Stabbing Stephanie (10 page)

“Oh my word.”

“ ‘Oh my word' is right! It was over two hundred years old. It had originally been mined in Ceylon, and the King of Ceylon gave it as a gift to Ravi's great-great-whatever-grandfather.
He
had it put on a diamond necklace and gave it to his wife, which was the beginning of the tradition: All the princes and kings of Ananda presented this necklace to their wives, all down through the generations.”

“Didn't it still belong to Ravi's mother?”

“Long dead of some disease. There was only his father, the king, the useless old playboy. When Ravi married Faith, Ravi's father gave it to him to give to his princess.”

“So romantic,” Jane said dreamily.

“Mm, romantic as hell. But there's more. Faith told me that when Ravi gave it to her on their wedding night, he told her it was the perfect gift for her, because the three cross bars that made the star inside the jewel were believed to represent Hope, Destiny . . . and Faith! Could you just die!”

“It's like a fairy tale.”

“Exactly! Three months after the wedding, Ravi had Faith's royal portrait painted, and for it she wore the necklace—another tradition.” Stephanie shook her head in wonder. “What a life they had. I hated to leave.”

“But you were there four months,” Jane pointed out.

“I know, but I could have stayed forever. The palace high on the mountain . . . The village clinging to the mountainsides . . . Those sweet, wonderful people . . .” She made a sour expression. “But I had to get back. It was the beginning of fall, and hordes of college grads were flocking to New York and Boston looking for jobs. So, back to the real world I went. I thought I was interested in advertising, idiot that I was, so I used some of my connections—you know what I mean. I got an entry-level job with an agency in Boston, on Tremont Street.”

They had reached a section of Magnolia Lane where there were no houses, just woods that stood stark and lonely, close to the sides of the road, rising from a thick brown carpet of fallen leaves.

“But you kept in touch with Faith,” Jane said.

“Of course. She was always good at keeping in touch, writing letters—long letters. Her letters surprised me.”

“Oh?”

Stephanie looked at Jane. “Faith said she was bored. Frustrated. She said life in Ananda wasn't nearly as glamorous and fun as she thought it would be—as the rest of the world thought it was. She said it really wasn't glamorous at all.”

They came to where Christopher Street veered off to the right. If they continued on Magnolia Lane, Jane realized, they would pass Doris's house. Jane led Stephanie down Christopher, which would eventually lead to a way back to Jane's house.

Stephanie was gazing down at the street as she walked. “Ravi's father, the king—his name was Abhay—was a total waste. A dashing devil, but completely useless. He was a widower, and he was always chasing some blonde or other—he worshipped blondes.”

“Wasn't he needed to run the country?”

“Nah. Ananda had always pretty much run itself. It was peaceful, very prosperous—no poverty. Anyway, Abhay was always off being the jet-setter. He'd play polo, gamble. He loved Monte Carlo, spent a lot of time there.
Adored
a certain famous blonde there a number of years ago, if you know what I mean.” Stephanie wiggled her brows suggestively.

Jane, suddenly understanding only too well, widened her eyes in shock. “With Abhay away, Ravi ran the country, then.”

“No, I've just told you, there was nothing to do—at least, nothing for Ravi to do. He served no real function. So neither did Faith! She wrote to me that she'd tried to speak to him about their life, about what they might accomplish together for the betterment of the country, and he laughed at her! He said his plans consisted of nothing more than jet-setting around the world having fun, just like his father. Ravi had his own favorite spots, too. Rome, Madrid, London, New York, Aspen, Hollywood. He told Faith she was welcome to go with him. But Faith told me the general understanding on the part of Ravi and the entire country, really, was that she would soon start having princes and princesses.”

They turned right onto Adams Road; through the bare forest Jane could see Adams Pond, a grim khaki color. There was no sidewalk on this street, and they kept far to the right, though no cars passed.

“As it turned out,” Stephanie said, “Faith did go with Ravi on some of his play trips, but that got boring, too. And then she did get pregnant, so she was happy to stay home.”

Adams Road opened onto Oakmont Avenue, where they had started from, and they strolled the short distance back to the foot of Lilac Way and started up the hill.

Jane said, “That must have made everyone happy.”

“Yes, but a sad thing happened at almost the exact same time. Abhay was in Tunisia visiting some billionaire friend, and he lost control of his sports car on a winding road at the edge of a ravine. The car smashed through a guardrail, shot right to the bottom, and exploded.”

“How horrible.”

“Mm. Sad . . . but interesting for Faith and Ravi. Because he was king now, of course, and Faithie was his queen. My little Faithie from Wellesley, Queen of Ananda! Needless to say, the media had a field day.”

They had almost reached Jane's house. As they approached the space in the tall holly hedge that surrounded Jane's front lawn, a voice called, “Whoo-oo, Janey-doll!”

Jane turned. Audrey Fairchild stood in the middle of the road. Her honey-blond hair was piled on top of her head in a mass of ringlets, and she wore a mink coat of her own, this one a pale honey color, close in shade to her hair. She clicked confidently across the street in her high heels, smiling a wide, scarlet-lipsticked smile.

“Home in the afternoon. My, my,” she said, and laughed, clearly amusing herself. “Now don't let yourself get fat and lazy just because you're doing those big deals!”

Inwardly Jane winced at Audrey's use of the word
fat,
but she kept smiling. She opened her mouth to introduce Audrey to Stephanie, but realized Audrey had already turned to her.

Instantly, Audrey's smile faded and her face turned cold. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Audrey,” Jane said, frowning, “is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Audrey said hurriedly, seemingly unable to tear her gaze from Stephanie.

“I was about to introduce you. Audrey Fairchild—”

“We've met,” Audrey said uncomfortably.

Jane, taken aback, said, “You have?”

“Yes, we have,” Stephanie said, her expression equally cold. “So you're Fairchild now,” she mused to Audrey.

“My married name.” Audrey touched Jane's sleeve.

“Darling, I've got to run, zillions of things to do. I was just leaving, in fact.” And without a word to Stephanie, or even a look, she turned and clipped back across the street, entering her open garage.

Jane led the way up the path to the front door. “Small world,” she said, turning to Stephanie. “How do you know Audrey?”

“You remember my sister, Caroline? She couldn't make your wedding, but she was at Kenneth's funeral. She's four years older than I am.

“Caroline was a senior at Wellesley when I was a freshman. Audrey was a senior, like Caroline. They were close friends. Anyway, Audrey got engaged to this guy named Lowell who was going to MIT. Well, Caroline fell for Lowell. You don't know Caroline, but when she sets her sights on something, heaven help anybody who gets in her way. And Audrey was definitely in the way. Caroline got Lowell away from Audrey . . . got Lowell to call off his engagement to her.”

“Did Caroline marry him instead?”

“Nah. She got bored with him after about two months. Dumped him.”

“Did he go back to Audrey?”

“No. And so,” Stephanie said with a sigh, “Audrey has always hated Caroline—and, by association, me!”

“But
you
didn't do anything wrong.”

“I know, but you know how people are.” Stephanie shrugged, as if to say she couldn't explain it and really didn't care.

They entered the house. A thought occurred to Jane and in the foyer she turned to Stephanie. “Something doesn't make sense. You say Audrey was a senior when you were a freshman. That would make Audrey at least three years older than you, and you're forty-three, right?”

Stephanie winced but then reluctantly nodded.

“That would mean Audrey is at least forty-six.”

“Mm-hm,” Stephanie murmured. “So?”

“So she's not. She's only a year older than I am. She's forty.”

Stephanie gave Jane a pitying smile. “She
says
she's forty. I admit she looks great—I'm sure she's got one of the best plastic surgeons in New York—but forty she's not. Many women lie about their age, Jane. If I remember correctly, Audrey is just a liar in general.”

Jane recalled an incident involving her previous nanny, Marlene, in which Audrey had lied repeatedly. Troubled at this thought, she nibbled the inside of her cheek. “Coffee?” she asked Stephanie absently.

“Thanks, but I shouldn't. Gotta get to that apartment broker you mentioned.”

“Right. I'll drive you.”

In the car, heading down the other side of Lilac Way, Stephanie tapped the door handle, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “So Audrey's name is Fairchild, you said. What was it you said her husband does?”

“Elliott? He's medical director of NJRI. People go there after car accidents and things like that. Famous people, too. It's supposed to be finest place of its kind.”

“Mm,” Stephanie murmured thoughtfully. “So she's done all right for herself, as it turns out.”

“Yes . . . though she and Elliott are working out some problems at the moment.” Jane turned left on Grange, heading into town. “They're separated. I hope they can work things out, get back together, if only for Cara's sake.”

“So this Elliott, he's not living there?”

“No. He took an apartment in Essex Fells, not far from the Institute. Essex Fells is just a few towns away from here.”

Stephanie gazed out the window thoughtfully. “I'm not surprised—about their marriage being in trouble, I mean. Who could live with Audrey Cook—that was her maiden name—for any length of time? That hair, that big mouth, that affected way she has of speaking.” She shuddered.

Jane would have liked to point out that it had been Elliott's infidelities that had caused the difficulties in his and Audrey's marriage, but felt it wasn't her place to do so.

“People just don't change,” Stephanie said, and with a self-satisfied little smile, she began stroking the lustrous black fur of her coat.

J
ane parked behind her office but they didn't go in. Instead, Jane led Stephanie through the narrow alley beside Jane's building and along the street to The Home Place, the real estate agency and apartment broker she had recommended to Stephanie. Myrtle Lovesey, who owned the agency, was the only person in the office when they entered. The tall, gaunt, elderly woman rose behind her desk with a gracious smile. Jane introduced Stephanie to her.

“A pleasure,” Myrtle said. “We miss your cousin very much.”

“Thanks,” Stephanie said, her gaze darting about.

Uncomfortable, Jane said, “Stephanie's moving here, Myrtle. I thought you'd have some nice apartments to show her.”

“Of course!” Myrtle turned and took a thick looseleaf binder from the credenza behind her chair. “And where have you come
from?”
she asked pleasantly, making conversation.

“Boston.” Stephanie's tone, like the little scowl on her face, made it clear she didn't care to discuss her life changes with Myrtle.

“Ah.” Myrtle opened the notebook and looked up at Stephanie. “We do have a number of nice apartments at the moment. I'm short-staffed today, so I'll show them to you myself.”

“That's awfully nice of you, Myrtle,” Jane said, and felt an overpowering urge to say to Stephanie, as she might to Nicholas, “And what do you say to Mrs. Lovesey?”

Stephanie smiled mildly.

“I'll come back for you”—Jane checked her watch; it was 3:45—“around five?” She looked at Myrtle and Stephanie.

“Sounds good to me,” Myrtle said. “You just leave everything to me, Jane.” Myrtle invited Stephanie to sit in one of the chairs facing her desk. “Now. First let's get an idea of what you're looking for.”

Jane waved good-bye and left. She started back along Center Street toward her office, deep in thought.

Stephanie was decidedly odd. No, more than odd; she was downright rude. And spoiled. A snob—that was it. Stephanie was a snob. Not a very nice person, not at all. Jane didn't like her. But she was Kenneth's cousin, and Jane would do her duty by her. But once Stephanie was a permanent resident of the area, working every day right around the corner from Jane's office, was Jane expected to maintain a relationship with her? Jane didn't think she could bring herself to do that.

She laughed to herself at her own thoughts.
Expected to!
No one expected her to do anything. She would do what she felt was right. Helping Kenneth's cousin get settled, giving her a place to stay, was right. Being her friend afterward was definitely optional.

Daniel had a few phone messages for her when she came in. Tina Blanton had called to see if her signing check had come in yet from Pocket Books, and Daniel had told her it hadn't. Tina had still wanted to talk to Jane—to tell her to nag for the check, no doubt. Looking at the pink message slip, Jane shook her head. Tina wasn't her only client who was always desperately in need of money. One of the first pieces of advice Jane gave writers when they signed with her was that they shouldn't expect to live on their writing, at least not at the beginning, and perhaps never. Yet many writers gleefully quit their jobs as soon as they sold their first books, as if it were only a matter of time before the six-figure checks started rolling in and they could pay off their mortgages.

Yves Golden, Goddess's manager, had also called. And Bertha Stumpf. Jane couldn't deal with Bertha today, not after an afternoon of Stephanie, so as she entered her office she put that slip on the near right corner of her desk—the place she put messages she didn't intend to reply to immediately.

She called Yves Golden first. He wanted to know what Jane thought of the jacket of Goddess's book. Jane said she loved it. Yves didn't seem to know how he felt about it. One thing was clear: He wasn't about to defer to Jane's professional opinion. Sounding uneasy, he said he was going to show it to some other people at his “shop.” Jane said that was fine, and rolling her eyes, replaced the phone.

Then she called Tina Blanton.

“At this rate, I'll have the book finished before they pay me for it,” she said. “Jane, I've got bills here.”

It occurred to Jane that someday she should install a voice mail system in her agency.
If you would like to whine about a check you have not yet received, press two
.

“Exaggerating a bit, aren't you, Tina? We returned the signed contracts . . . let's see . . .” She consulted a notebook at the left edge of her work mountain. “Two weeks ago. It should be here soon.”

“Could you find out for sure?”

“Yes, Tina,” she said, like a robot, and as soon as she'd hung up, screamed for Daniel.

“Yes, Jane,” his voice came from the intercom. “Jane, why not try the intercom sometime? It's much nicer than screaming.”

“I like screaming better. Besides, I don't know how to work that thing. Daniel, would you please call Patsy over at Pocket and ask her when Tina Blanton's check is coming?”

“We just returned her contracts two weeks ago.” She laughed. “I know. But I told Tina I'd check. You know how she is.”

“Okay,” Daniel said tiredly.

With her calls now returned—or at least all the calls she intended to return for the moment—Jane opened her briefcase and, with a sense of excited anticipation, brought out
The Blue Palindrome
. She had only about fifty pages left, and now found herself reading faster and faster, eager to know the fate of the sad young man who was the novel's protagonist.

Finally, she turned over the final page. The near edge of her desk was covered with wadded-up tissues, and she pressed a fresh one to the corners of her eyes, shaking her head at the depth of this Nathaniel Barre's talent.

At that moment Daniel came in. “Jane, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. It's this book; it's so wonderful. You have to read it.”

His eyes widened in excitement. “This is that
Blue
something?”

“The Blue Palindrome
. Which, by the way, makes perfect sense once you finish the book.” She patted the tall stack of pages. “This man is a genius, Daniel.”

“Well . . . sign him up!”

“I fully intend to. This is really big.” She flipped over the manuscript and found Nathaniel Barre's cover letter, which bore the telephone number of his home in Green Bay, Wisconsin. As Daniel watched, she dialed it. An older woman answered. At first she seemed to think Jane was selling something, and almost hung up on her, but Jane quickly explained that she was a literary agent and was calling about the manuscript Mr. Barre had sent her. At this, the woman identified herself as “Nat's mom” and, her voice growing excited, gave Jane Nat's work number. “He should be there now,” Mrs. Barre said.

Jane thanked her and dialed the work number. A young woman answered with the name of a prominent national chain of drugstores. When Jane asked for Nathaniel Barre, the young woman said she would put Jane through to the pharmacy. A man picked up.

“I'm trying to reach Nathaniel Barre, please.”

“Speaking.” His voice was a monotone.

“Oh, Mr. Barre, it's Jane Stuart. I'm the literary agent you sent your manuscript to.”

“Yes.”

“I'm calling to tell you I think your book is absolutely marvelous and that I'd be honored to represent you.”

“Okay.”

Jane frowned and gave Daniel a helpless look. Nathaniel Barre sounded as if he was on some sort of tranquilizer. “It's . . . it's a work of true genius,” she gushed.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well. Anyway, I assume you're still looking for representation?”

“Yes.”

“And you'll sign with my agency?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I'll send you my representation agreement, and in the meantime I'll get started on marketing your book.”

“Okay.”

“Where shall I send the agreement—to the address on your letter?”

“Yes.”

“All righty, then. Expect it in the next few days. I'm very pleased to be working with you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“By the way, Mr. Barre, I'm just curious. You work in the pharmacy; is that how you know so much about alchemy and drugs?”

“Right. I'm the pharmacist.”

“I see. Well, thanks. A pleasure, really. Good-bye.”

“Bye.”

Daniel was staring at her in bafflement. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “He's signing with us.”

“Was he pleased?”

“I don't know. He didn't express any emotion at all.”

Daniel nodded. “Probably just not a ‘gusher.'”

“That's putting it mildly. He sounds as if he's just come from the lobotomy farm.”

Daniel laughed. “You're terrible, Jane! Everyone's different. He could be pleased beyond words but just doesn't show it on the outside.”

Jane shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. “In the end it doesn't matter if his personality is Truman Capote or J.D. Salinger; as a novelist, he's a genius, and that's all that matters.” She picked up the manuscript and hugged it to her chest. “Ooh, I'm so excited! Now, who do we pitch it to? We'll auction, of course.”

“Of course. I'll get his agreement out.”

“Thanks.” She handed him Barre's cover letter.

“Come to think of it, let's send it by overnight mail.”

“Done.” He smiled. “This is great, Jane.” He jogged out of her office.

 

 

Around four-thirty, Jane glanced out her front office window and saw Stanley Greenberg's patrol car pull up to the curb. She smiled. She loved it when he dropped by, an increasingly frequent occurrence lately. She watched him get out of the car and approach the agency's front door, tall, thin, broad-shouldered, his sandy hair falling across his forehead like a young boy's.

A moment later there was a soft knock on her office door and he poked his head in, smiling. She motioned him in and he came up to her desk and kissed her before falling into her visitor's chair.

“Bad day?” she asked.

“Not one of my best. Another break-in today.”

“Oh no. Where?”

He looked uneasy. “I hate to tell you this, but since nothing's ever a secret in this town, you might as well hear it from me. It was a house on Oakmont, between your street and Magnolia Lane.”

She sat up straight in alarm. “But that's right at the
foot
of my street. There are only two or three houses between Lilac and Magnolia. Do I know these people?”

“I don't think so. Name's Schmidt. She works in the city; he's a lawyer with a firm in Morris Plains. He rushed right home.”

“What did the burglars take?”

“Burglars? You've decided it's more than one?”

“It's just a manner of speaking. Who's the word person around here, me or you?”

He smiled. “Jewelry, some cash, an antique clock. They got in through a basement window. Smashed it in.”

“Stanley, you've got to catch this person—or persons. This is awful.”

“Of course it's awful, but it's not as if we've never seen this kind of thing before. What are you getting so upset about?”

“They're getting closer and closer to
my
house; that's what.”

“Yes,” he said solemnly, “I'm certain that whoever is behind this has a map of Shady Hills and is methodically zeroing in on Nine Lilac Way. It's only a matter of time.”

“Smart ass.”

“Actually, we do have some ideas about who's behind this. Ideas,” he added quickly, “I'm not authorized to share with you.”

She remembered that poor Stanley had been reprimanded for allowing her to become too involved in the case of the girl found hanging from a tree behind Hydrangea House. Jane had found this reprimand amusing: It had been she, in the end, who solved the case, yet Stanley should not have let her help.

“How's your day going?” he asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Good and bad. Good because I've discovered a marvelous new novelist, a true genius. I don't think I've been this excited about a book in years.”

“That's great!” His expression turned thoughtful. “You know, I really should finish that police thriller I've been working on.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She'd heard this countless times before. “I've come to the conclusion that this famous book you keep referring to doesn't really exist. It's like a man's etchings.”

He laughed. “It does exist. It's just that I'm too insecure to show it to you.”

“I see. Well, when you trust me enough to expose yourself to such vulnerability, I'd be more than delighted to read it and give you my thoughts. And I promise I'll be honest but gentle.”

“Thank you, Jane. Now what's the bad part of your day?”

She made a sour face. “Stephanie. Stanley, I've tried my hardest to like her, but she's just awful. She's a supercilious, superficial snob. I can't believe she's related to my poor Kenneth.”

“They were cousins, not brother and sister. Even brother and sister can be as different as night and day.”

“True. And that would explain why Kenneth barely ever talked about her. He must not have liked her. But I still feel I owe it to her as family to help her out here. I've left her with Myrtle for the afternoon to look for an apartment.”

“She's not wasting any time.”