Hanging Hannah (20 page)

Jane frowned in puzzlement and turned to the others. The receptionist was still standing nearby. “I'm sure she's in there. I think it's okay if you just go in.”

Though she didn't really like that idea, Jane turned the knob and slowly pushed open the door. “Goddess?”

She pushed the door farther, glanced around the room, a small lounge with sofas and chairs, and pushed the door all the way open.

“She's gone!” Jane said.

“Gone?” Ginny said.

“Maybe she just went to the ladies' room,” Rhoda said.

“No,” the receptionist said. “I was just in there.” She smiled, apparently unconcerned, and checked her watch. “She must have had to get over to the theater for her show.”

“But wouldn't you have seen her leave?” Ginny asked.

“Not necessarily. There's another door at the back of the lounge.” She smiled at them all. “I'll tell her thanks for you.”

“Strange behavior,” Daniel murmured. “Though not for Goddess, I guess.”

“Sh-h-h,” Jane whispered. “Let's not be rude.” She turned from the doorway, and as she did she noticed something. Goddess's cone-shaped headdress sat in the center of the sofa. “She left part of her . . . costume.”

The receptionist laughed, unconcerned. “Must have been in a hurry.”

“Mmm,” Jane said thoughtfully, and without knowing why, suddenly recalled something Goddess had said:
Damsel in distress
.

But Goddess had not gone to the theater from the screening.

“For all her craziness, she's never missed a performance,” Yves Golden told Jane when he called her office the next morning. “She's a total professional. I can't find her anywhere. I've tried all her friends, the crew at the show. No one has any idea. She's—vanished! I just thought you might have some idea where she is.”

“I'm truly sorry,” Jane said, also concerned, and then had a thought. “Could she have been hurt? Have you tried the hospitals, the police?”

“Done that. No sign of her.”

“You know Goddess's world far better than I do, but if anything occurs to me, I'll call you. And please call me if you hear from her.”

But Wednesday passed and no one did hear from Goddess. On TV and in the newspapers, it was reported that she had disappeared after last being seen at a private screening of her upcoming film release,
Adam and Eve
. Until she reappeared, performances of her one-woman show,
Goddess of Love
, were canceled, and tickets were being refunded.

Driving home late that afternoon, Jane switched on the radio to hear the news.

“One of our brightest stars didn't shine last night,” the announcer began. “Goddess, the singer and actress known for her high shock factor, surprised a packed Broadway theater last night by not appearing for her one-woman show,
Goddess of Love
. The performer, whose actual name is Katherine Hamner and who is the only child of Carl Hamner, the shoe giant, was last seen at a small private screening of her new film,
Adam and Eve
.”

Arriving home, Jane called Yves Golden.

“I'm pulling my hair out,” he told her. “I've tried everyone I can think of—the people she'll be working with at that publishing house, Corset or whatever it's called. Strange bunch,” he added.

“Corsair,” Jane corrected him absently. “What about her parents?” she asked, remembering the radio announcement. “Have you called them?”

Golden made a dismissive sound. “They wouldn't know anything. She shut them out of her life years ago. Please, if you hear anything, call me—anytime.” And he proceeded to give her his home and cell-phone numbers.

Next Jane called Greenberg. “I'm really getting scared,” she told him. “Something must have happened to her. Everyone agrees this just isn't like her.”

“Really?” he said, surprised. “I'd have said it's exactly like her.”

“Goddess is eccentric, not irresponsible. There's a difference.”

“Goddess at large . . .” he said thoughtfully.

“What?”

“That was one of her movies, wasn't it? And she disappears, right?”

“Right . . . So?”

“I don't know. Where did she go in the movie?”

Jane sighed. “Obviously you didn't see it. Her boyfriend finds her masquerading as a flight attendant on a jet to Rome.”

“Well, there you are! Maybe she's left the country.”

“Maybe. . . . I suppose anything's possible. But she doesn't own any property overseas, as far as I know, and if she has friends overseas, Golden has tried them.”

“Has he tried her parents?”

“No. No point. They've been estranged for years, he says.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“She's an only child.”

“Oh. Jane, the girl could be
anywhere
. Or on her
way
to anywhere. Give her a little time. She'll pop up somewhere.”

“Oh, you're no help,” Jane muttered, said good-bye, and hung up.

A moment later the phone rang. It was Greenberg again.

“Jane, I had a thought. If it were up to me, I'd get in touch with Goddess's parents anyway. They may know something. It's worth a try. What have you got to lose?”

Jane pondered this idea. “Nothing, I suppose. Though it's a long shot. But I'll try it. You're right, I've got nothing to lose—if they'll even see me.”

As soon as she'd hung up, the phone rang again.

She laughed as she picked it up. “Another idea? I knew it made sense to date a cop.”

“Jane? This is Jack Layton. What are you talking about?”

She felt herself blush. “Oh, hello, Jack. How did you get my home number?”

“It was in Holly's Rolodex.”

Jane didn't recall ever having given Holly her home number. Holly must simply have looked it up; Jane was, after all, listed in the phone book. That would have been just like Holly.

“Listen, Jane, what are you going to do about this Goddess mess?”

“What am
I
going to do? What are you talking about? We're all doing our best to find her.”

“You'd
better
find her. I've got a million and a half riding on this kook. If she doesn't come through with her pop-ups and music chips, I'm holding you personally responsible.”

Jane felt her anger rising to the boiling point. “Listen, you hypocritical jerk. You've got nothing riding on this project. I haven't even received the contracts yet, let alone your million and a half. So get off that track. And watch how you speak to me—and how you refer to my client—or I'll see to it that you don't get this book at all. Got it?”

“Find her,” Layton seethed, and the line went dead.

 

“Daniel,” Jane called through to the reception room the next morning, “would you please place a call for me?”

He appeared in her doorway, his face perplexed. “Would I what?”

“Place a call. You know—‘Please hold for Jane Stuart.' ”

“Since when do I place your calls?”

“I just thought it would be a good idea this once.”

“Why, who are we calling?”

“Carl Hamner.”

“
Carl Hamner
? The sneaker man?”

“Yes. And Goddess's father.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right. And you think that if I place the call for you—”

“I'll have a better chance of getting through. His office is in New York.”

“Okay,” Daniel said, shrugging good-naturedly. “I'll buzz you when I have him on the line.”

She waited, watching the phone. After a few moments the intercom lit up. “Jane, I've gotten as far as his personal assistant, a Mrs. Dunlap. I have a feeling that's as far as we're going to get. Do you want to pick up?”

“Yes,” Jane said, and lifted the receiver. “Hello, Mrs. Dunlap.”

“What is this about, please, Mrs. Stuart?” The woman's voice was cold, all business.

“I'm a literary agent,” Jane began. “I'm representing Mr. Hamner's daughter—”

“Mrs. Stuart,” Mrs. Dunlap interrupted. “What does this have to do with Mr. Hamner?”

Jane wasn't quite sure what to say. “I . . . You're aware that his daughter has disappeared?”

There was a brief silence on the line. “Yes, we're all aware of that. So?”

“So I would really like to speak to Mr. Hamner about her. Please, could you ask him if he'll see me? Just a brief meeting?”

“You may relay anything you wish to say to Mr. Hamner through me. I will be sure he gets your message.”

“I do have things to say to Mr. Hamner,” Jane said, “but I can only say them to him. Personally. Things about his daughter. Please. Ask him.”

Mrs. Dunlap let out a loud sigh of exasperation. “Hold.”

Jane did hold—for two minutes, by her watch—and then Mrs. Dunlap came back on. “Mrs. Stuart, Mr. Hamner would like to speak to you. Hold.”

There was a click, ringing, and someone picked up.

“What do you want?” came a man's gruff voice.

“Mr. Hamner?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Hamner, I've been working with your daughter on a book project. I'm a literary agent.”

“I know all that—Dunlap just told me. What do you
want
?”

“I want to come in and talk to you about your daughter's disappearance.”

“How well do you know Katherine?” he asked.

“Pretty well, I'd say,” Jane said, not really sure if this was true.

“Then you know that her mother and I don't see her anymore.” There was a touch of sadness in his voice.

“Yes, I do know that. Please, Mr. Hamner, may I come in and see you?”

“Come at one,” he said, and hung up.

 

Carl Hamner had the largest office Jane had ever seen—almost like a small apartment in one vast space—yet Hamner himself was a small man, smaller than he appeared in his photographs. He was almost completely bald, with a round face and large, deep brown eyes that held a touch of sadness. From what she could see of him behind the immense slab of marble that was his desk, he was trim. He wore a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt, a navy tie, and no jacket.

“So you're here,” he said before Mrs. Dunlap had even reached the door. “What was it you couldn't have said on the phone?”

“Mr. Hamner, I just felt that if I could talk to you about your daughter—”

His face grew red. “But I
told
you, I don't know where she is. My wife and I have neither seen nor spoken with Katherine for nearly seven years.”

Jane sensed pain in his words. “I've come to care for your daughter in the short time I've been working with her. She's a troubled girl, but I'm sure you know that. I'm worried about her, what she might do.”

“I know all about my daughter's problems—which, by the way, are none of your business.”

Suddenly it occurred to Jane that perhaps Hamner was keeping tabs on Goddess, the way Cecil Willoughby had kept tabs on Daniel. Was this something rich, powerful men routinely did?

Hamner went on, “But there's nothing I can do about those problems, or about her disappearance.”

“I just thought that if we put our heads together . . .”

He shook his head impatiently. “This is a waste of time. I've been trying to tell you, Katherine is out of our lives.”

“Of her own accord?” Jane asked gently.

“
Of course
of her own accord!” Hamner snapped. “Viveca and I love Katherine, love her dearly. We always have. Katherine knows that. And believe it or not, we are extremely proud of her accomplishments. Hell, we even thought
Doing It
was funny,” he said with a rueful laugh, “and she was making fun of us!”

His slim shoulders rose and fell. “We would give anything to see her, to have her back in our lives. But she rejected us and our way of life years ago. Which is ironic, wouldn't you say, since from what I understand, her net worth is rapidly approaching mine.”

“Like father, like daughter,” Jane mused, and to her surprise, Hamner looked at her sharply.

He gave her a quick half smile. “I'm afraid I can't take any credit for her talents. Katherine was adopted.”

Jane just looked at him, thinking about this revelation. She was surprised—surprised at the fact itself, surprised that he would share it with her—but at the same time not so surprised. Perhaps it helped to explain Goddess's rejection of Carl and Viveca Hamner's lifestyle and fortune : They weren't even her real parents.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Hamner. If you think of any place your daughter might be where Yves Golden might not have looked . . .”

He shook his head. “I really wish I could help. My wife and I are as worried about her as anyone. Remember—for all her act, she is, after all, just a girl.”

 

Jane checked in with Daniel from a pay phone in the lobby of the Hamner Global Building.

“Greenberg called for you,” Daniel told her. “He says call him right away. It's urgent.”

She dialed Greenberg.

“We've identified the woman hanging in the woods,” he said. “She lived in a mental institution in Sharon, Connecticut.”

“Connecticut!”

“That's right. I'm going there tomorrow to speak with the director of the place. You can come along if you like—I'd enjoy your company—though you realize—”

“I know, we'd be breaking all the rules,” Jane said with a laugh. “That's what I like about you, you mad noncomformist.”

“Hmm. Can't say I've ever been called that before. Pick you up at your house tomorrow morning at eight?”

“I'll be ready.”

 

It was eleven the next morning when they found Whiteson Institute, a sprawling white mansion at the top of a rolling green lawn surrounded by lush forest.

“I've done a little research on this place,” Greenberg said, turning in through the gate. “It's more than sixty years old. Once a private residence. Now it's a facility for moderately to severely retarded people.”

He parked in a small lot at the side of the building, and they went in through the front door into a cool dark foyer. At a reception window to the right, Greenberg announced them, and the young man behind the desk buzzed them through a door beside the window and showed them into the office of the Institute's director.

“Donald Brant,” he said, shaking their hands. He was a plumpish man of medium height—not unlike Ernie Zabriskie in shape, it occurred to Jane—though Brant was better-looking, with regular, finely cut features and stylishly cut black hair. He invited them to sit in armchairs facing his desk, then sat down.

“Thank you for coming.” He looked sad. “I'm grateful to you for helping us find out what happened to Hannah.”