Stabbing Stephanie (4 page)

“Have a great one,” Jane said, and started walking away, but Puffy pursued her.

“Jane, wait! I just don't feel we've resolved this issue satisfactorily.”

Jane frowned. “What issue?”

“Of where our town is going. Of this liberal new element”—Puffy looked Jane up and down—“that's creeping in. For example, For Sale signs.”

Jane stared at her in bafflement. “For Sale signs?”

“Yes. What do you think of that?”

“Of what?”

“You mean you don't know? Jane,
people are now putting For Sale signs on their lawns.”

Jane scratched her head. “And?”

“And! We've never allowed For Sale signs on lawns in Shady Hills. Didn't you know that?”

“To be honest, I can't say I ever noticed or even thought about it.”

“Well, think about it! How do you think a For Sale sign makes a house look?”

“Like it's for sale?”

Puffy just shook her head. “At the rate we're going, we'll be Paterson within a year.”

“All right, Puffy, I promise that if I ever want to sell my house, I'll put up a For Sale sign only if I'm absolutely desperate.”

“Are you moving?” Puffy asked, alarmed.

“No, I said ‘if.' See you soon.” Jane pushed again at her cart.

“Speaking of moving,” Puffy said, grabbing her own cart and walking along beside Jane, “I've had some nice news.”

Jane stopped and turned, but she just couldn't smile anymore. In a minute she'd tell Puffy she had to get back to the office. “Nice news?” she repeated flatly.

“My niece and her husband are moving their offices to Shady Hills. Isn't that marvelous?”

“Yes, that's very nice.”

“In fact, Jane, you'll want to know about this—professionally, I mean. My niece and her husband, they're publishers. Don't you, um, sell people's books to publishers?”

Jane nodded. Puffy had never quite gotten a grasp of what it was Jane did for a living.

“Well, there you are! A customer for you right in town.”

“That
is
marvelous, Puffy. Gotta run.” Jane pushed on her cart and began walking quickly away.

“Faith has had such a rough time,” Puffy went on.

“She really deserves some happiness.”

Abruptly Jane stopped and turned to the older woman. “Her name is Faith?”

“Yes.” Puffy looked bewildered. “Do you know her?”

“What's her husband's name?”

“Gavin.”

Faithie and Gav
.

Puffy said, “Things just weren't quite working out for their company in New York City. They were looking for new space, something less dear. So Oren and I offered them an empty suite in our building on Packer.”

Puffy and her husband owned a modest two-story brick office building on Packer Road, not far from the village center.

“That psychiatrist we had in the building—you know that in the spring he and his wife divorced and he moved to Colorado. That left office space that Oren and I have had a dickens of a time finding a new occupant for. So when Faith told me she and Gavin were looking, I said to Oren, ‘We
must
offer it to those dears—rent free, of course.' He completely agreed. In fact,” Puffy said, wrinkling her brow in thought, “I believe they're moving in today!”

Jane had been listening intently, something she rarely did with Puffy. “Did your niece by any chance go to Wellesley?” Jane asked, knowing the answer.

“Oh, Jane!” Puffy puffed in exasperation. “Everyone knows Faith Carson went to Wellesley.”

“Faith Carson!”

“Yes, of course. Who did you think I was talking about?”

Then that meant Stephanie's Faithie . . .

“Your niece is Faith Carson?”

“
Yes
, Jane. What on earth is the matter?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I . . . just didn't realize.”

It would be just like Puffy not to make a big deal out of something like this.

Faith Carson's story was the stuff of fairy tales. It had been while she was at Wellesley that she had met and fallen in love with the crown prince of Ananda, a tiny country above India. They married and Faith became his princess. When the prince's father died, the prince became the king, Faith his queen. They had two children, a boy and a girl. Not long after, the king was assassinated, China took over Ananda, and Faith and her children fled the country.

These events were, of course, what Puffy had been referring to when she said Faith deserved some happiness. Jane had thought Faith found it, however: Not long after returning to the States, she married Gavin Hart, who had been her husband's assistant. Faith and Gavin had founded a publishing company—Faith capitalizing on being the granddaughter of Michael Carson, cofounder of the megapublisher Carson & Donner in New York.

It all came together now.

“You're looking very odd, Jane.”

Jane snapped out of her thoughts. “I didn't know Faith Carson was your niece.”

“Of course she is.” Puffy looked irritated. “She's my sister Annette's daughter.”

“As it happens, Puffy, I know more about this than you think. Kenneth's cousin Stephanie is apparently good friends with your Faith. In fact, Stephanie is coming down from Boston to work for her and her husband.”

Puffy looked delighted. “She is? Why, that's marvelous. I remember Stephanie. She was at Wellesley with Faith, went to Faith and Ravi's wedding in Ananda—was her maid of honor, come to think of it. Oren and I also attended the wedding, of course. I believe Stephanie visited Faith at the palace several times. And I chatted with her after Kenneth's funeral . . .

“Anyway, what I was going to tell you is that I've decided at the last minute to give a little cocktail party for Faith and Gavin tomorrow night, and I do hope you can come. Of course, you're more than welcome to bring your policeman friend.”

Jane couldn't imagine anything more unpleasant than a party at Puffy and Oren Chapin's, but after what she'd just told Puffy about her connection to Faith, how could she refuse?

“When is Stephanie coming?” Puffy asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Perfect! She'll come, too, then.” Puffy checked her watch. “Goodness, I've got to go. I promised Oren I'd bring him back some fried chicken for his lunch. Have you tried the fried chicken they make here, Jane? It's quite good.”

“No, I haven't tried that yet. Actually, I'm on this new diet—”

“I'm sorry, Jane, I know you love to chat, but I've really got to run.” She glanced into Jane's cart at the six jars of raw bran and frowned. “How very odd . . .” She glanced up at Jane. “You'd better hurry up or you'll never get your shopping done. See you tomorrow night. Around seven.” And she scurried away.

Jane blew out her breath and consulted her Stillkin list. She never had gotten those chicken breasts. She hurried over to them, grabbed a package, and threw it into her cart. The next two items were kale and pomegranates. She hurried toward Produce.

 

 

A sack of groceries under each arm, Jane climbed the stairs from the garage and entered the house by the back hall. Florence was in the kitchen, bending to place a sheet of chocolate chip cookies in the oven.

“Missus! What brings you home in the middle of the day?” Florence wore jeans and a white sweatshirt that flattered her pretty figure. She brushed something from her cheek and left a streak of flour on her flawless brown skin.

“Wanted to drop off my diet food.” Jane dumped the bags on the counter.

“Diet!” Florence said with disdain. “Missus, if you'll forgive me saying so, you look quite beautiful just as you are. I don't know why on earth you've gotten these strange ideas into your head just because of some foolish book.”

“Thank you, Florence,” Jane said, removing the items from the bags, “but I'm a good eight pounds heavier than I like to be, and I've got new swimsuits and a tankini to wear on my vacation.”

“Ah!” Florence exclaimed with a wave of her hand. “In Trinidad we pay no attention to such nonsense. You are what you are. It's what's
inside
that counts.”

“I agree, Florence, and I'm doing this for me.
I
want to be thinner for my vacation. I'll feel better.”

“Okay, okay.” Florence set the timer on the stove to eight minutes. “If it will make you happier.” She surveyed the odd variety of items Jane had placed on the counter and shot Jane a look. “But you could have let me go shopping for you. I could have done this.”

“Thanks, but I wanted to see what they had.” Jane laughed. “In one respect, it would have been better if you'd gone. I wouldn't have run into Puffy Chapin, and I wouldn't have to go to her awful party tomorrow night.”

“Mrs. Chapin is having a party?”

Jane told her about Faith Carson.

“Moving
here?”
Florence cried, awestruck. “An everyday American girl becomes a princess and then a queen. So romantic . . . and then so sad. And you say she's coming here, to Shady Hills? You're sure?”

“She's moving her office here.”

“And she is Mrs. Chapin's niece?”

“That's right.”

“Unbelievable. Like Grace Kelly, or Hope Cooke, or that Queen Noor.”

“Mm,” Jane said. “Lisa Halaby. I guess it is a romantic story. But with a tragic ending—the king being assassinated, I mean. I hope she's found happiness with Gavin Hart.”

“Yes . . .” Florence carried her baking utensils to the sink and began rinsing them off and placing them in the dishwasher. “I've done a lot of reading about Faith Carson. She's very beautiful.”

“Was
very beautiful. It was twenty-one years ago that she married the prince of Ananda. Who knows what she looks like now.”

“I'm sure she's still beautiful,” Florence said, smiling to herself.

“We'll get to find out firsthand, I'm sure,” Jane said, and told Florence about Faith Carson's friend and Kenneth's cousin, Stephanie Townsend, arriving the next day.

“But I know all about Stephanie Townsend! She was Faith's maid of honor. She'll be staying here? With us?”

At that moment Winky, Jane and Nick's tortoiseshell cat, padded silkily into the room and jumped up onto the counter with a spirited rumble that said, “I'm here!”

“Ah, Miss Winky,” Florence said, stroking her mottled head. “Exciting days are ahead for us. The best friend of a queen will be in our home, so you had better be on your best cat behavior. We might even get to meet the queen herself!”

“At the very least, I'll give you a full report tomorrow night,” Jane said. “Watching Faith will be a good thing to do while I'm avoiding talking with Puffy. If I have to hear one more word about For Sale signs and homeless people on the green, I swear I'll burst.”

Florence, now cradling Winky in her arms, turned sharply to Jane. “You know about that man down in the village, missus?”

“Sure,” Jane said matter-of-factly. “His name is Ivor. He came out from New York. I can't understand all the fuss about him.”

“Well, missus, a beggar here in Shady Hills . . .”

“So what! He's actually quite polite—”

“You
spoke
to him?”

“Yes, of course I spoke to him. I gave him five dollars.”

“Five dollars! Not a good idea, missus, not a good idea. My mother, she always said to me, ‘Don't give your money to beggars, Florence, because either they'll spend what you give them on drink, or in truth they're richer than you are!' ” She gave Jane a sly look. “There is actually a rumor that this man, who you now tell me is called Ivor, was once very wealthy but fell on hard times.”

“That may be,” Jane said easily. “It doesn't really matter—though he did speak in a very educated sort of way.” As for what Florence's mother had always told her, Jane saw no need to mention the bottle neck poking out from Ivor's coat pocket, or the strong odor of alcohol on his breath. The poor man.

“I'm outta here,” she said, heading back to the door to the garage. “Give my love to Nick when you get him at school.” She breathed deeply. “Mm, those cookies smell good.”

Florence smiled a big smile. “They're Toll House. I'm making a second batch for your knitting club meeting tonight. You can enjoy them then.”

“Florence, thank you so much—I'd completely forgotten there's a meeting tonight, not to mention that it's my turn to bring the refreshments. You're a lifesaver. But unfortunately Toll House cookies are not on Dr. Stillkin's diet food list.”

“Oh, diets!” Florence muttered, opened the oven door a crack, and peeked in. “They
do
look good, don't they, Winky? And I think they're just about done. You and I, we'll have ourselves some of these cookies. We'll get big and fat together and have so much fun, just us girls!” Then, squeezing Winky's fluffy orange-and-brown mottled body until the cat's eyes bulged, she threw back her head and let out one of her wonderful fruity laughs.

Grinning and shaking her head, Jane went back out to her car.

 

 

Now Ivor was sitting on the ground against the thick trunk of the one of oaks on the green—one of the pin oaks, Jane realized. He was eating something. Jane squinted. Was it a slice of pizza? It could be—Giorgio's, the village's only Italian restaurant, was nearby on Center Street.