Stabbing Stephanie (5 page)

Why was she so interested in him? Was it the intelligent humanity she'd seen in those whiskey-brown eyes? Whiskey-brown . . . An unfortunate way to describe those eyes.

Turning from the window to sit before a pile of manuscripts she'd placed on her desk, Jane smiled at what Florence had said about Ivor, that he was rumored to be a once-wealthy man fallen on hard times. Whoever or whatever Ivor was, Jane decided, was Ivor's business. As far as Jane was concerned, as long as Ivor was doing no one any harm, he had a right to be wherever he wanted—regardless of what Puffy thought.

Jane took the first manuscript from the pile. These were manuscripts she had asked to see in response to writers' query letters. Most of such manuscripts turned out to be rejects; many writers, she'd learned over the years, had a gift for writing provocative query letters about less-than-provocative books. But once in a while Jane found a gem that made the search worthwhile, so she continued to selectively ask to see manuscripts. Reading them was a job on which she consistently fell behind.

The first manuscript was entitled
The Blue Palindrome.
Its author was a man named Nathaniel Barre. Nice name. Interesting title, too.
Palindrome . . .
Jane knew what that was: something that read the same way forward or backward.
Able was I ere I saw Elba
.
Madam, I'm Adam
. What was that awful joke Jane had once heard about the dyslexic woman whose husband's name was Otto?

She looked down at the manuscript, ready to read, then felt restless, anxious somehow, and let her gaze wander. She'd call Stanley, she decided. As she lifted the receiver, her intercom buzzed.

“Barbara Kaplan from Up, Up and Away on line one,” came Daniel's voice.

“You're in luck,” Barbara said triumphantly. “We had a client reserved for Neptune's Palace who had to cancel. She was going for Thanksgiving, same days you wanted, and she was staying in the Trident Tower—remember I told you that's the newer one, the nicer one. It's a miracle. Just give me the go-ahead and I'll grab it for you, work it out with the hotel.”

“That is a miracle,” Jane said. “Why did she cancel?”

Barbara made a cluck of impatience. “What difference does it make?” she cried shrilly. “A death in the family—who cares! The point is, this is a real reservation—one we made for her almost a year ago, I might add—and I'm offering it to you. Now you can do this right.”

In the background, Jane heard Erik chime in, “And not have to stay in the boiler room!”

“Yeah, that's right!” Barbara said. “So what do you say? Do you want it? Tell me now or I'll have to give it to someone else.”

Jane hesitated, not so much because she was unsure how to proceed but because she was, she realized, afraid of Barbara. “I'll . . . have to let it go.”

“You'll WHAT!”

“Barbara, I'm just not ready to make a decision. I've just learned I have company coming tomorrow.”

“So? What does that have to do with it?”

“Things will be hectic. I'll just have to let Neptune's Palace go.”

“You're not going on vacation,” Barbara said flatly. “I just know you're not. You're wasting your time and mine.”

Not this conversation again. “I appreciate your thinking of me, Barbara. I promise I'll call you as soon as I've made up my mind.”

“Made up your mind! How do you know that whatever you decide on will be available?” Barbara was screaming again.

“If it isn't,” Jane said evenly, “I'll choose someplace else.”

There was a brief silence. “All right,” Barbara said in tired resignation, and hung up without saying good-bye.

Shaking her head, Jane dialed the police station and asked for Stanley Greenberg. Buzzi, the desk sergeant, told her Greenberg was out but that he'd give him the message. A moment after she hung up, Daniel buzzed and said Greenberg was on the line, calling from his car.

“So which enchanted isle have you decided on?” he asked when she picked up.

“Not you, too!”

“What?”

“Never mind. How are you?”

“Fine. Busy today.”

“Busy? Yes, Shady Hills is a regular hotbed of crime. What happened, did some little old lady drive through a store window?”

“Don't laugh,” he said seriously. “That really happened once.”

“I know, you've told me. Sorry, I was only teasing. What's going on?”

“We've had some break-ins. One on Oakmont, two on Christopher, way up.”

Jane sat up, alarmed. “Rhoda's on Oakmont, and Doris is on Christopher,” she said, referring to two members of her knitting club.

“It wasn't either of their houses. Totally different part of Oakmont. But the one up on Christopher, that was actually a few doors down from Doris.”

“Who do you think is doing this?”

“Some kids,” he said easily. “Probably looking for drug money.”

“In Shady Hills?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Yes, in Shady Hills. We are part of the real world.”

She shook her head, then remembered he couldn't see her. “Nah, I bet it was kids from—I don't know, Paterson or something. What did they take?”

“Small stuff. Jewelry, some cash. We're pretty sure of who's doing it. There's a kid we've had a lot of trouble with before. And believe it or not, Jane, he lives right in the heart of idyllic Shady Hills.”

Jane was afraid for Doris, who was elderly and lived alone, as well as for Rhoda, now alone with the children after her divorce from David. Then it occurred to Jane that Florence was also alone in the house most of the time. Maybe Jane should have an alarm put in. She'd give it some thought, ask Stanley for his advice.

“Now that we've discussed my day,” he said, “how's yours been going?”

“Okay,” she said, feeling uneasy though unsure why. Instinctively she glanced out her front window. It had begun to rain, a light mist she could see only against the darkness of the evergreens at the far end of the green. Ivor was nowhere in sight. “Stanley,” she said thoughtfully, “do you know about this homeless man, Ivor, who's been hanging around on the green?”

“Not you, too,” he said with a groan. “Yes.” He was clearly trying to be patient. “He's completely harmless. Came out from New York on the train a few weeks ago.”

“Mm, sleeping in the train station.”

“How do you know that?”

“Ginny told Daniel. She speaks to Ivor.”

“Regularly?”

“Probably. You know Ginny, she'll make friends with anyone. And she does work right here on the green. She told Daniel the poor man's quite gentle. I thought so, too.”

“You've talked to him, too?”

“Once,” she said hesitatingly. “He . . . asked me for some money. He seemed very nice, spoke in a refined sort of way.”

“And that surprised you?”

“Well, yes. Why are you using that amused tone?”

“Because you're a snob, my girl. You don't think vagrants can be educated people, any more than you think burglars can live here in Shady Hills.”

“I am not a snob. It's just that you don't expect it.”

“I understand.” Greenberg's tone was serious now. “It's human nature. We have preconceived notions about people, or kinds of people. But the reality is that many homeless people were once like you and me. They've fallen on hard times and can't get back to where they were.”

Jane thought once more about the bottle in Ivor's pocket, about his strong breath.

“Others, of course,” he went on, “have mental or emotional problems.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “What else do you know about him? About his background, I mean. Is he a former millionaire, for example?”

“What!” He roared with laughter. “You have a vivid imagination—too vivid. Due, I suspect, to reading too many of the books you sell.”

She frowned. “Of course I read the books I sell. How do you expect me to sell a book I haven't—”

“I'm kidding! To answer your question seriously—no, I know nothing of Ivor's background, have no idea if he was once a millionaire. And frankly, Ivor's background is not our concern.”

“No need to get huffy. I'm just curious about people, you know that.”

“I'm glad. Especially that you were once curious about me.”

She smiled. “Still am.”

“Good. Don't forget I'm taking you to dinner and a movie Saturday night. You can further satisfy your curiosity then. Oops, better go. I just got to the gas station and Chaz is waving at me, and I don't think he's trying to say hello.”

“Oh! Okay, bye, then, I'll talk to you,” she said, and hung up quickly.

It was exciting having a police detective for a boyfriend. Lately Jane had been making a point of not prying too deeply into his work, though. The previous spring, he had been investigating the murder of a young woman found hanging in the woods behind Hydrangea House, the only inn in Shady Hills. In the end, it had been Jane who solved the mystery, thanks in part to her being privy to information Greenberg had about the case. He told her later he'd been reprimanded for allowing her to “insinuate” herself in police business to the degree she had. The last thing Jane wanted was to get Stanley in trouble, so she resolved to respect his professional boundaries. Suddenly a thought occurred to her: Had she crossed those boundaries inappropriately just now, when she'd asked him about Ivor? Nah.

Besides, she and Stanley were comfortable enough with each other that he would tell her if she crossed the line. That's what she liked about him—his complete honesty. Since they'd begun seriously dating six months ago, she had come to value this quality in him, along with his kindness, gentleness, and down-to-earth intelligence. He was someone she simply enjoyed being with, so that their quiet Friday or Saturday nights—going to the movies or a play, an occasional opera or ballet, before dinner—were enough for her.

With a little smile, she returned her attention to Nathaniel Barre's
The Blue Palindrome,
turned over the title page, and began to read.

Almost immediately, Jane could tell this was something special. The writing was crisp and spare, launching immediately into a story of a young American in Venice who had recently broken up with his fiancée and was inconsolably lonely. Even contemplating suicide, he wandered the ancient streets in search of solace, though without any idea where it could possibly come from. He earned his living teaching English at a small university, but he began to miss his classes. Letters from the university started to pile up at his door . . .

The intercom buzzed. “Abigail Schwartz on line one.”

Abigail could only be calling about Elaine Lawler, a client of Jane's who wrote Regency romances. Jane liked Abigail, who was of the old school of editors. Accordingly, Abigail preferred to carry out virtually every piece of business relating to a book through its author's agent. Elaine could be difficult, so Jane got a lot of calls from Abigail.

“Jane, you've got to help me,” Abigail said, sounding exasperated. “I love Elaine, you know that, but she's driving me nuts.”

“What did she do?”

“It's about the cover of
Naughty Miss Norton.”

The cover. Elaine was what Jane called a cover nut. She obsessed over every detail of her books' covers, from the painting, to the size, style, and position of the type used for the title and her name, to the back cover copy.

Jane had seen a copy of the cover of this book and thought it lovely. “What about it?”

“Do you have it in front of you?” Abigail asked.

Jane could just make out what she thought was a corner of the cover poking out from her work mountain. Wincing, ever so carefully, she slid it out, successfully removing it without shifting the materials above it. “Okay, got it.”

“See the woman's left boob?”

Jane blinked. “Her
boob?”
In the cover painting, the heroine, the naughty Miss Norton, lay on a chaise in a deeply décolleté gown, gazing up into the eyes of the hero. Jane squinted at Miss Norton's left breast. “What about it?”

“See that darkish pink spot on the boob?”

“Abigail,” Jane said, able to bear it no longer, “do you think you could refer to it as a breast? I don't think I've used the word
boob
since high school.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Abigail said fussily. “Her
breast
. Do you see the shadow?” she said, raising her voice.

“Yes, I think so. What about it?”

“Elaine is convinced it's her nipple.”

“Her nipple! You wouldn't let her nipple show.”

“Exactly! What does she think, that we're idiots? The distributors would take a total pass on this book if we did that. I want you to tell her it's a shadow, Jane, not a nipple. And I want you to tell her to leave me the hell alone.” Abigail sounded as if she were about to cry. “You know, Jane, there comes a time when the life-is-too-short alarm goes off, you know what I mean? I love Elaine and we've worked together a long time, but these
are
just little Regency romances, and—”

“Say no more, Abigail, I completely understand. I'll speak to Elaine. You just leave it to me.”

“Thank you,” Abigail said on a grateful exhalation, and hung up.

Frowning in disbelief, Jane dialed Elaine in Idaho. She began to explain what Abigail had said, but Elaine would have none of it.

“Bullshit! That is a nipple, Jane. You have nipples, I have nipples. I think I
know
what a nipple looks like. Tell me that doesn't look like a nipple to you.”