Stabbing Stephanie (27 page)

“Mother!” Kate gasped. “What are you doing? Where did you get that gun?”

“I've had this since the trouble started in Ananda,” she answered in a monotone, unmoving. “It was your grandfather who taught me to shoot it. Looks as if that may have been the only useful thing he ever did.”

“Don't you see!” Gavin screamed, his eyes wild. “I did it all for you! Because of me, you got to keep your children! From the money we got when I sold the Star, we were able to build a whole new life for ourselves.
You're
the one who ruined everything.
You're
the one who had to have the Star back. If only you'd left it alone. Don't you see, you stupid woman—everything I've done has been
for you!”

Faith kept the gun trained on him. “I let you corrupt me,” she said in a dazed monotone. “I let you turn us into a couple of common thieves, stealing from our ‘authors. ' But a murderer I'm not . . . and I never asked you or anyone else to kill for me.”

The room was silent, no one moving or speaking. Finally Faith, still keeping the revolver aimed at Gavin, turned to Jane. “Lana, please call the police.”

“Her name isn't Lana!” Gavin cried, clearly desperate now. “Her real name is Jane Stuart—she's a
literary agent,”
he said with a sneer, as if describing earth's lowest life form.

Faith, Sam, and Kate turned to her inquiringly.

“It's true,” she said. “Stephanie was my late husband's cousin. She said she thought something was wrong in this company and asked me to help her figure out what it was. I realize now that she was using me to try to dig up dirt to use as blackmail material—anything to solidify her position here.” She glanced at Gavin. “But through her own snooping she found all the dirt she needed, and the best prize of all—the Star.”

She turned and went out to the corridor to call Greenberg. Halfway out, she stopped and turned to Faith. “You're sure you're okay?”

“I'll be fine,” Faith replied, and moved the gun a little closer to Gavin, aiming it now at the middle of his face. “Just fine. Besides, this really is a family affair.”

A
n hour and a half later, Jane descended the stairs to the foyer, a suitcase in each hand. Fortunately, she'd packed them the day before.

Florence appeared from the family room. “I do hope you have a wonderful time, missus.”

“Thanks,” Jane said sadly. “I'm not in much of a vacationing mood.”

“You will be. And remember, your not going can't bring anyone back.”

“True.”

“By the way, the mail has come. Would you like to see it before you go?”

“Sure, why not?” Jane set down the suitcases and followed Florence into the kitchen. On the counter was a stack of envelopes on top of a box.

“Who's that from?” Jane asked, pointing to the box.

Florence drew it out, glanced at the label, and shrugged. “No return address.”

Could it be a manuscript? Were writers now going to start sending their books to her at home? She went to the counter, took a knife from the drawer, and slit open the box. She frowned. Instead of pages, the box was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. Baffled, Jane felt around inside. Her fingers touched paper wrapping; she pulled this out, laid it on the counter, and peeled back the layers.

Both women gasped.

A magically luminous creamy blue stone the size of an egg floated in a sea of diamonds.

“The Star of Ananda,” Florence whispered, and put her hand to her mouth. “What is it doing here?”

Jane had told Florence everything she'd learned in Gavin's office. “This was at the heart of it all. Stephanie mailed it to herself here.” She had a thought and reached for the box, glanced at its label. “This isn't addressed to me; it's addressed to Stephanie. She had to get it out of the office. What smarter way than to disguise it as one of the many manuscripts constantly being returned to writers?”

“How did Gavin know Stephanie had found it?” Florence asked.

“I've been thinking about that. I believe that in addition to the camouflaged door, Gavin's office was equipped with a one-way mirror that looked into the next office. Remember, Dr. Kruger treated children as well as adults. He would have used this one-way window to observe children playing in the therapy room—now Faith's office. Gavin, of course, used it as a means of spying on his wife. He must have hung a picture over the window to hide it when he wasn't using it. To Faith, it was a mirror left behind by the previous tenant.

“In order not to be seen on the observing side of a one-way window, the lights must be out. Through this window Gavin must have seen Stephanie searching Faith's office, must have seen her find the Star where Faith had hidden it. While he was watching her, he must have moved in such a way that light from the window behind him shone through. Stephanie, who was sharp if nothing else, noticed this light change but couldn't figure out what had happened. Faith's office, after all, had no windows. That's why Stephanie told Nick that riddle about light changing in a room without windows.”

Reverently, Jane lifted the heavy necklace, walked behind Florence, and fastened it around her neck. It shone like blue and crystal fire against her smooth brown skin.

“Oh, missus,” Florence said in a low voice, raising her hands to touch it but apparently afraid. Then the Star's beauty seemed to overcome her, and she felt its perfect surface as if she couldn't resist its attraction.

From a drawer Jane removed a hand mirror she sometimes used to put on makeup. She held it out to Florence, whose eyes sparkled almost as brightly as the jewels as she moved slightly from side to side.

Jane gave her a warm smile. “I don't know if this will go into a museum, or if Faith will get it back. But for a few moments,” she said wistfully, “we can have a little piece of the fairy tale.”

 

 

Half an hour later, on Jane's front steps, she hugged and kissed Nick and Florence good-bye, then picked up Winky and kissed her on her mottled nose. “Now don't you have those kittens before I get back,” she warned the cat playfully, and gently set her down.

Stanley Greenberg pulled into the driveway, hopped out, and put Jane's bags in the trunk. Then they both got in, waved to Florence and Nick, and headed down Lilac Way and, ultimately, to Newark Airport.

They rode in silence until they reached Route 280. Then Greenberg shook his head. “I still can't believe what happened. Poor Stephanie. And pathetic Ivor, who'd have been better off staying in New York.”

“Yes. It's all very sad.” Jane gazed out the window at the passing trees. “It all started, really, when a young girl from Boston thought she could really live a fairy tale.” She shook her head. “It never works.”

When they got to the airport, Jane insisted that Greenberg just drop her at the curb. “It's easier this way, anyway; I'll use the curbside check-in. Besides, you need to get back to work. I appreciate the ride.”

“If I were coming with you,” he said mischievously, “I wouldn't have to leave you at all.”

She smiled, kissed him on the lips. “Oh, Stanley. Just give me a little more time.”

“All right,” he said understandingly. “But hey . . .”

“Hey what?”

“When you get back, I'll be waiting for you. And that's no fairy tale.”

Jane's smile widened. For now, that was good enough for her. She gave him a decisive nod.

A skycap approached the car. “Morning, ma'am. And where are we flying to this morning?”

“St. John's, Antigua,” she told him, gave Stanley another kiss, and got out.

The skycap took her bags from the backseat and led the way toward the terminal. “You're on your way,” he said over his shoulder.

Jane looked back one last time at Greenberg and waved fondly. He waved back, his smile sweet; then he was distracted by having to pull the car back into traffic.

“Ma'am?”

Jane turned. The skycap was waiting for her at the counter.

Quickly he checked her ticket and passport and handed them back to her. “You're there!” he said, and he, too, smiled kindly, as if somehow he knew how badly she needed this vacation. She tipped him generously and, free of her luggage, strolled lightly into the terminal.

Yes, I'm there
.

She could already feel the tropical sun hot on her skin, smell coconut-scented tanning oil, hear the breeze whispering through the fronds of the palms.

She got on the escalator, thinking of fairy tales.

Please turn the page for
an exciting sneak peek at
Evan Marshall's newest
Jane Stuart and Winky mystery

 

ICING IVY

 

Coming in hardcover in November 2002!

A
t dinner, Jane, sitting between Daniel and William Ives, glanced around the room, wondering where Ivy was. As if reading her thoughts, Daniel whispered, “Isn't Ivy coming to dinner?”

“I don't know,” Jane replied, and at that moment Ivy appeared in the doorway.

She looked like hell, as if she hadn't bathed or changed her clothes since yesterday. She made her way over to Jane, Daniel, and William and took a seat next to William. Watching Ivy sit down a little too carefully, Jane wondered if she'd been drinking.

The atmosphere was subdued—Adam, Rhoda, and Ginny serving, everyone quietly eating. Adam, crossing the room with a tray, gave Jane an imploring look. She nodded.

“Well!” she said brightly. “How are everyone's stories coming along?”

They all looked at her, wary expressions on their faces.

Finally William looked up and smiled at Jane. “I think mine's a real humdinger! Maybe I'll get myself one of those movie deals. But I've got to executive produce!”

Everyone laughed, the atmosphere loosening up.

“I've got a hell of a story,” Ivy suddenly blurted out. The room grew silent again. Everyone watched her, waiting.

“Mm-hm,” she said matter-of-factly, spearing a piece of broccoli and putting it in her mouth. “It's going to put someone in jail for years.”

Again the uneasy silence. Jane didn't blame Ivy for feeling bitter toward Johnny, and was happy that her friend was rid of him, but she didn't like the way this conversation was going.

“What about you, Carla?” Jane asked.

Carla looked up and scowled at Jane, who refused to be intimidated.

“How is your novel coming along?”

“Fine,” Carla said brusquely, and looked away. “Pass the butter, please.”

Jane gave up. The remainder of the meal was eaten in virtual silence.

 

 

The atmosphere of that evening's group session made Jane nervous, as if the atmosphere was charged.

Tamara read from her novel, about a woman dying of breast cancer. Red Pearson ripped it to shreds, calling it maudlin and melodramatic.

When he read from his novel based on the Boriken Social Club tragedy, Tamara got him back by loudly scoffing at least three times.

William Ives, in his thin, shaky voice, read a passage from his novel about a lost woodsman. To Jane's surprise, it was extremely well written. She noticed Arliss, William's instructor, nodding approvingly at the other end of the room. Jane wondered, perhaps uncharitably, if Arliss had rewritten William's material. Brad Franklin, as if reading Jane's thoughts, called out, “Sounds like your teacher helped you with your homework!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” William asked.

Brad laughed, his shoulders rising and falling once. “It's obvious. Arliss rewrote your stuff. Or maybe she just wrote it, saved you the trouble of doing anything at all.”

A hush descended on the room. Arliss was watching Brad with a shocked, hateful look in her eyes. “That remark was totally uncalled for, Brad,” she said, “and I resent it immensely.”

Brad laughed again. “Sorry, sorry—I was just joking!”

“You know,” Ivy said, and everyone turned to her, “I think Brad is the last person who should object to someone's writing being ‘ghosted,' since that's what he does for a living.”

Brad's face grew serious. “I just told you, I was joking.”

Ivy appeared to ignore this. “Damn cushy setup,” she muttered. “Cushier than people think.”

Brad gave her a surprised, murderous look.

Paul Kavanagh read more of his coming-of-age novel, a passage in which the protagonist experienced his first homosexual encounter. In the middle of it, Red yelled out that he hadn't come to this retreat to hear porno. This time Paul, who seemed to have girded himself for blows such as this, simply finished reading and took his seat.

Ellyn Bass read lovingly from her romance, dwelling on the heavy Scottish accents. Tamara rolled her eyes. To Jane's surprise, Jennifer criticized the passage, saying that dialect would make her book difficult to read. Bertha rushed to disagree, saying she thought the dialect was marvelously authentic. Listening to this exchange, Ellyn looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. When Bertha reminded the group that her last Scottish historical,
Highland Rapture,
had been number 31 on the
New York Times
extended best-seller list and that she should know whereof she spoke, Jennifer rose a little in her chair and narrowed her eyes. Eager to avoid another battle, Jane stood up and asked Larry if he would like to read. He gave her a puzzled look and reminded her that he hadn't written anything new. She apologized, moving on to Carla. She had succeeded in preventing another scene. Taking her seat, she glanced at Ivy, who was watching Larry closely.

When the session was over, Adam came in and reminded everyone of the reception he and Rhoda were hosting in the dining room. Ivy said softly to Jane that that was one party she'd pass on. Jane had no desire to attend either, though she knew she should. She decided to take a few minutes' break in her room first.

She took the back stairs to the second floor and made her way down the corridor. Passing Arliss's room, she heard Arliss speaking harshly to someone.

“If you want to keep this working,” she was saying in a tone of exasperation, “you've at least got to
read
them. Just how lazy are you? You should have just told her you're not allowed to talk about them.”

What was she talking about, Jane wondered, and to whom was she speaking?

Entering her room, Jane threw herself onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Her thoughts wandered to Ivy and Johnny, and she grew angry as she thought about how they had used and manipulated her.

She was also certain that Ivy knew more about the gunman incident than she had let on. Ivy hadn't gone to Adam and Rhoda's reception and must be in her room. Impulsively, Jane decided to speak to her, to confront her friend about what she'd done.

She crossed the hall and knocked on Ivy's door. There was no answer. Either Ivy had already gone to bed or she was still downstairs, in which latter case Jane wouldn't want to speak with her now anyway. The things Jane wanted to say could only be said in private. Besides, Jane had decided not to attend the reception at all, and didn't want to be spotted and buttonholed.

Deciding to speak to Ivy in the morning, she went to bed.

She was awakened by a knock on her door. Morning light shone between the curtains. “Who is it?”

“Jane, it's me, Stanley.”

She jumped out of bed, made sure her hair looked all right, and threw open the door. He seemed surprised when she put her arms around him and kissed him. Then she noticed a man in uniform standing behind Stanley, who cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Jane, you remember Officer Raymond.”

“Yes, of course,” Jane said, serious now. “How are you?”

“Fine, ma'am, thank you.”

Stanley said, “The road's finally clear, obviously. Now, can you tell me everything you saw relating to this gunman incident?”

“Yes, of course. Just let me throw on some clothes.”

She closed the door and quickly brushed her teeth and dressed. Then she asked both men to come in and told them what happened.

“I'd like to speak to Ivy,” Stanley said.

“Her room's just across the hall,” Jane told him, and led the way. Stanley knocked on the door. No answer.

“That's odd,” Jane said, a shiver of fear running through her. “Where could she be?”

“In another room?” Stanley ventured.

“No . . .” she said thoughtfully, “there's nowhere else she would have spent the night. Stanley,” she said suddenly, “I want Adam to let us into her room. What if she's done something—something to herself.”

Stanley's eyes widened. “All right.” He turned to Officer Raymond. “Pete, would you please go get Adam?”

Raymond nodded and ran down the stairs. A few moments later he and Adam appeared.

“What's going on?” Adam asked Jane.

“I want you to open Ivy's door. She wasn't in her room last night and she doesn't answer the door now.”

“All right,” Adam said, and taking a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and led the way in.

The bed was neatly made, the room empty.

Stanley sighed ominously. “It's clear no one spent the night here.”

“Where could she have gone?” Jane asked, though not expecting an answer.

“Jane, I want you to show me where Johnny and the man with the gun ran.”

She nodded and led them along the corridor, down the stairs, and out the door. It was still quite cold, a moistness in the air, the sky overcast and foreboding. Jane showed Stanley and Raymond the footprints leading into the woods. “But they peter out pretty quickly,” she told them.

Stanley was moving slowly among the trees, deeper into the woods. “No, they don't,” he said thoughtfully, taking one careful step after another, and Raymond, Jane, and Adam followed him. Soon Stanley had led them onto a wide trail.

“Where does this lead?” Stanley asked Adam.

“To the pond.”

“See here,” Stanley said, pointing to the ground. “The prints come out of the woods and onto the trail. And here,” he said, pointing along the trail in the direction of the lodge, are two more sets of prints. They all merge here.”

“But what does that mean?” Jane asked.

Stanley didn't answer, but followed the merged prints, the others close behind. “Ah,” he said suddenly, pointing. “Two sets of prints veer off the trail again into the woods.”

“Could Johnny and the other man have come this way?” Jane wondered aloud.

“It's possible,” Adam said. “Eventually they would have come to another trail. There are so many of them in these woods, and many of them lead all the way down the mountain.”

The remaining two sets of footprints continued along the trail, and Stanley, Raymond, Jane, and Adam followed them to the edge of the pond, which was larger than Jane had expected, its surface completely covered with snow.

Stanley was standing at the pond's edge, his hands on his hips. He seemed to be staring at something. Jane came up beside him.

“What?” she asked.

Stanley pointed to an odd mound of snow about a foot from the shore.

“What is it?” she asked, wondering why it was so interesting to him. “A rock?”

Wordlessly, Stanley approached the shape, knelt down, and brushed away some of the snow. To Jane's surprise, a bit of bright red was revealed. She frowned, puzzled, and went closer.

Stanley, intent on what he was doing, brushed away more snow.

Suddenly Ivy's face was looking out at them, her blue eyes open, staring, her cheeks bright red.

“Oh my God,” Jane gasped, and grabbed Stanley. “It's Ivy. Is she . . .”

“Dead.” Stanley nodded.

Jane felt her face contorting and she began to cry. “This is horrible. Poor Ivy.”

Stanley was brushing away more snow. He stood, turned, and took Jane in his arms.

“She must have come down the trail for some reason,” Jane said through her tears, “and not realized she'd reached the pond and fallen. She must have hit her head on the ice.”

Gently, Stanley took Jane by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Jane, Ivy's death was no accident. I'm sorry, I don't want to have to tell you this, but you might as well know now. She's been stabbed.”

Jane drew in her breath. “Stabbed?”

He nodded. “With a small, sharp instrument. If I'm not mistaken, an ice pick.”

An ice pick . . . The world began to spin. “Like Trotsky . . .” she said, and suddenly Adam was reaching out to her and Stanley had his arms around her, trying to hold her up, and everything went black.