Icing Ivy (10 page)

L
arry Graham lived at Hillside Gardens, a vast but down-at-the-heel apartment complex at the east end of town, across Route 46. Jane found a parking space not far from number 78, Graham's apartment. Graham opened the door before she could ring the bell. He wore jeans and a faded yellow T-shirt.

He looked her up and down in slack-jawed amazement. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm surprised to find you home,” she said pleasantly. “Such a beautiful day.” It was indeed a lovely day, sunny and unseasonably mild, the snow turning to slush. “I would have thought you'd have jobs to go to.”

He laughed derisively. “Jobs! Why would I have any jobs today? I didn't line anything up. I was supposed to be at the retreat until tomorrow.”

He actually sounded as if it was Jane's fault that Ivy had been murdered, spoiling his week.

“Good point,” she said. “May I come in?”

He regarded her suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“I'd like to talk to you,” she said, forcing her tone to remain gracious and keeping a mild smile on her face. She glanced into the apartment. “Well, may I?”

He shrugged indifferently. “I guess so.”

She couldn't remember when she'd last been in an apartment like this. Everything about it was dingy, from the filthy gold-colored plush carpet that appeared to run through the entire place, to the scuffed off-white walls. The air had an oppressive animal stench, bringing to mind a large unwashed dog—which was exactly what appeared from the rear doorway of the living room. Jane didn't know much about dogs, but she knew this to be a collie. Its pale-gold-and-white coat was matted and dull; its eyes were a rheumy blue.

“Don't mind Alphonse,” Graham said, flopping into a chair and indicating the sofa for Jane. It was as dirty as the carpet, but she made herself sit anyway, keeping her coat on. The dog hurried up to her and buried its nose in her lap.

“How sweet,” she said, squirming. “But I'm afraid I may be allergic,” she lied. “Could you call him off, please?”

“Alphonse!” Graham screamed, and Jane jumped. “Leave 'er alone.”

The dog immediately withdrew its nose, slunk to the corner of the room, and fell onto its side, tucking its nose into its tail. It made a few snorting noises and closed its eyes for a nap.

Jane looked around the room. To her right was a fireplace, whose mantel was indeed lined with an assortment of skating trophies in various sizes. She spotted a picture of Larry skating in a pure white costume. He looked slim and athletic, not unattractive. Shifting her glance to Larry—pudgy, ungainly, the very picture of ungracefulness—she found it barely possible to believe.

He followed her gaze. “Yeah, it's true,” he said. “I suppose your boyfriend told you about that part of my life.”

“Why do you say he's my boyfriend?”

“Who?”

She felt herself blush. “Never mind.”

“So let's cut the small talk, shall we? You're not here because you think I'm the next John Grisham. To what do I owe the honor?”

She realized she found him loathsome. Ivy couldn't possibly have been interested in him romantically. “I want to ask you about something.”

He rolled his eyes. “My conversation with your friend? Listen, I'm sorry about what happened to her, I really am, but I don't know anything about it.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Like I told Greenberg, she wanted me to skate for her. We agreed we'd meet down the path at the pond.”

“At night.”

“In the evening. It's never totally dark up there on the mountain. When else could I have skated for her?” he whined. “The retreat went all day.”

“And you'd brought your skates with you to the retreat?”

“Yeah,
like I told Greenberg,
I knew there was a pond up there. I still skate a lot.” His gaze shifted to Alphonse, now quietly snoring.

Graham was lying, Jane was sure of it. Though there was no way Ivy would have been interested in him, he might very well have been interested in Ivy, and Ivy might have intended to use that interest to her own advantage. “You can tell me if you and Ivy were going down the path for . . . to . . .”

“Make out?” His mouth opened wide in a mirthless laugh. His belly shook. “With her? Baby, I may not be what I once was, but I'm not that hard up.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Your friend, if you'll forgive me, wasn't exactly my type. Been around the block, if you know what I mean. Besides, she was Johnny's girlfriend. And nobody was going to cross Johnny—at least, nobody with any brains. And brains is somethin' I pride myself on havin'.”

“Not your type, eh?” Defensiveness for her poor dead friend rose in Jane like a tangible wave. “And what are you, Cary Grant?”

“Hey! You want to insult me, you can get outta here.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she lied. “Please forgive me. I don't know if you're aware of this, but Ivy was my oldest friend. We went to college together; we were roommates. I'm trying to figure out what happened to her, who did that to her.”

“Why don't you leave that to the police?”

He sounded like Stanley. “I'm . . . helping the police,” she said evenly. “Now. You say Ivy wanted to see you skate. So she convinced you that it was safe—”

“On the ice,” he said, nodding vigorously. “So we agreed to meet that night at the pond. Simple as that.”

“Mm,” she said, trying desperately to think of another tack. Then, all at once, she had it. “By the way, I've been thinking about your thriller idea—you know, about the bus hijacking.”

He sat up a little. “Yeah?” He scowled suspiciously. “I thought you said you weren't takin' on any new clients
at present,
” he mimicked her.

“That's my standard line.” She winked at him. “You understand. Otherwise I'd be inundated with submissions. But I've been thinking about your project, and I think you've got a smashing idea for a novel. You know, straight out of today's headlines.”
Lord, forgive me.

His eyes widened and he raised his ginger-colored brows. “So you think it could go somewhere ?”

Yeah, right into the reject pile.
“Definitely. I have to tell you quite honestly that I was disappointed that you didn't write more during the retreat. I saw promise in your writing.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I did.”

He sat back and smiled. “Well, what do you know. Hey, that's great. So you think if I, you know, worked up more of the project, maybe you'd, like, work with me on it? Represent me?”

“Almost a certainty. Of course, I'd need a full outline of the story and at least the first three chapters. But I think I can say even at this point that it's a project I could really get behind.”

His entire expression changed, growing warm and animated. “This is great news. You know, I always knew I had it in me, all these years I been sloggin' away as an electrician. I always knew I had what it takes. ‘Larry boy,' I'd say, ‘you did it with skating, you can do it with writing.' Hey, an artist is an artist, right?”

“Absolutely.” She shifted on the dirty sofa. Then she waited, smiling at him.

He studied her for a moment, then leaned forward in his chair. “Uh, listen, Jane. Now that we're going to be working together, I guess I can be straight with you about what happened up there. Your friend Ivy—she was some kinky chick.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she was playing some kind of weird game with me. Okay, I admit it, she had a thing for me, and I thought she was kind of foxy, in a slutty kind of way.”

Jane forced her smile to remain in place.

He went on, “At first I didn't dare take her up on her advances because of Johnny. Finally I told her that. She laughed and said she and Johnny were finished, that Johnny was only interested in Carla. So I relaxed a little.”

“What did you mean about a ‘weird game'?”

“You're not going to believe this, but because I was writing a thriller about the bus hijacking, she thought
I
was the hijacker!”

“
You?”

Alphonse jumped, then snuggled his nose back into his tail.

“Yeah. Funny, isn't it?” Graham said.

“But why did she think that?”

He smiled with only one side of his mouth. “Because she thought I knew that the hijacker's briefcase bomb wasn't real before it broke in the news. Fact is, I heard it on the radio like everybody else.”

She remembered Ivy, sitting on her bed Wednesday night, asking if Jane had heard any more about the hijacking story.

“At least, she
pretended
to believe I was the hijacker,” he continued. “So I went along with it, played her game. I figured, ‘This babe is hot for me and gets off on this kind of make-believe stuff, so what do I care?' So anyway, that conversation in the lounge—it was about the money she thought I'd gotten in the hijacking.”

“The money?”

“Yeah. She was pretending to blackmail me. She said she'd expose me if I didn't give her money. She wanted to meet me down by the pond to talk about it.” He winked at her. “But I knew what she really wanted.”

Jane winked back, feeling as if she might be sick at any moment. “Gotcha. And did you meet her?”

He looked down, embarrassed. “Nah. I thought about it all afternoon and decided it was a dumb idea. Not worth it, you know? She could
say
Johnny wasn't interested in her anymore, that he wanted Carla now, but how did I know if she was right about that? What if she was just using me to make Johnny jealous? Like I said, I wasn't about to make Mr. Johnny the Wiseguy mad.”

“So if you didn't meet Ivy down the path, where were you that night?”

“In my room. I told that to your boyfriend.”

Inwardly she winced. “Right. Did you tell him any of this?”

“No. Didn't think he'd understand.” He sat up. “You believe me, right? I mean, you don't think I killed your friend? 'Cause I got an alibi.”

“You do?”

“Sure. Ives.”

“William Ives?”

“He was my roommate. He was in the room with me all Thursday night. You can ask him. He'll vouch for me.”

“Of course he will. If you don't mind, I think I will speak with him, just as a formality. You wouldn't happen to know where he lives?”

“Sure I do. It's not far from here. He lives with his granddaughter. I'll get you the address. Ives and me, we got pretty chummy up there. Nice old guy. We promised we'd get together for a drink or somethin' once in a while, talk books.” Laboriously he lifted himself from his chair and crossed the room to a console table next to where Alphonse still slept. He picked up a slip of paper from the table, grabbed another piece of paper and a pen, and jotted something down. “Here you go,” he said, handing the paper to Jane. “Tell him I said hi. And you have my permission to tell him you and I'll be workin' together.”

“Let's not jump the gun,” she said hastily. “First things first.”

“Oh, right. An outline and three chapters. Gimme a couple days.”

“You got it,” she said, rising, and was pursued all the way to the door by Alphonse, whose nose she could feel pressing into the back of her thigh.

 

 

William Ives lived about a quarter of a mile from Hillside Gardens, in one of the smallest houses Jane had ever seen. Getting out of the car, she reflected that it was barely more than a shack, a box covered with shingles shedding their coat of wine-colored paint, and topped with a deteriorating roof. A few scraggly juniper bushes lined a flagstone path up to the screen door, behind which stood shriveled William Ives himself, watching Jane with a puzzled look.

“Hello, Mr. Ives,” she said cheerfully, approaching the door.

He made no response.

“Bet you're surprised to see me.”

“My granddaughter's at work,” he said, as a child might say his mommy's not home.

“Yes, I know you live with her. May I speak to you for a moment?”

“Sure,” he said, but didn't invite her in. “That check I gave Adam for the retreat come back or something?” he asked, his thin voice rising nervously.

She laughed. “No, I'm sure it didn't. I just want to ask you a question. I'm terribly sorry to bother you and won't take up more than a minute of your time.”

“A question?”

“Yes, an easy one. Was Larry Graham in your room with you on Thursday night?”

“Thursday night?” He frowned. “How am I supposed to remember that?”

“It would be extremely helpful if you could. Thursday night was, of course, the night before Ivy Benson's body was found.”

The dry wrinkles between William's eyes drew together. “You think Larry did it?”

“I didn't say that,” she responded evenly. “I'm just asking you a question. Was Larry with you the entire evening?”

His body shifted behind the screen door. “Why are you asking me about this? You're not the police. Unless your detective friend put you up to it.”

“Actually,” she said, feigning embarrassment, “he did. I help him out from time to time.”

“I see,” he said, and paused. Finally he said, “As a matter of fact, Larry was with me all that night. I know because we played blackjack the whole time. He beat me bad. I still owe him.”