Icing Ivy (18 page)

“It's
you.
”

“What's me?”

“
You
ghost all those celebrity novels, not Brad. I'm right, aren't I?”

Arliss's gaze dropped to her menu. “Yes,” she said in a tiny, cracking voice. Jane wondered if she was about to cry.

“Why?” Jane asked.

Arliss looked up. “Because I love him!” she blurted out, again drawing stares from each side of the table.

“It makes perfect sense.”

“Does it?” Arliss asked nastily. “Or are you going to start judging me? I can't openly be the ghostwriter on the celebrity books Millennium publishes, because I'm an editor there. It would be a conflict of interest. But I have the talent for it, Jane. So Brad and I worked out an arrangement. We've been doing it for years. He—”

“He's your front, your beard.”

Arliss simply nodded. “After the group reading Thursday night, Brad came to my room. He was upset. He told me he and Ivy had been chatting, and he had accidentally revealed the name of one of the celebrities he ghosts for. As it happened, Ivy had read all of that celebrity's books. She got all excited and wanted to discuss them with Brad. But of course Brad couldn't discuss them, because not only does he not really write them, but he never even bothers to read what I write.
That's
what I was saying to him—that he can't be so lazy, he has to at least read the books if we're going to keep making this setup work. Then I asked him why he didn't simply tell Ivy he wasn't allowed to talk about the books he ghostwrites.

“Brad finally managed to change the subject, but he could tell that Ivy was suspicious.” Arliss threw back her head defiantly. “So now you know our dirty secret. If you've got any decency, you'll
keep
it a secret.”

“I will, ” Jane said sadly.

“Thank you, Jane,” Arliss said, surprised. “May I ask why you would do that for us?”

“Because although what you're doing is not only immoral but also illegal, it's not my place to spill the beans. I feel sorry for you, Arliss. I only hope you're getting a big enough kickback from Brad that you're not really as poor as you make yourself out to be.”

“I do all right. As for your pity, you can stuff it.” Arliss closed her menu. The waiter returned. “We're not eating after all,” she snapped at him. He scurried off, and Arliss started squirming into her coat.

“I'm not feeling very hungry either,” Jane said, rising from her chair.

Arliss started away from the table, then stopped and turned to Jane. “So tell me. Was our conversation really something you needed to know about? Are you happy now?”

“I'm not happy, Arliss, but yes, it was definitely something I needed to know about.”

Arliss narrowed her eyes. “How so?”

“Because it implicates both you and Brad as suspects in Ivy's murder. Ivy had figured out your scam, or was on the verge of doing so. You and Brad would have had a strong financial incentive to keep her quiet.”

There was an odd silence. Jane and Arliss looked down to see that the couples at each side were watching them in fascination. “Mind your own business !” Arliss snapped at them, then turned on her heel and stomped from the restaurant.

Jane wasn't far behind.

“Y
ou haven't touched your dinner, missus,” Florence said, her face full of concern. “Did I overcook the meat?”

“No, Florence, it's delicious,” Jane said. “I'm just thinking.”

Nick turned to her, chewing on a piece of meat with his mouth wide open.

“No see food, please,” Jane said absently.

Nick clamped his mouth shut. “What are you thinking about, Mom?”

“Ivy,” she replied, her tone despondent.

“I'm done,” he said. “May I please be excused?”

“Sure.”

He ran off.

“Has Detective Greenberg made any progress?” Florence asked.

“Not really. It's not as if we don't know anything. We know a lot. In fact, the lodge was positively jumping the night Ivy was killed, and my guess is that we know about virtually all of it. And yet . . .”

“And yet, missus?” Florence paused, her fork in midair.

“And yet there's one thing that keeps troubling me.”

“Yes?”

“Okay,” Jane said. “You're smart. Let's see what you make of this. Ivy was going after a big story for the newspaper where she worked. A story so big that I don't think she would have risked leaving her notes in her apartment.” She hadn't told Florence about Ivy's room having been searched. “She must have had notes, a few words, something. Where would she have put them?”

“That's easy,” Florence said. “She would have kept them with her at all times. That's what I would do.”

“I thought the same thing. But nothing was found on Ivy, in her room, or in her handbag or suitcase. Where else could these notes possibly be? It would have had to be someplace she knew was safe.”

“Easy again,” Florence said with a smile. “Right here.”

Jane frowned at her. “Here?”

“Sure. In this house. She would have left the notes here and then picked them up after the retreat. Don't forget, Ivy didn't know she wasn't coming back here.”

For a moment Jane stared at her. Then she slowly rose. “You know, I think you may have something. Excuse me.”

She hurried out to the foyer, up the stairs, and along the hallway to the guest room. Her gaze went immediately to the nightstand to the left of the bed. Rushing over to it, she pulled open its one drawer and gazed down upon a small spiral-bound notebook. She flipped it open. On the first page were several notes:

The second page, the only other page in the notebook that had been used, bore only a drawing:

“Find anything, missus?” Florence poked her head into the room.

Jane slipped the notebook into the pocket of her skirt and went out to the hallway. “Yes. You were right. Ivy did leave a notebook in the night table. But I'm afraid there's not much in it.”

Florence looked disheartened.

“But thank you for the tip,” Jane said, descending the stairs. “Now let's finish that delicious dinner you made.”

T
hat evening, Jane sat in the laundry room, staring unseeing at Winky and the six kittens while Nick moved excitedly around the box, jotting in his notebook.

She was thinking again about Arliss and Brad. Were they really suspects? Would either or both of them have committed murder to protect this secret ? People had been known to murder for far less, though Jane didn't feel it was likely in this case. And Arliss had confessed to her arrangement with Brad without putting up much of a fight; why would she have done so, if this was a secret worth killing for?

She remembered life with Ivy all those years before in the dorm at college. Ivy, always full of energy, eager to participate, but never really one of the crowd . . . a person people often laughed at behind her back.

Jane frowned at this memory. She recalled that sometimes she was aware that she was Ivy's friend simply because she pitied her.

A sad, unfair end to an empty, unfulfilled life. Would her murderer escape justice? Perhaps. Neither the police nor Jane had made any real, meaningful progress.

Vaguely she was aware that Nick was leaning into the nest box, busily doing something with his hands. Focusing on him, she rose a little in her chair to see what he was doing, and frowned. He appeared to be tying small lengths of ribbon around the kittens' fluffy middles. They squirmed and squealed in protest.

“Nick! What are you doing? Stop that.”

He looked up at her, wide-eyed. “But I have to, Mom.”

“Have to what?”

He straightened, lengths of colored ribbon in one hand. “I'm color-coding the kittens. It makes tracking easier.”

She frowned. “Color-coding? Tracking? What are you talking about?”

He tapped his notebook. “I was looking over my notes last night, and I noticed that when the kittens nurse, some get more time than others. I'm sure Winky would want to know this, so I'm tying these different colored ribbons around the kittens so she can keep them all straight and give them equal time.”

Jane laughed. “Oh, Nicholas. That's very considerate, but Winky doesn't need colored ribbons to keep her kittens straight.”

As if in agreement, Winky looked up at Jane and let out a loud meow.

Florence strolled into the room, carrying a bottle of laundry detergent. “Your mother is correct, Master Nick,” she said, placing the bottle in the cupboard above the clothes dryer. “Besides which,” she added with a lighthearted laugh, “cats are color-blind. The ribbons will all look the same to Miss Winky.”

 

 

Jane's eyes popped open and she checked the clock on the nightstand: 6:23. She hadn't slept all night, not really. Her mind was too full of clues, images, numbers, bits and pieces, all swirling maddeningly.

Numbers . . .

Colors . . .

She sat bolt upright in the bed, threw aside the covers, quickly showered and dressed.

By seven o'clock she was at her office. She called Stanley, who had just arrived at the police station.

“Don't you see?” she said. “This case has been all about the senses—and we've been blind. Meet me at Larry Graham's apartment. I hope we're not too late.”

 

 

Entering the parking lot in front of Hillside Gardens, Jane scanned the cars for Stanley's cruiser but didn't see it.

She got out and ran up to Larry Graham's door. Raising her arm to knock, she realized that it was ajar. She knocked anyway, then rang the bell. There was no answer.

“Larry—” she called through the crack. Still nothing.

Something pressed against her leg and she jumped. Looking down, she saw a long furry nose. She pushed the door open and knelt to pat Alphonse, who responded with a high whimper.

She walked in past the dog, who didn't seem to want to move. The living room was empty.

“Larry—” she called again.

She went out the rear door of the living room, along a narrow corridor, and into the kitchen.

A hand roughly grabbed the left side of Jane's neck at the same time that something sharp and cold jabbed the right side. She gasped.

“Don't move, unless you want a screwdriver through that pretty neck.”

She slid her gaze sideways to look at Larry. On his colorless face was a look of fierce determination, as if he was afraid of doing this wrong. A drop of sweat ran from his upper lip into his mouth.

“I expected to find you dead,” she said, not moving.

“Did you now? That's very interesting, since it's going to be the other way around.” He tightened his grip on her neck, pushing the screwdriver harder against her.

“Ow.”

“Shut up. Now here's what we're going to do. You're going to walk in front of me to my truck. It's parked right outside. If you try anything funny, this screwdriver goes right into your back. You got it?”

“Yes. Where are we going?”

“For a ride. Go.”

She walked toward the front door.

“Not that way. We're going out the back door.”

Alphonse appeared in front of her and stuck his nose between her legs.

“Alphonse!” Graham shouted. “Go lie down.”

With a whimper the dog retreated to the corner of the kitchen and fell onto his side, watching them with big sad brown eyes.

They reached the apartment's back door.

“Open it,” Graham commanded, and she pulled it inward and started out.

“That's my truck over there,” he said in a low voice right behind her, and pointed to a beat-up dark gray pickup parked to the right. “Let's go.”

She considered making a break and running for it. Surely she was in better condition than he was. If she was going to do it, the time was now.

“Don't try running or anything,” he said, as if reading her mind, and she felt the screwdriver jab hard into her coat, right in the middle of her back. “It would be so easy.”

Her heart sank. She walked slowly to the passenger door of the pickup truck and he opened it. “Get in and roll down the window.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

She got in. The truck's cab was littered with greasy hamburger wrappers, empty paper and Styrofoam cups, and yellow carbon copies of invoices headed
LARRY GRAHAM, ELECTRICAL CONTRACTOR.
The air in the cramped space had a stale, sweaty smell.

“Roll down the window,” Graham said.

She'd forgotten. She rolled it down. As soon as she did, he reached in and unscrewed the pop-up-style door lock, removed it, and dropped it into his shirt pocket. In its place in the door was merely an empty hole.

“In case you decided to get adventurous,” he said, and made his way around to the other side and got in. He started the truck, shifted it into gear, backed out, and started around the parking lot toward the exit.

“So you did kill Ivy,” she said, turning to him with a look of loathing, as they left Hillside Gardens.

In response he picked up the screwdriver from where he had set it beside him on the seat and brandished the tool in the air. She saw now that it was huge, at least a foot long.

“Where are we going?”

“It doesn't matter.” He laughed, his fat shoulders shaking. “You certainly won't care.”

He turned onto Route 46, heading east.

In her bag, her cell phone rang.

He turned to her sharply. “Give it to me.
Don't answer it
.”

She found the phone in her bag and handed it to Graham. He flipped it open and immediately terminated the call. Then he dialed a number. After a few moments he said, “We're on our way there.... Yeah, me and her. . . .” He snapped the phone shut and it immediately started to ring again. He rolled down his window and tossed the phone out. Jane heard it hit the pavement with a clatter, and the ringing abruptly stop. Had it been Stanley? she wondered. Florence or Nick? Daniel?

“Sorry, wrong number,” he muttered.

“That was an expensive cell phone,” she said quietly.

“You won't be needing it.”

“Who did you just call?”

“None of your beeswax,” he shouted. “Now sit back, relax.” Suddenly he thought of something, and his face lit up. “Hey, my manuscript's in the backseat if you want to read it. I wrote some more.”

“No, thanks, I'll pass.”

He gave her a hateful look through slitted eyes. “You didn't really think my writing had promise, did you?”

“No.”

“You were just, like, manipulating me to get me to talk?”

“Yes.”

“Phony bitch.”

“Murderer.” She sat up in renewed anger. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

“None of your business,” he snapped back. “Now keep your mouth shut. It's a long way and I don't think I can take much more of you. Pushy broad.”

He switched on the radio and found the news. The police had captured the bus hijacker in a wooded section of Kinnelon, New Jersey, and identified him as Gary Larkin, twenty-nine, of Lyndhurst. Apparently he had been distraught after his wife left him and he lost his job in the same week.

Graham laughed a wheezing laugh. “See! I still can't believe your bubble-brained friend thought it was me.”

Jane opened her mouth to protest.

His laughter died instantly. “I said keep your mouth shut, and I meant it.” He turned up the radio.

Jane gazed out the window as the Willowbrook Mall swept by. She slid a glance at Graham and saw that he had moved the massive screwdriver to his lap. It occurred to her to grab the steering wheel and make him lose control of the truck, but what good would it do her? She couldn't throw open her door, because he had the lock in his shirt pocket. She considered grabbing for the screwdriver, using it on him, somehow getting the truck to stop. No, he was bigger and stronger than she was, and she would undoubtedly end up being the one impaled. She'd have to wait until they got wherever he was taking her to make her break.

 

 

He was heading for New York City. He had driven from Route 46 to Route 3, through the Meadowlands. Now they were on 495, stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel traffic at rush hour.

The truck was at a near standstill. If only she could get her door open . . . She glanced around at the surrounding cars. Could she somehow get the attention of another driver? No, everyone had his gaze fixed on the road, jockeying for that next inch forward.

As they approached the Lincoln Tunnel tollbooths, she considered screaming to the toll collector. But at the last moment Larry veered into an E-ZPass lane and drove right through.

Emerging from the tunnel, Graham went west on 42nd Street and continued on it all the way to the West Side Highway, onto which he turned north.

“Where are we going?” she demanded again, glancing to the left across the Hudson River at New Jersey.

He ignored her. He remained on the West Side Highway for some time, finally getting off at West 96th Street. He took this east all the way to Park Avenue, onto which he turned left. They were in East Harlem, passing bodegas, tiny coffee shops and pizzerias, apartment buildings.

Abruptly he turned right onto East 116th Street, drove halfway down the block, and pulled into a space on the right side of the street beside a massive stone building.

Jane looked around. “You can't park here. There's a fire hydrant.”

With a grunt of exasperation he held the screwdriver aloft. “Don't you ever shut up? Roll down your window.”

She did, as he got out and came around the front of the truck toward her door. She considered scrambling to his side and bursting out his door, but in the next instant he was looking in at her through the window. Maybe she could make a run for it once she was on the sidewalk.

“Okay, here's what's gonna happen,” he said in a low voice, though the street was deserted. He took her door lock from his shirt pocket and screwed it back into the hole. Then he pulled it up. “We're going into this building here.”

She glanced up at it. “Why?”

“Because I said so. Don't you worry about it. Like I told you, pretty soon it won't matter.”

So he would murder her, too. She saw that there was no escape now. She was going to die, just like Ivy. She thought of Nicholas and a great dread rose in her—dread of his losing his mother at ten years old, dread of not being around to watch him grow up, get married, have children.

She got out of the truck and walked ahead of him. Once again she felt the screwdriver press into her back.

She gazed up at the building. She knew what it was now. A car sped past them on the street, and was gone.

“In here,” he said. “Stop.”

She halted and peered into a small courtyard in the building's side. “Where?”

“Come on,” he said impatiently, and gave her a sharp shove toward the building. Now she could see steps leading up to a door. “That's right, up there,” he said, and when they had climbed the steps, he took a bunch of keys from his pocket, reached in front of her, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Beyond it was a gloomy dimness. She could see a wall streaked with black. A smell suddenly reached her—a sour, acrid odor that made her gag. The smell of burning, of charred wood . . . and flesh.

“Oh,” she said, holding her coat over her mouth.

“You get used to it,” he said, and pushed her inside.

Graham produced a large flashlight that he must have brought from the truck and switched it on. They stood in a long corridor off which a number of doors opened on both sides. “Go to the end,” he said, shoving the screwdriver at her back with his other hand. When she had reached the second-to-last door on the right, he said, “This door. Go.”