Icing Ivy (6 page)

“You're not going to believe this,” she said. “You know Tom's room is downstairs next to the storage room?”

They all looked at her blankly.

“Well, it is. Anyway, Tom just told Adam that there are people
carrying on
in the storage room.”

“Really?” Ivy asked avidly. “Who?”

“I don't know,” Rhoda said, exasperated, and turned to Jane. “What should I do?”

Jane's eyes grew wide and she hunched her shoulders in a shrug. “Beats me. Let Adam handle it. It's his lodge. He can look into it if he likes.” And she thought,
I've got a pretty good idea who's in there.

For a moment Rhoda stood there, staring. Then she nodded resolutely, turned, and hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

“I'm not much in the mood for coffee after all,” Ginny said, and Daniel nodded in agreement.

“I guess I'm about ready to turn in,” Jane said, and was grateful when Ivy got the hint and left with them.

Jane took a long hot shower, put on her nightgown, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and settled on the bed with a manuscript she'd brought from the office. Just as she turned over the title page, there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Jane, it's me, Ivy.”

Jane let out a great sigh. “Coming.” Throwing on her robe, she went to the door and opened it. At the far end of the corridor, Tamara Henley emerged from her room, crossed to the room Carla and Ellyn were sharing, and knocked on their door.

Ivy walked into Jane's room and shut the door. “You know, that Tamara is totally cold and unfeeling. It's really bothering me. That nice William Ives can vouch for it.”

“Vouch for what? What did she do?”

“Right after I left here before, I went downstairs to see if there was anything to eat in the kitchen. Tamara and William were in the conference room and we had some fruit together. Anyway, we got to chatting about this and that, and somehow I got on to how I lost Marlene. Well. Tamara made it abundantly clear that she didn't want to hear anything about it. Don't you think that's cold?”

“Yes, I do. I don't blame you for being hurt. Ivy, where's Johnny?”

“I think he's in the lounge, watching the news. Can you believe there are no TVs in these rooms? Speaking of the news,” Ivy swept on, sitting on the bed, “have you heard anything more about that bus hijacking story?”

“No, why?”

Ivy shook her head, frowning, then yawned mightily. “I'm going to bed. Good night, Jane.”

Bewildered, Jane let Ivy out and watched her enter her room across the hall. Then she resumed her position on the bed, took up her manuscript, and started to read.

Ten minutes later there was another knock.

“Oh, for goodness' sake.” She went to the door. “Ivy, I thought you were going to bed.”

“It's me, Daniel.”

“Daniel?” She opened the door and he walked in.

“Sorry to bother you, Jane, but there's something I think you'd better know. A few minutes ago I was walking through the lounge. Ivy was there, sitting and talking with Larry Graham. Suddenly the door to the storage room opened and out came Johnny and Carla. You should have seen Ivy's face. Poor thing.”

“Did Johnny see her?”

“Yes, he gave her a quick glance and walked past her as if she didn't matter in the least.”

Poor Ivy. What would happen now?

“And as if that wasn't enough,” Daniel went on, “as I was coming upstairs, I passed Tom Brockman. He had a real stormy look and I wondered what was bothering him. Then I bumped into Adam, who said he'd just reprimanded Tom for being rude to the guests.”

She remembered Ivy's wreath incident.

“Adam told Tom that if he didn't lose his attitude fast, he'd have to leave as soon as the old road was plowed.” Daniel looked troubled. “But it was the Carla and Johnny thing I felt you should know about.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Not that I can do anything about it, but thanks.”

She saw him out, took one look at the bed, and knew she was too tired to read now. She put the manuscript on the dresser, climbed under the covers, and switched off the lamp. A short time later, as she was drifting off to sleep, she was aware of the sound of people yelling. Slowly she came awake and realized they were Ivy and Johnny. She couldn't make out what they were saying, just that Ivy was crying, pleading.

This went on for some time. Finally it became quiet, and Jane drifted into an uneasy sleep.

T
he atmosphere at breakfast was subdued, as if everyone had a hangover. Adam announced that the plowing of the old road had begun but would take a while.

As Jane sat down, Arliss took the seat beside her.

“Jane, what on earth was all that noise last night?”

“I don't know, Arliss.”

“It was coming from that floozy's room—”

“Don't call my friend a floozy.”

“It was coming from Ivy and Johnny's room, which is right next to mine and across the hall from yours. How could you not have heard it?”

“I didn't say I didn't hear it. I just said I didn't know what it was.”

Arliss regarded her for a moment. “I see. Being discreet, are we? Well, it's unacceptable, Jane. I'm here as a favor to you, but this is my vacation and I expect certain standards to be met.”

“All right, Arliss. If it will make you feel better, I'll ask Ivy to be more considerate. Couldn't you have done that?”

“Of course I could have. But it's not my job. You're the director of this thing, and it's your responsibility to make sure it goes smoothly. So far, I'm sorry to say, you've done a lousy job.”

Before Jane could respond, Arliss got up and walked away, taking a seat at the far end of the table. Almost immediately, Daniel took her place. “Morning,” he said brightly. “What was all that commotion last night?”

“None of your business,” blurted Ivy, who sat directly across from them, glaring.

Daniel, shocked, took a quick bite of his croissant. Ivy got up and began to walk around the table. She stopped at the coffee urn, poured a cup, and headed back to her seat. As she passed behind Carla, she stopped, stepped closer to the table, and dropped the coffee right in front of Carla, who gasped and jumped up. “You bitch,” she screamed. “You deliberately spilled that on me. I'm burned.” She slapped Ivy hard across the face, then ran from the room.

Everyone was silent.

“Oops,” Ivy said.

“Oh, Ivy,” Jane said, throwing down her napkin, and hurried from the room to make sure Carla was all right. Upstairs, she knocked on Carla's door and Carla opened it. She had already removed her jeans, and she pointed to angry red marks on her thighs.

“Look at this. That bitch burned me. Can you believe it?”

Jane didn't know what to say.

“I know she hates me because she saw Johnny and me come out of the storage room last night, but that's too bad for her.”

“You can't blame her for being upset,” Jane said, then quickly added, “Not that I condone what she just did.”

“It's not going to make any difference,” Carla said, pulling on a fresh pair of jeans. “Stupid fool thinks Johnny cares about her. He was laughing at her when he was with me.”

Jane felt a pang of hurt for her friend. Sadly she turned and left Carla's room.

Later, during writing time, Jane was in the lounge reading the manuscript she'd tried to read the night before, when Ellyn Bass timidly approached her. “Jane, could I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure, Ellyn. What's up?”

“Something's bothering me. Last night Tamara came to my room and told me I have writing talent but that I shouldn't waste it on romance. Jane, I
love
romance. I love reading it and I love writing it. It really hurt my feelings when she said that to me.”

“I don't blame you for feeling hurt,” Jane said. “She shouldn't have said that to you—though I suppose she meant well, in her way.”

“Aren't we all supposed to be encouraging? Supportive of each other's efforts, like Rhoda said?”

“Yes, definitely. I'm glad you mentioned this to me. I'll speak to Tamara.”

Ellyn smiled. “Thanks, Jane. I'm really enjoying this retreat.”

“Good, Ellyn, I'm glad.” Jane smiled as she watched Ellyn leave the room.

Suddenly Ivy had taken Ellyn's place, and Jane felt her smile melt. Ivy looked miserable, her hair tousled, her clothes rumpled. She wore no makeup.

“Oh, Jane,” she said on a little cry, sitting down beside her friend. “It's so awful.”

“What is?” Jane asked, remembering the yelling coming from her and Johnny's room.

“I saw Johnny come out of that storage closet with Carla. I told him so last night, but he didn't care. He actually got mad at
me.”
Carefully she raised her sweater to reveal an angry black-and-blue mark.

Jane sat up in alarm. “How did you get that?”

“He hit me,” Ivy said, and started to cry. “He hits me a lot, Jane.” She hung her head, staring into her lap. “He always hits me in places where it won't show.”

Jane sat up, incensed. “Then you should have gotten rid of him a long time ago. How dare he hit you? You're well rid of him.”

Ivy gave her head a little shake. “No, I'm not, Jane. He's all I have.” She met Jane's gaze, her eyes brimming with tears. “Do you think it's that easy for me to find men?”

“But isn't no man better than one who hurts you?” Jane asked gently.

“No.” Ivy paused, collecting her thoughts. “He got so furious at me for challenging him that he threatened to leave here with Carla the minute the road was clear.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Ivy. If it were me, I'd let him go.”

“But you're not me, Jane, don't you get it? You've never been me. You're beautiful and successful and funny and smart, and you got Kenneth, the man you wanted. The man who loved you and treated you like a queen. And if he hadn't been killed you'd still have him. Me, I got Ira, who constantly cheated and finally left me because I was ‘stupid and boring.' You never met the men I dated after Ira. Each one was worse than the one before. Then I met Johnny. He's part of my new life in New York. I love him. He doesn't mean to hurt me, he just has a wicked temper. And he always says he's sorry afterward. I know he means it. I—I can't lose him, Jane. What am I going to do?” she asked miserably, and buried her face in her hands.

Jane simply shook her head. “I'm sorry, Ivy. I won't advise you about how to keep a monster like that.”

Ivy looked again at Jane, this time as if she'd never seen her before. “You're not my friend, not really. You don't want me to be happy. I see that now. If I lose Johnny, you'll be glad, because you'd rather I had nobody than someone like him. You're a snob, Jane.” She jumped up and ran from the room.

Jane sat very still. That last accusation had hit hard, and hurt. It took all of her energy to rise and make her way through the empty conference room and into the kitchen for a much-needed cup of coffee. As she filled a cup, she heard people entering the conference room and realized they were Vick Halleran and Jennifer Castaneda. They seemed to be arguing about something.

“Vick, I came in here to get some writing done,” came Jennifer's breathy girl-woman voice. “Do you think you could leave me alone for a little while?”

“You never want to spend any time with me,” Vick whined. “You just wanted to get away from me. Maybe you wish you'd come to the retreat with
Henry.”

Jane stood stock-still. If she emerged from the kitchen now, they would know she'd heard them, which would be too embarrassing to bear. So she stayed where she was, listening.

“Oh, shut up, ” Jennifer said. “I've told you a million times that's over.”

Jane recalled that Jennifer's agent was Henry Silver, for whose agency, coincidentally, Jane and Kenneth had once worked.

There was the sudden sound of a chair scraping the floor. “I don't believe it's over, Jennifer. But whether it is or isn't,” Vick said icily, “if you try to divorce me, I'll take you for all you're worth.”

“Really?” Jennifer sounded amused. “And how would you justify that?”

“You'd be nothing if it weren't for me, if it weren't for all I've taught you about writing. You used me . . . and now I'll use you.”

Then there was silence. Jane waited a good two minutes, then intentionally made some noise to signal her presence. Cup in hand, she bustled out, pretending to be surprised to find Jennifer typing away on her notebook computer.

“Hello,” Jane said. Jennifer gave her a tight smile and returned her attention to her computer screen.

Feeling a headache coming on, Jane retrieved her manuscript from the lounge and took it up to her room. She had just finished reading chapter one when a loud
pop,
a sound she recognized immediately as a gunshot, exploded in the hall, just outside her door.

H
eart thumping, Jane hurried to her door, opened it a crack, and peeked out. A middle-aged man in a tan overcoat, sloppily obese and sweating profusely, ran past her room, holding a gun out in front of him. Jane peered down the length of the corridor in time to see Johnny run down the stairs. The man scrambled after him.

Across the corridor, Ivy's door opened and she stood there, looking badly shaken, her blue eyes huge.

“Ivy, what's going on?” Jane demanded.

Without responding, Ivy shut her door.

Other doors along the corridor were thrown open and alarmed faces peered out.

Adam came running up the stairway to the left of Jane's room. “Everyone stay in your rooms,” he shouted down the corridor. He saw Jane and came into her room. “We've got to call the police.”

“Yes. I'll call Stanley.” She rang him at the station and found him in his office. She told him what had just happened, that a man with a gun had run through the lodge, chasing Johnny.

“Jane, I can't get up there until the road is plowed. I told you Johnny was no good. I'm sure there's nothing more to worry about. The two of them are probably far into the woods by now.”

“But how could that man have gotten up here?”

“He must have hiked up one of the trails—there are lots of them. He was a heavyset man, you said?”

“Yes, that's right.”

Stanley let out a little laugh. “He must have wanted Johnny pretty bad.”

“I don't think this is funny,” Jane said in alarm.

“No, of course not. Sorry, Jane. I'll see what I can do to hurry up the plowing and get up there.”

Jane hung up the phone, an image of Johnny running through the snowy woods in her mind.

Adam said, “Jane, I want to talk to Ivy, see what she knows about this.”

“Don't you think we should wait for Stanley?”

Adam ignored this, leaving Jane's room and crossing to Ivy's. He banged on her door.

“Go away,” she shouted from inside.

“Ivy, open the door. We need to talk to you. Please.”

After a few moments they heard her shuffling steps, and then the door opened. They walked past her, Jane closing the door.

“Ivy,” Jane said, “who was that man chasing Johnny?”

“I don't know.” Ivy sat down on the bed, the very picture of dejection.

“I think you do, Ivy.”

“I don't know who he is, Jane. I only know that Johnny's been trying to get away from him. I don't know why.” She looked up miserably into Jane's eyes. “Johnny was never really going away this weekend. I used you, Jane. I knew Johnny was looking for a place to hide from that man. When you told me about the retreat, I realized it would be perfect. So I got you to invite me, and then I convinced you to let Johnny come. I'm sorry.”

“It doesn't matter, Ivy,” Jane said sadly. “He's gone now.”

The phone in Jane's room began to ring. Jane hurried across the hall and grabbed it.

“Hello, hello, missus,” came Florence's lilting Trinidadian voice. “How are you holding up, all stranded?”

“Florence,” Jane said, “you have no idea.”

“I see . . .” Florence said, though she of course didn't. “I wanted to report in, tell you that Nicholas is fine, and so are Winky and the kittens. We're working on names, but no final decisions have been made. Is the old road clear yet? It seems everyone in town is talking about you all stuck up there.”

“They're still working on the road.” Jane thought of something. “Florence, has anyone come to the house looking for me or Ivy?”

“Why, yes, missus, as a matter of fact someone did. Yesterday. A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“Kind of overweight, missus, in a light-colored coat, like a trench coat. Maybe in his forties. He asked for Ivy Benson. Why?”

“What did you tell him?”

“That she was at the retreat, of course. Why, missus ? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, it's all right, Florence. I'd better go now. Give Nick a kiss for me, okay?”

“Will do.”

As Jane hung up, Rhoda appeared in the doorway. She turned when Adam emerged from Ivy's room.

“Come on,” Jane said to them both. “I want to see something.”

“Where?” Adam asked.

“Outside.”

Jane led the way along the corridor to the stairs down which Johnny and the gunman had run. They went out through the door at the end of the building and emerged onto the snow-covered lawn. Jane immediately spotted two sets of footprints. “This way.”

The prints led into the woods, but there was no trail here, and they were quickly lost in the tangle of brush. Returning to the lodge, Jane wondered if the man with the gun had caught up with Johnny.

 

 

Not surprisingly, no one got any writing done that morning, and lunch was abuzz with speculation. Somehow Adam had found out it was Ellyn Bass's birthday, and after lunch he and Ginny brought out an Entenmann's coffee cake studded with candles, along with some fruit punch. Adam sent Tom into the kitchen for ice, but Tom reappeared a few moments later.

“Mr. Forrest, the icemaker is malfunctioning again. The ice cubes have melted together into a blob. Do you have the ice pick?”

“No,” Adam replied impatiently, “what would I be doing with the ice pick?” He went into the kitchen himself, and they could hear him rummaging in drawers, then, “Damn.”

He reappeared, looking frustrated. “I have no idea where it is. Tom, get a screwdriver from the supply closet.”

Tom did, and soon Adam was hacking away at the cubes.

The cake and punch went a long way toward lifting the group's spirits. When it was time for the one-on-one sessions, everyone bustled off quite happily, almost as if nothing unusual had happened that morning at the lodge.

 

 

After lunch, Jane met with Larry Graham in her room for their one-on-one session.

“I didn't write anything this morning,” he announced, falling into the armchair near the bed.

Jane sat behind the desk. There was something different about him, Jane noticed, then realized it was his hair, that unruly mass of thinning orange fuzz. He appeared to have tried to part it in the middle—for what reason, she couldn't imagine—and had achieved a thoroughly unpleasant effect. He sat watching her.

“I suppose I can't blame you for not getting any writing done today,” she said pleasantly, “what with all that's gone on.”

“Yeah, that's it,” he said, a smile breaking over his coarse features.

It was suddenly somehow clear to Jane that that hadn't actually been the reason, but that he was happy to use it as his excuse.

“What was that all about?” he asked. “With Johnny and that guy with the gun. Do you think Johnny is some kind of Mafia figure? Who was the other guy?”

Jane shook her head and tried to smile. “I'm sure I have no idea.” She wanted him to stop talking about this.

“I intend to find out. I'm going to follow their footprints into the woods, figure out where they went.”

“Already tried that,” she said, and she could tell by his quick series of blinks that this had surprised him. “There's no trail where they ran into the woods, just sticks and underbrush. The prints get lost. Besides,” she added, shivering, “I don't think we necessarily want to know what happened. That's one trail I've decided I don't want to follow.”

“Mm,” he said thoughtfully. “Trails . . . You know, there are some trails you can't see . . .”

What on earth was he talking about? “All righty, then,” she said briskly, getting to her feet, “if you'll forgive me, I'll use the rest of our time for some reading—since you haven't written anything new for us to go over. You don't object, do you?”

“No, no, not at all,” he said, still oddly preoccupied, and she showed him out, relieved to be rid of him.

She went to the window and gazed out into the woods, dark and forbidding on this bleak gray day. She glanced about her room and it seemed oppressive suddenly, shabby and depressing. She had to get out of there. Taking up her manuscript, she left the room and went down to the lounge, which was blessedly empty. She settled into a big leather chair near the built-in bookcases at the back of the room, sighed deeply, and resumed her reading.

She heard footsteps and, with a sense of dread, looked up into Bertha's pudgy face.

“Hello, Jane,” Bertha said rather coolly.

Was she going to apologize for that scene with Jennifer? Hardly likely, knowing Bertha.

“Jane,” she said, falling onto the sofa facing Jane's chair, “I think this is a good time to talk about my career.”

Jane felt a kind of sinking nausea in the pit of her stomach. “Actually, this isn't a good time. I've got some work to do, and before you know it, it will be time for dinner.”

Bertha looked at the watch on her chubby wrist. “It's hours till dinner. You just don't want to talk to me.”

Bingo. “No, that's not it at all, Bertha. It's that I'm very busy, running the retreat and all. As I think I told you, there really isn't time to discuss your career during the retreat.”

“That's not what you said at all,” Bertha whined. “You agreed we'd find time to talk in our ‘down moments.'”

Giving up, Jane set down the manuscript on the coffee table. “All right, let's talk about your career.”

“Hello, ladies.”

Jennifer Castaneda swept into the room. She wore a snowy white fisherman's knit sweater over black leggings. Jane reflected again on what a beauty this woman was, sleek and sinuous. She sat down beside Bertha and good-naturedly patted her knee. “I'm sorry about those things I said about your books.”

Bertha looked amazed. “Why . . . thank you.”

Would Bertha apologize back? Jane wondered. She doubted it.

She was right. Bertha just sat there, an expectant look on her face. Jane knew she was wishing Jennifer would leave.

But Jennifer crossed her legs and settled more comfortably on the sofa. “You've got to admit, though, that historical romances and contemporary romances are totally different.”

Bertha drew in her breath to respond. Jane wasn't going to give her that chance. “I've been admiring that beautiful sweater, Jennifer. You know, I'm a knitter.” When Jennifer looked surprised, Jane went on, “Mm-hm, I even belong to a knitting club. We call ourselves the Defarge Club. Cute, huh?”

Both Jennifer and Bertha had completely blank expressions.

“Madame Defarge was a character in
A Tale of Two Cities
.”

Still the vacant looks.

“Surely you've both heard of Charles Dickens.”

“Yes, of course,” Bertha said, and shifted impatiently.

“Anyway,” Jane hurried on, “I've made sweaters not unlike that. They're a lot of fun to do, all those cables and bobbles and things.”

Jennifer gave Jane a wondering look. At that moment Tamara Henley entered the lounge from the stairs, passing through on her way to the conference room. “Hello,” she drawled.

The three women smiled and returned the greeting, watching her pass through the room. The minute she was gone, Jennifer giggled and leaned closer to the two other women. “Speaking of clothes,” she whispered cattily, “did you get a load of what Mrs. Gotrocks has got on? The woman does
not
know how to dress.”

“Really?” Bertha said. “What was she wearing? I didn't notice.”

“How could you not notice?” Jennifer said. “That gray skirt and lavender top. Clash city.” She gave a little shrug. “I guess it just goes to show that money doesn't guarantee good taste.”

Jane didn't like where this conversation was going. Sitting with these two was making her feel increasingly anxious. “Oh,” she said suddenly, “I just remembered I've got to call my nanny about something. You'll both excuse me?”

Bertha, looking positively betrayed, stared at Jane as she rose from her chair.

Jennifer said, “Sure.”

Jane hurried out of the lounge and up the stairs. She met Adam coming down.

“Hello, Jane. I've decided to throw another little party tonight. After that business with Johnny and the man with the gun, I figure everyone could use some special treatment.”

“I think that's an excellent idea.”

“Good. Rhoda and I will be hosting it in the conference room after the group reading.”

She told him she'd see him later and made it to her room, where she actually managed to finish reading the manuscript.