Stabbing Stephanie (19 page)

“Aren't you on it now?”

“No. I'm at a pay phone.”

“Oh.” He sighed. “All right. After I speak with Jack, I'll leave a message with Daniel.”

Encouraged by Ham's avid interest in Nat Barre's novel, she hurried out of the ladies' room and back to her desk.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“Fine. Why?”

“I heard you scream in there. It sounded like you were saying, ‘What!' ”

She laughed. “I saw a big spider. Hate spiders.” She went back to the file cabinet. Glancing at her desk, she noticed that someone had left a fresh stack of papers in her In box.

He saw her looking. “Mumsy left that for you. She also left you these lists that need to be typed. When you're done, you need to get Gavin to initial them; then give them back to Mumsy.” He pointed to the communal computer across the corridor and smiled sourly. “Aren't we having fun?”

She smiled back and kept filing. But filing was growing tedious and she decided a change of pace was in order. She sat down at her desk and picked up the lists Sam had said needed typing. These seemed innocuous enough. Written in a loopy handwriting she assumed was Faith's, they were actually the company's publication schedule for the coming year. At the very end was
“Stars in My Eyes,
Lillian Strohman, hardcover, $28.95.” The date was the following November.

Jane tapped the papers on her desk to straighten them and was about to rise to cross to the computer when she heard a familiar voice. It was coming from the far end of the corridor, near Gavin's office. It was a woman's voice, cultured, with a familiar lockjaw quality. “I think you've done
wonders
with the place, dear,” the voice was saying.

It was Puffy Chapin. Glancing down the corridor, Jane could see her just emerging from the door perpendicular to Gavin's office—Kate's office, apparently.

Thinking fast, Jane put a hand quickly to her ear. “Oops!” she said, and slid down her chair and under her desk, like a snake. “Dropped an earring,” she said, not too loudly.

Crouched under the desk, she could see Kate's and Puffy's feet approaching. They walked slowly past. “I don't want to bother your mother,” Puffy was saying. “Just let her know I came by to make sure everything was all right. I think we've got that heat thing licked, but she should call me if there's the
slightest
problem.”

“All right, I'll let her know. Thanks,” Kate said graciously, and Jane heard the door to the reception area open and close.

Jane turned to crawl out from under her desk.

A pair of male trousered legs blocked her way. Sam's expensive black slacks, cuffs resting on black loafers that were covered with dust and could have used a shine.

Why was he standing there? His hand went to his fly. “Let's get started, Miss Lewinsky; I haven't got all day.”

With an impatient groan she pushed his legs away. “Let me up!”

He was laughing. “What were you doing under there?”

“I told you. I lost an earring.”

His face uncomfortably close to hers, he peered at her ears. “Both earrings seem to be there,” he said in a seductive, breathy voice.

“That's right,” she chirped and smiled tightly, “because I found it.” She waited, not moving, staring him down.

He nodded and returned to his desk. His shoulders rose in a quiet chuckle. “I did
not
have sexual relations with that woman!” he said in a raspy voice.

A decidedly strange young man.

It took about twenty minutes for Jane to type up the lists Faith had left for her. She printed them out and started toward Gavin's office.

Sam looked up quickly. “I wouldn't, Lana. Not quite yet.” He smirked. “He's
with
someone.”

Jane frowned, confused, but Sam did not elaborate. Jane put the lists on her desk and continued with her filing. Approximately ten minutes later, she heard a door open and looked up. At the far end of the corridor, someone was emerging from Gavin's office. It was Stephanie. As Jane watched, Stephanie glanced back into the office and gave a quick smile—a smile, it seemed to Jane, that implied a high level of intimacy. Standing in the doorway, Stephanie straightened her jacket and smoothed her hair. Then she walked toward her office, a pleased look on her face.

“Lana . . .” Sam whispered in a singsong voice. “You're staring . . .”

She glanced at him sharply. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. She knew what that meant. Could he be right?

Stephanie and Gavin? Stephanie was Faith's best friend. No, Jane decided, Stephanie appeared to be of questionable character, but she wouldn't go this far.

Stephanie had closed Gavin's door behind her. Five minutes later it opened again, and Gavin came out. Looking quite unruffled, he headed straight for Jane's desk.

“Mrs. Pitt, may I speak to you in my office, please?”

She looked at him in alarm. She heard Sam snicker and shot him a sidelong glance. “You're next,” he murmured. She didn't think Gavin heard him.

She nodded, rose, and followed him into his office. As he closed the door, he invited her to sit down on a sofa that was part of a self-contained meeting area to the far left, in a sort of alcove. There was the sofa, two matching upholstered chairs, and a glass-and-metal coffee table. It occurred to Jane that this area might have been where Dr. Kruger, the office's previous tenant (for clearly this had been his office), met with his patients.

“A psychiatrist had this space before us,” Gavin said pleasantly, as if reading her thoughts. “Attractive room, don't you think?” He sat down in one of the chairs, smiling affably. “He left his furniture—sold it to Puffy, actually, which made moving that much easier for us.”

“Didn't you have furniture of your own?”

“Some, but not as much—we had much less space in New York.”

It was an attractive room—airy, spacious, its east wall occupied mostly by a window that looked out on woods. Though boxes stood stacked against the far wall, Gavin had already put up a few of pieces of art: several watercolors, a vivid abstract painting of a butterfly that Jane guessed must have appeared on a Carson & Hart book. Most striking about the room was its contrast to Faith's small, windowless office. Faith may have been the former queen, but it was clear who ruled at Carson & Hart.

“May I get you some coffee? Tea?” he asked.

“No, thanks very much.” She waited. What did he want?

He frowned for a second, as if gathering his thoughts. “Mrs. Pitt . . .” he finally began.

“Please call me Lana.”

He nodded appreciatively. “Lana. I think you're going to like it here at Carson & Hart. I can tell already that you'll fit in nicely. And you seem to know what we're all about here. Faith showed me your resumé, and I noticed that you have some very good publishing experience.”

She inclined her head graciously, still waiting for him to get to the point.

“Lana, I'm sure you've noticed already that Sam is . . . that Sam needs . . .” He drew a deep breath, seemingly at a loss for the right words. “Sam,” he started again, “needs help.”

“Help?”

“Yes—he needs a direction in life. You've heard the things he says, seen the way he treats his mother and me, the way he feels about working here.”

“Yes.”

“I sense that someone like you could be a very positive influence on Sam. Especially with your experience in publishing. Obviously you appreciate this business. I wonder if you could try to—instill some of that appreciation in Sam. Act as, well, sort of a mother figure to him.”

“Mother figure?”

“Oh.” He seemed to realize suddenly that Jane might have taken offense at his choice of words. “Not literally, of course—I didn't mean that you're old enough—I just mean that I think you could be an excellent influence on him, and I'm giving you complete freedom to speak your mind to him and to let him know when you feel he's off base.”

So he wanted her to baby-sit Sam? “I always speak my mind—tactfully, of course. And you're right; Sam does have problems. He's . . . scornful of this place, of his mother and you. He doesn't like working here, doesn't like
working.
I'll do what I can,” she said with an assuring smile, “but have you and his mother considered therapy for him? I believe his troubles are far more serious than just a lack of ambition or direction in life—if you'll forgive my saying so.”

“Of course, of course—I want to know your thoughts. Actually, Sam has been in therapy for years. He's always been a troubled boy—you know I've been acquainted with his mother for years; I was her husband's assistant in the old days in Ananda.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Sam has shown himself capable of some pretty shocking acts—as I'm sure you've seen.”

She thought of the photo he'd tacked up over his desk, his Lewinsky joke when she'd been under her desk. “Yes.”

“Anyway,” he said, rising, “I don't mean to take up so much of your time. I realize you have a lot to do. I just wanted you to know we appreciate having a person of your experience here, and that we hope you'll feel free to share your obviously positive outlook with Sam.”

She followed him to the door, anxious to get out.

Opening the door for her, he said, “I think you could go far in this company, Lana. I really do.” He gave her a patronizing grin. “Great to have you aboard.”

She grinned back and started down the corridor toward her desk. Passing Stephanie's office, she looked in just as Stephanie looked up. Stephanie's features were completely impassive, her gaze calculating.

Taking her seat, Jane saw the publication lists on her blotter and realized she'd forgotten to have Gavin initial them. She made an impatient, “Tsk.”

Sam looked over. “I was going to remind you, but you seemed to have a lot on your mind already. You could always go back in—if you're ready so soon.”

Looking at him in horror, she gathered up the papers and rose. “For the rest of the day,” she said with a tiny smile, “I would like you not to speak to me. We'll get along much better that way.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded. She turned and headed back toward Gavin's office.

Good influence be damned. Let his therapist keep trying to straighten him out. That wasn't in her job description; besides which, in a few days she'd be gone from this bizarre place.

A
t five, Jane gathered her things and got her coat from the closet. Sam rose from his desk at the same time. “Day's over,” he said seductively. “Am I allowed to speak now?” He had, in fact, honored her request and kept silent for the rest of the day.

She couldn't help laughing. She shook her head. “Say what you like,” she said lightly. “I'm going home.”

“I'll walk out with you.”

Jane and Stephanie had agreed to leave the office separately each day, but Jane glanced into her office just the same. The small room was empty. Then from Faith's office came the sound of women's voices. Stephanie must be in there.

Jane and Sam left the building together. It was dark and cold, the tall lamps of the parking lot casting an unnatural greenish light.

“Where's your car?” he asked.

He had caught her off guard. “Um . . . around the corner, in the municipal lot.”

He looked puzzled. “Why did you park there?”

“Exercise,” she answered, thinking fast. “I'm trying to lose weight and need to get more exercise. So I intentionally park a good distance from the office so I can get my walking in.”

“Good idea.” He looked her up and down. “Though I hardly think you need to lose any weight.”

“Thanks,” she said, eager to lose him. “Where's your car?” They had already started down the narrow drive beside the building, where the Dumpster stood. Obviously Sam's car wasn't in the lot behind the building, either.

“Over there,” he said, pointing back at the lot. When Jane frowned in bewilderment, he said, “I'm not going home just yet. I'm going to grab a bite of dinner at that little pizza place on the green around the corner, then maybe I'll walk around the village; I don't know.” Suddenly she saw him as lonely, a sad young man who didn't know where he was going—or, at least, didn't like where he was expected to go.

She decided that if he kept walking with her, she'd disappear into the municipal lot, wait till he was out of sight, then sneak around to the lot behind her office, where her car was really parked.

At the far end of the Dumpster, a tall shadow loomed up. Jane and Sam stopped, taken aback. The figure walked slowly toward them; Jane's heart pounded.

“Spare a dollar?”

It was Ivor. Jane relaxed her shoulders, at the same time opening her bag. She gave him a dollar.

“God bless,” he said, and met her gaze. “I know you. You're the lady from around the corner on the grass.”

“That's right,” she said uncomfortably, and she and Sam walked on.

“Do you make a habit of befriending the local bums?”

“Please don't call him that.”

“Ah, a liberal!” he said, nodding. “What did he mean?”

“That he's seen me before, obviously,” she said, keeping her tone casual. “I was walking across the green and gave him some money.”

“Oh. I never give bums—I mean, beggars—money.”

She wasn't sure she liked
beggar
any better than
bum,
but decided to let it go. “And why is that?” she asked tiredly, already knowing the answer.

“Because when you give money to people like that, you're hurting them more than you're helping them.”

She looked at him, surprised. “How so?”

“Because it's enabling.” He gave her an arch look. “Is my therapy showing? Anyway, you're helping him buy more liquor, which is the last thing he needs. What he needs is rehab.”

“I agree, but I'm not in a position to help him get that. And you—you don't even want to acknowledge his existence. Until he can get the kind of help he really needs, isn't it our duty to help him buy some food?”

“He won't use that money for food, Lana, and you know it. Best to just ignore him.”

She shook her head. They had come out onto the street. She hadn't wanted to be seen with him, in case someone she knew drove by and blew her cover, but now she realized it was so dark here, the streets so inadequately lit, that there was little danger of that. She found herself glad to be able to walk with him a little more. She felt sorry for him now, and regretted having told him not to speak to her.

Glancing across the street at the police station, she wondered if Stanley was still at work. Then she looked quickly away, starting along the curving sidewalk and returning her attention to Sam.

“Gavin wanted to talk to you about me, didn't he,” he said. It was more a statement than a question.

She opened her mouth to respond, but he broke in.

“You don't have to deny it. I know it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know how he thinks. I can tell he likes you. You're the kind of person he would want me to learn from, to be like.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “It must have been hard for you and Kate, not having a father.”

He looked at her in the dimness, shrewd, assessingly. Then he nodded. “Even when we had a father,” he said, his eyes distant now, a little sad, “we didn't have much of a father.”

She turned to him inquiringly.

“You know that until my grandfather died, my father basically had nothing to do in Ananda. He was . . . well, I suppose he was like me! Not needed for anything.”

She was about to protest, but he went on.

“My grandfather died before I was born. My mother was pregnant with me, actually. Grandfather was also pretty much a good-for-nothing type, always jetting around to play with his rich friends. Anyway, one of his favorite spots was Tunisia.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You do? How?”

“I read your mother's book,” she lied, knowing that fact must be in there.

“Ah, the book.” His shoulders rose in a short laugh. “Quite a fairy tale, that book. You wasted your time reading it. It's hardly the real story.”

Then you tell me,
she thought, and waited.

“You know, then, that Grandfather's car went off a cliff into a ravine and exploded. He had been drinking. All night, in fact. I can't imagine who let him drive in that condition. I can only think that subconsciously he wanted to die. But,” he said, shaking his head, “we'll never know.” He shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets. “Suddenly my father was king.

“I know from my mother—and maybe this is in her book, I don't know—that when my father became king, she expected his behavior to change. She expected he would take his responsibilities seriously and use his expensive Harvard education to improve his country.” He laughed. “That was like expecting your bum—I mean, your homeless person to stop drinking. It just wasn't going to happen. Nothing changed. He was still fun-loving, carefree, content to let Ananda continue to run itself. And why not? For years there had been peace and prosperity. What was there to improve?”

There were more streetlamps here as they neared the village center. Packer Road was busier here, too; a number of cars had to stop here to turn left onto Highland. Afraid someone would see her, Jane turned from the road, quickened her pace.

“So your father was a disappointment to your mother,” she said.

“Absolutely.” He grew more animated. “And as it turned out, my mother was right. Ananda did need leadership. The country was in trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

He frowned mildly. “It's in her book. Don't you remember? One night, a small band of men—just people from down in the city, if you could call it a city—a group of men slipped past palace security—if you could call it security! They actually got into the palace and found my father's rooms; my parents always had separate quarters. They attacked him in his bed. One of them stabbed him. My mother came running, hugely pregnant with me, at the sound of the commotion. There was a lot of blood, blood everywhere, but as it turned out, the blade only pierced my father's side, and the wound was deep but not especially serious.”

“What happened to the men who attacked him? I don't recall from the book.” She should have read this book, she realized.

“The palace guards caught them quite easily. The police interrogated them. After quite some time, they confessed to being members of a secret group that for years had been plotting to overthrow the Anandese government so China could annex the country. You see, China had had its eye on Ananda for some time. Now we knew that many Anandese were in favor of this annexation, believing life could get even better if this happened.”

They neared the railroad tracks.

Sam went on, “As I said, my father wasn't really hurt, not badly, but he was afraid. For once, he showed some backbone and insisted my mother return to the States, at least until she had me, and the rebels could be taken care of. But you've met Mumsy. She's got enough backbone for three people. Not only did she refuse to leave Ananda, but she blamed my father for what had happened. She said if he hadn't been such a lax king, this traitorous group would never have been able to form in the first place. Which is nonsense, of course, but try telling that to my mother. She told him that if he didn't have the balls to run the country,
she
would.

“Everything changed. She gave orders to strengthen security, not just in the palace but also at the borders. Until that time, Anandese, Chinese, Indians, and Nepalese had pretty much passed freely. Mother also commanded Ananda's little police force to ferret out ‘the insurgents,' as she called them, and bring them to speedy trial.” He grimaced. “I understand it was horrible. Dozens of men—and women—were executed for the crime of treason. This, in a country where no executions had taken place for hundreds of years.”

Ahead Jane could see the municipal lot on the right, the village green across from it. Now there was a good chance someone she knew might see her with Sam—which, she reasoned, might not matter, but it wasn't a risk she could take, someone calling out or speaking to her as Jane. She wanted to hear more of this story, but she had better separate from him soon.

“Everyone hated her,” Sam was saying. “She became this . . . this
monster
. I know this from Gavin.”

“From Gavin?” she asked, surprised. “Why would he tell you these things about your mother?”

“Because he knew I'd hear them, and he wanted me to know the truth. He saw all of this firsthand, because it was at this time that my father hired Gavin as his official secretary.”

“Where had he come from?”

“He'd worked at the United Nations. He'd known my father since their undergraduate days at Oxford.” He laughed, kicking a stone off the sidewalk. “Gavin told me my mother said hiring him was the only smart thing my father ever did. She was right, in a way. Gavin started doing the things my mother wanted my father to do. Meanwhile, she played the queen role to the hilt—even while she was expecting me.

“Her schedule had never been busier. She was traveling, throwing lavish parties for foreign dignitaries, including royalty. She told Gavin that because she was hosting royalty at the palace, she expected to be hosted in kind by these people at
their
palaces—which did actually happen in some cases. But it was ludicrous, really. Ananda was barely a country, and the ‘palace' was a huge old rustic . . .
lodge
.

“She began using the regal ‘we' and demanded visitors and servants treat her with ‘the deference due royalty.' She was to be addressed as Your Majesty or
‘Chogyal,'
which was the ancient Tibetan title for ‘ruler.' She distanced herself from my father and from the people—these people who had always had full access to their king and queen. She made Gavin deal with the public; she said that was beneath her.

“During this time an article about Ananda in
Time
magazine referred to my mother as ‘a Himalayan Marie Antoinette.' A friend of Gavin's in the States sent him the article. When he showed it to my mother, she laughed and walked away.”

They had reached the entrance to the municipal lot. “Well, this is me,” she said.

He looked disoriented for a moment, as if he were still in Ananda—though everything he had told Jane so far had occurred before he was born. “Right,” he said, glancing at the lot. Fortunately, there were still a number of cars parked there.

“See you in the morning, then,” Jane said with a smile, and started into the lot. “You said you were going to Giorgio's, right? It's over there, at the farthest end of the green.”

“I know. I've already been there a few times.”

“Really? Who do you go there with?”

He laughed, looked at her strangely. “Who do you think? Nobody. Who would go with me?” And, his hands still deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders slumped, he waved good night and crossed the road to the green.

She watched him for a moment, feeling sad, and made her way to a row of four cars parked in the municipal lot. Standing next to one of the cars, she made a business of fussing in her bag, in case he turned around and looked at her. But he didn't. She watched him cross the middle of the green, not something she would do in the dark, even in peaceful Shady Hills. When he disappeared in the shadows of the great oaks, she started out of the lot and headed toward the lot behind her office.

The lights were out in her office. Daniel had gone home, or perhaps out with Ginny. Jane wondered if anything else had happened today regarding
The Blue Palindrome,
wondered whether Hamilton Kiels had reconsidered his preemptive bid. She'd call Daniel's apartment when she got home, and if he wasn't home, she'd leave a message. He'd call her back tonight, wouldn't put her off.