.” I slapped the counter with the flat of my hand. “Look up Lois Alexander. The information’s the same.”

  In mid-rant, I felt a hand on my back and turned to see Paul, his face a misery of concern. “Sit down, Hannah. I’ll take care of this.”

  Miss Prozac beamed at Paul, as if he’d just thrown her a life preserver. “Yes, please sit down, Mrs. Ivory. We can take care of this later.”

  “It’s Ives,” I corrected. The pressure of Paul’s hand was firm but gentle on my back. “I-V-E-S.”

  Paul led me to a chair in the waiting room where I sat down heavily and tried to quiet the shaking of my hands by pressing them between my knees. “This is some sort of cosmic joke, Paul. Maybe we didn’t handle it right the first time.” He stood directly in front of me, blocking my view of the receptionist. I leaned my head against him and spoke into his belt buckle. “So now we have to do it all over again.”

  I sat back suddenly, remembering my sister. “Where’s Ruth?”

  “Her face was a mess. I sent her to the ladies’ room.” Paul reached down and smoothed a lock of hair back from my forehead. “So’s your hair, sweetie.”

  I grasped his hand and held it against my cheek, like an anchor, fighting back fresh tears of anger and frustration. “Just keep me away from any mirrors.”

  Behind Paul a state trooper, large as a linebacker, loomed into view. Wearing a gray uniform with a Smoky the Bear hat tucked under his arm, he straight-armed his way through a swinging double door and crossed the room in our direction. “Are you Ruth Gannon?”

  I looked up, surprised. “No, that’s my sister. She’ll be back in a minute.” Suddenly I knew who this guy was. “Are you the officer who called about George Alexander?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Corporal Griffin.” A patch on his left sleeve identified him as an officer with the Maryland Transportation Authority, the special police who patrol Maryland’s bridges and tunnels.

  “I’m his daughter. Is he OK?”

  “Your father plowed his car into the back of a truck on the Bay Bridge.”

  “How badly is he hurt?”

  “Aside from a pretty good gash on his forehead, not too bad. Fortunately, the air bags deployed and your father was wearing a seat belt.”

  “Thank God,” Ruth said. She had returned from the bathroom and materialized at my elbow.

  “Yes, ma’am. Some people think all they need is the air bag.” He tapped an index finger next to his temple. “That kind of thinking gets you dead.” Corporal Griffin shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other. “Look, I gotta tell ya. They’re doing a blood alcohol kit on him right now, but from your father’s behavior at the scene and from what I learned from the paramedics, I’m afraid I had’ta issue a citation.” Griffin reached into a slim portfolio that I hadn’t noticed before. It had been tucked under his arm along with his hat. He pulled out a three-part form, tore off the pink sheet, and handed it to me. “Your father signed this form, agreeing to the test.”

  I looked at the bottom of the form where the YES box for an alcohol concentration test was checked and my father’s familiar signature was scrawled over, around, and above the Driver Signature line. Another hand had filled in the date and time. I pointed at the line that said Signature of Officer. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be the investigating officer.”

  Ruth’s eyes darted from Corporal Griffin, to me, to Paul, and back to Griffin again.

  “You don’t look surprised.” Griffin fluttered the remaining copies of the DR-15 in front of Ruth and addressed her directly.

  “Frankly, no,” she admitted.

  “Ruth!” I shot my sister a shut-up glare. “What’s the next step?” I asked before Ruth could incriminate our father any further.

  “We send the blood kit to our crime lab in Pikesville. The results will be back in two weeks.”

  “Then what?”

  “If his blood alcohol level is higher than point one, we notify the MVA and his driver’s license will be confiscated.”

  “Well,” Ruth drawled, “that should cut down on his trips back and forth to see that witch in Chestertown.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Ruth,” I said. If Daddy’s Little Problem got any more out of hand, she might be glad there was a Darlene in the picture.

  Corporal Griffin sighed deeply, then laid his hat and portfolio on a chair. “Look, let’s all sit down, OK? I got some questions and I’m sure you got some questions. Better now than later, huh?”

  Griffin’s chair
creaked under his weight. His beefy body spilled over the seat on both sides, the nightmare seat mate in transatlantic flight hell. “As I said,” he continued. “Your father was driving west in the westbound span when he ran into the back of a tractor trailer. A passing motorist called nine-one-one. I arrived about the same time the ambulance did.”

  Paul asked, “Was anybody else hurt?”

  Officer Griffin shook his head. “Nope. The truck driver wasn’t in his vehicle.”

  “Do you mean the truck was stopped on the bridge?” I was incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  “Then how can it be Daddy’s fault he ran into it?”

  “Look, ma’am, that truck was lit up with blinking lights like Rocker Fellah Center. If your dad’a been sober, it never would’a happened.”

  “But …”

  Paul silenced me by squeezing my hand, hard. “Does he need a lawyer?”

  The officer shrugged. “If it was me, I’d get one.”

  “When can we see him?” I asked.

  Griffin rose from his chair, tugged on the waistband of his uniform, and gathered up his belongings. “It’s up to the doctor in charge, but someone should be out to talk to you soon.” He reached into a breast pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Ruth. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks,” Ruth said, although under the circumstances, I couldn’t imagine what she was thanking the guy for.

  After Corporal Griffin left I took the card from Ruth, read it, then handed it back to her. “Why you?” I asked, feeling unaccountably miffed.

  She shrugged. “They called the house asking for Mom.” Her voice broke. Huge tears slid down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Ruth! I’m sorry!” I felt my cheeks grow wet. “Stop it! Now you’re making me cry!” I hugged Ruth and began to blubber. My teardrops left gray splotches all over her white silk blouse.

  “Girls, girls.” Paul put his arms around both of us. “I find myself doing this a lot lately,” he muttered into my hair. After a few seconds, he fumbled in his pants pocket and withdrew a couple of paper towels, an emergency supply that he must have yanked out of the dispenser in the men’s room. “Here. You may need this.”