Icing Ivy (13 page)

“Yes, I just hung up from her. I'm going to ask Ginny if she wants to go. We had planned to have a quiet evening . . .”

“What is it with you men? Of course Ginny will want to go.”

Laughing to herself, she picked up the phone and called Tamara to accept.

T
amara and Foss Henley lived in the bottommost of a string of contemporary mansions clinging to a cliffside on a street not far from where Jane lived. In fact, Jane reflected as Stanley parked behind a long line of cars, only a little over a year ago this spot had been a public dumping ground . . . the place where Ivy's daughter Marlene had died. Jane herself had nearly lost her life there.

It was a mild night and they decided to leave their coats in the car. Stanley made small talk as they approached the house, an enormous multi-winged structure of glass and stucco. “At the station we call this street ‘Nouveau Row,'” he said.

“You don't know that all these people are nouveau,” Jane said, gazing up the winding road at the other mansions dotting the cliffside. “The houses are new, that's all.”

“Oh, these people are nouveau, all right. At least compared to people like Puffy and Oren Chapin,” he said, referring to one of Shady Hills' matriarchs and her husband. “Now, this Foss Henley, he does something having to do with real estate. A developer, I think. Next door is Mark Radner, who's a top executive at Nabisco in East Hanover. I'm not sure about the next house, but the one above is Gloria and Ian Ianelli, who—well, let's just say I wouldn't be surprised if they knew Johnny.”

She looked at him, her eyes widening. “I
see.
Why didn't you ever tell me all this before?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “There's a lot I don't tell you.”

“For now,” she said, shooting him an ominous sidelong glance, and he returned it with a look of mild alarm.

They were on the paving-stone path, approaching the front door, an immense slab of glass behind which they could see a two-story Christmas tree that reminded Jane of Ellyn's, and people in party dress milling around.

The bell was answered by Tamara herself, wearing a sleekly simple deep-cranberry dress and a magnificent necklace of diamonds set in either white gold or platinum. Her tawny gold hair was swept up becomingly from her aristocratic face.

“So glad you could make it,” she said, kissing Jane, who formally introduced her to Stanley.

“Lovely to meet you under happier circumstances,” Tamara said. “Now come in and make yourselves at home. We've got lots to eat and drink.” She glided away.

“Does she ever,” Jane said, eyeing a lavish hors d'oeuvres table and then spotting a busy bar at the back of the cavernous living room. Then Jane saw Daniel and Ginny standing not far away, chatting, drinks in hand.

“Yoo-hoo,” Jane called softly. Ginny's face lit up, and she hurried over, Daniel in tow.

“Can you believe this?” Ginny said.

Jane shook her head in wonder. The left wall of the room consisted entirely of gargantuan blocks of rough stone. In the center of this wall was a fireplace, also enormous, with a raised hearth. To the right of the fireplace stood an odd, six-foot tangle of what appeared to be rusted wires in the approximate shape of the number six. A sculpture, Jane realized. “How odd . . .”

“My dad had a piece like that in his office,” said Daniel, whose late father had owned one of the country's most successful magazines. Daniel had grown up in affluence and seemed never to be fazed by it. He was, in fact, quite wealthy himself since his father's death; yet he showed no signs of this literal change of fortune.

“My lucky number, six,” came Tamara's voice behind Jane and Daniel, who turned to her.

“Oh?” Jane said.

“Mm. It's always been that way. I met Foss on the sixth of June. Our daughter was born on the sixth of December. It was on the sixth of August that our accountants told us we were officially millionaires. I could go on and on.”

I'll bet you could,
Jane thought. “Three sixes . . .” she said with a mischievous smirk. “The mark of the devil. Warner Books and Bantam Doubleday Dell were once at 666 Fifth Avenue.”

“Of course they were,” Daniel joined in, and they both laughed.

Tamara appeared to have heard none of this exchange. “Come,” she said to Jane, “I want you to meet my husband.”

Jane slid a glance at Daniel, who appeared not to care that Tamara hadn't included him. He winked at Jane and wandered away. Meanwhile, Tamara had fetched her husband and was leading him over, a man in a fawn cashmere jacket and black slacks. Around sixty, he was of medium height, balding, with a paunch. His features were coarse in comparison with Tamara's finely cut, aristocratic ones. As he took Jane's hand, his face bloomed into a handsome smile.

“Ah, our illustrious literary agent,” he said. “Such a pleasure. Thank you for humoring my wife.”

Tamara turned to him in feigned indignation. “Foss! Whatever do you mean?”

“Tell me honestly, Mrs. Stuart—”

“Please call me Jane.”

“Jane. Is my wife the next Danielle Steel?”

“Maybe not yet,” Jane said with good humor, “but she may very well be on her way.” She laughed, and they all laughed with her.

“I never said I was the next Danielle Steel,” Tamara pouted. “I said my books resembled hers.” She gave him a dismissive flip of her hand. “What do you know anyway, wrapped up in your boring old buildings?”

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Pleasure to have you with us,” he said, gave them both a conspiratorial wink, and moved on.

Tamara positioned herself in front of Jane, as if the others were no longer there. “How are you doing, Jane?” she said with a sad little frown. “I mean, about your friend?”

“I'm doing all right, Tamara. Thank you for asking.”

“Poor little thing,” Tamara said, eyes unfocused, remembering. “She was so happy the last time I saw her.”

“Where was that?” From the corner of her eye, Jane saw Stanley look away in exasperation.

Tamara caught it, too, and turned to him. “Is something wrong?”

Stanley laughed. “No, nothing, except that I wish Jane would realize she's a literary agent, not a police detective.”

Jane feigned hurt surprise. “I've made
some
progress on this case, Stanley, you have to admit it. You know you want my help; you're just not allowed to say so. Besides, Ivy was very close to me. I've got a special stake in this.”

“Of course you do,” Tamara said.

Jane gave her a grateful smile. “Now, as I was saying, where was the last place you saw Ivy?”

“It was in the lounge,” Tamara said. “Ivy was coming back inside with Jennifer. They'd gone out to have a cigarette. Ivy was laughing so hard, brushing the snow off her green sweater.” Her face grew solemn and she turned to include Stanley in the conversation. “I'll tell you something I noticed, though. That despicable Larry Graham was watching Ivy and had an odd gleaming look in his eye, kind of . . . preoccupied. Then he left the room. What do you make of that?”

Stanley opened his mouth, but no words came out. Jane, too, was at a loss, but Jane was never at a loss for long. “It's so hard to say. Maybe he was attracted to her.”

“Maybe. But of course Ivy was already seeing that Johnny character. Nasty doings,” she cried, raising her index finger. Then she shrugged. “At any rate, my dear, you have my deepest sympathy. Now do relax and try to have a good time. There are some frightful people over there I must be nice to.”

She walked off, leaving a heavy cloud of rose and violet in her wake.

“Let's mingle,” Jane told Stanley, Daniel, and Ginny, and began drifting through the crowd. Near the bar she spotted Vick Halleran and Jennifer Castaneda, their heads close together, their expressions intense. She hurried over to them. “Good evening.”

They both turned to her, huge smiles instantly appearing.

“How lovely to see you,” Jane said, exchanging kisses with them both. Vick, wearing a blue blazer over a silk crew-neck T-shirt and gray slacks, looked as if he'd managed to gain at least ten pounds in the three days since Jane had last seen him. Jennifer, on the other hand, looked smashing in a gold lamé jumpsuit. “You both look fabulous.”

“So do you,” Jennifer squealed.

“You both remember Stanley Greenberg,” Jane said, urging him forward.

For a moment they both stared at him, as if trying to place him. Then recognition dawned, and with it came puzzlement.

“Yes, of course,” Vick said nervously. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” Stanley said stiffly.

“Don't worry,” Jane said, “he's not here to interrogate you. He's . . . my date.”

“Ah,” Jennifer said, and giggled, looking Stanley up and down. Her gaze dropped to the empty glass in her hand. “Oops—empty. Excuse me.”

Vick watched Jennifer walk away toward the bar, his expression uneasy. Jane remembered Carla saying he had looked “uncomfortable” when Jennifer entered the lounge the night of Ivy's murder. Why? Jane wondered. Could it have had something to do with Ivy? Did Vick know something he hadn't revealed? Jane yearned to bring it up but didn't dare do so with Stanley at her side. At any rate, Jennifer reappeared a moment later, holding a glass full of an amber drink. She seemed suddenly aware that Vick was still there, and her expression grew tense.

“I think I need a refill too,” he said, and turned to Stanley and Jane. “See you both in a bit.”

“Of course,” Jane said, eyeing him curiously, and watched him walk, shoulders hunched, to the bar.

Jennifer, at ease again, focused on Jane. “Now. Let's talk about books, something we never got to do at the lodge.”

Jane frowned in bafflement. “The entire retreat was about writing books.”

“
My
books. You're an agent,” Jennifer said, as if Jane didn't know. “What trends do you see? What should I be doing differently? There's always room for improvement.”

“To be honest, Jennifer, I haven't read you.”

Jennifer blinked hard. “You haven't read me? Nothing? Not even
Heat of the Night
?” This book, Jane knew, was her most recent hardcover, her biggest book yet.

“No,” Jane said, wincing. “I'm sorry,” she squeaked.

“No, no, don't be silly.” Jennifer's gaze wandered. “Oh, I see someone I haven't said hello to. Will you excuse me?”

“Certainly,” Jane said, and shot Stanley a look as the beautiful young woman slipped away through the crowd.

“Are
your
authors like that?” he asked.

“Eventually,” she replied dryly and, taking his arm, propelled him through the crowd toward the food table.

 

 

They couldn't leave before midnight, of course, but once they had all shouted “Happy New Year!” and exchanged kisses and thrown black and white streamers across the room in every direction, Jane realized she was pooped.

“Let's go,” she said softly to Stanley.

“Thank you,” he said, raising his eyes heavenward.

“Oh, stop it. This wasn't so bad. We've met some interesting people, seen how the other half lives.”

He shrugged. They said good night to Daniel and Ginny, then found Tamara, who was with her husband chatting with another couple, and told her they had to be going.

“We'll see you out,” Tamara said, grabbing Foss and telling the other couple they would be back in a bit. When they reached the foyer, she turned to them. “Coats?”

“In the car,” Jane said.

“Well, it's wonderful of you both to come,” Tamara said. “We must get together again.” She winked at Jane. “You're my kind of people.”

Stanley said nothing, merely looked uncomfortable, and Jane, realizing she had to say something, blurted out, “Definitely. Well . . .” she said, kissing Tamara's cheek, and turned toward the door. As she did, she noticed a large sepia-toned photograph in an elaborate frame hanging on one of the foyer's stone walls.

“Pretty, isn't it?” Tamara said softly, coming up beside her. Jane was aware of Foss on her other side.

Jane studied the photograph. It was of a beautiful old neo-Gothic church with many pointed arches and a kind of interwoven tracery Jane had never seen before. “What church is that?”

Foss said, “It's St. Paul the Apostle Church in New York City. It was designed by a disciple of Cass Gilbert.”

“The famous American architect,” Tamara said.

“Yes, I know.” Jane continued to study the picture.

“The photo itself is a work of art,” Tamara said dramatically. “I simply had to have it. Foss and I paid a fortune for it at auction. We'll walk you out.”

Outside, the air was refreshingly brisk. Jane breathed deeply, gazing up into a clear, starry sky. Then her gaze lowered and landed on a house across the street. She blinked. The structure could not have been more incongruous with the surrounding homes. It was a small, older home, quite shabby, and not much bigger than the house William Ives occupied with his granddaughter and great-granddaughter.

“The bane of our existence,” Tamara said, glaring at it.

“It . . . needs some work,” Jane said diplomatically.

“Oh, you don't have to worry about us,” Tamara said. “You can be honest. It's a shack. It's in shockingly bad repair. You see, the people who live there are
renters.”
She spoke the word as if she were saying
lepers.

“I see,” Stanley said, all seriousness.

“They don't do a thing to maintain the place. And ultimately,” Tamara went on in a regretful tone, “the house's owner—a friend of ours, actually—will be blamed. Hardly fair.”