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figured that before he got home that evening, I’d better get my ducks in a row.
    I fingered the manila envelope holding the contract that I’d laid on the kitchen table, hefted it, and decided I’d need a cup of hot tea to help me deal with actually looking inside. While the tea bag was steeping in the cup, I slid the contract out of the envelope and flipped through – all thirty-two pages of it – and began to read, but by the time I got to page four of the teeny-tiny print, my eyes had glazed over and, in spite of all the caffeine in the tea, I was in danger of slipping into a coma.
    I checked my watch. Just two o’clock. I picked up the telephone and called Hutch.
    Maurice Gaylord Hutchinson, Esquire, is a prominent Annapolis attorney, married to my older sister, Ruth. Sometimes when I telephone I get my sister, who fills in when the secretary is away, but that day Megan answered and put me straight through.
    â€˜Hannah!’ Hutch sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you for that fabulous dinner party you put together last week, but when I got back to the office the next morning, things kind of got away from me.’
    â€˜You brought the wine, Hutch. That was thanks enough. Look, I apologize for calling during office hours, but I have something strange and rather important I need to talk to you about.’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Can I come and see you? Ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of bothering you, especially as I know you’re super busy, but it’s a contract I need someone with brains to look over, and it’s time critical.’
    â€˜Now?’ I could hear papers rustling in the background. I held my breath, hoping Hutch was checking his calendar. ‘I have a three thirty, so if you come right away . . .’
    â€˜Thanks!’ I said, before he could even finish the sentence. I wasn’t planning on wasting a second of my brother-in-law’s valuable time.
    Hutch’s office is on Main Street – several doors up from his wife’s eclectic, New Age boutique, ‘Mother Earth’ – on the second floor of a building that houses an upscale leather bootery.
    I hustled up Prince George Street and down Maryland Avenue toward the State House, taking a path through the alley near the Maryland Federation of Art that cut between State Circle and Main Street. I bopped into Hutch’s office just seven minutes after I hung up the phone.
    Megan, Hutch’s secretary, glanced up from her keyboard. ‘Good to see you, Hannah. He’s expecting you. He’ll join you in a moment in the conference room.’
    The last time I’d been in Hutch’s conference room was when we were arranging a home equity loan to help cover Emily’s Bryn Mawr College tuition. Hutch wasn’t there yet, so I sat down at the head of the table and made myself comfortable, admiring an oil painting on the wall of a sailboat under sail, its red, blue and yellow spinnaker billowing.
    When Hutch breezed into the room I looked up and barely recognized him. His floppy, neatly trimmed hair style – so very
GQ
– had been replaced by a buzz cut. ‘My goodness,’ I chirped. ‘What on earth did you do to your hair? Were the U.S. Marines looking for a few good men?’
    Hutch rubbed a hand briskly over the pale stubble. ‘Ruth and I have taken up dancing again, so I figured I needed something a bit more wash and wear.’
    I considered his new do with a critical eye. ‘Too bad. The Leonardo di Caprio look had your younger clients swooning. The older ladies, too, come to think of it.’ I winked, so he’d know I was teasing.
    â€˜I don’t need clients to swoon over me, Hannah. I need them to pay attention, and do what I say.’ His eyes flicked from my face to the clock on the wall, then down to the manila envelope I’d placed on the table in front of me. ‘So, what have