Icing Ivy (7 page)

A
t dinner, Jane, sitting between William Ives and Daniel, glanced around the room, wondering where Ivy was. As if reading her thoughts, Daniel whispered, “Isn't Ivy coming to dinner?”

“I don't know,” Jane replied, and at that moment Ivy appeared in the doorway.

She looked like hell, as if she hadn't bathed or changed her clothes since yesterday. She made her way over to Jane, William, and Daniel and took the empty seat next to William. Watching Ivy sit down a little too carefully, Jane wondered if she'd been drinking.

The atmosphere was subdued—Adam, Rhoda, and Ginny serving, everyone quietly eating. Adam, crossing the room with a tray, gave Jane an imploring look. She nodded.

“Well,” she burst out sunnily. “How are everyone's stories coming along?”

They all looked at her, wary expressions on their faces.

Finally William looked up and smiled at Jane. “I think mine's a real humdinger,” he said in his thready voice. “Maybe I'll get myself one of those movie deals. But I've got to executive produce.”

Everyone laughed, the atmosphere loosening up.

“
I've
got a hell of a story,” Ivy suddenly announced. The room grew silent again. Everyone watched her, waiting.

“Mm-hm,” she continued matter-of-factly, spearing a piece of chicken and putting it in her mouth. “It's going to put someone in jail for years and years.”

Again the uneasy silence. Jane didn't blame Ivy for feeling bitter toward Johnny and was happy that her friend was rid of him, but she didn't like the way this conversation was going.

“What about you, Carla?” Jane asked.

Carla looked up and scowled at Jane, who refused to be intimidated.

“How is your novel coming along?”

“Fine,” Carla said brusquely, and looked away. “Pass the butter, please.”

Jane gave up. The remainder of the meal was eaten in virtual silence.

 

 

The atmosphere of that evening's group session made Jane nervous, as if the air itself were charged.

Tamara read from her novel, about a woman dying of breast cancer. Red Pearson ripped it to shreds, calling it maudlin and melodramatic.

When he read from his own novel based on the Boriken Social Club tragedy, Tamara got him back by loudly scoffing at least three times.

William Ives, in his thin, shaky voice, read a passage from his novel about a lost woodsman. To Jane's surprise, it was extremely well written. She noticed Arliss, William's instructor, nodding approvingly at the other end of the room. Jane wondered, perhaps uncharitably, if Arliss had rewritten William's material. Brad Franklin, as if reading Jane's thoughts, called out, “Sounds like your teacher helped you with your homework.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” William demanded.

Brad laughed, his shoulders rising and falling once. “It's obvious. Arliss rewrote your stuff. Or maybe she just wrote it, saved you the trouble of doing anything at all.”

A hush descended upon the room. Arliss was watching Brad with a shocked, hateful look in her eyes. “That remark was totally uncalled for, Brad,” she said, “and I resent it immensely.”

Brad laughed again. “Sorry, sorry. I was only joking.”

“You know,” Ivy said, and everyone turned to her, “I think Brad is the last person who should object to someone's writing being ‘ghosted,' since that's exactly what he does for a living.”

Brad's face grew serious. “I just told you,” he said tightly, “I was joking.”

Ivy appeared to ignore this. “Damn cushy setup,” she muttered. “Cushier than people think.”

Brad gave her a surprised, murderous look.

Paul Kavanagh read more of his coming-of-age novel, a passage in which the protagonist experienced his first homosexual encounter. In the middle of the reading, Red yelled out that he hadn't come to this retreat to hear porno. This time Paul, who seemed to have girded himself for blows such as this, simply finished reading and took his seat.

Ellyn Bass read lovingly from her romance, dwelling on the heavy Scottish accents. Tamara rolled her eyes. To Jane's surprise, Jennifer criticized the passage, saying that dialect would make her book difficult to read. Bertha rushed to disagree, saying she thought the dialect was marvelously authentic. Listening to this exchange, Ellyn looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. When Bertha reminded the group that her last Scottish historical romance,
Highland Rapture,
had been number 18 on
The New York Times
extended best-seller list and that she should know whereof she spoke, Jennifer rose a little in her chair and narrowed her eyes.

Eager to avert another battle, Jane stood and asked Larry if he would like to read. He gave her a puzzled look and reminded her that he hadn't written anything new. She apologized, moving on to Carla. Jane had succeeded in preventing another scene. Taking her seat, she glanced at Ivy, who was watching Larry closely.

When the session was over, Adam came in and reminded everyone of the reception he and Rhoda would be hosting in the conference room.

“That's one party I'll pass on,” Ivy said softly to Jane.

Jane had no desire to attend either, though she knew she should. She decided to take a few minutes' break in her room first.

She took the back stairs to the second floor and made her way down the corridor. Passing Arliss's room, she heard Arliss speaking harshly to someone.

“If you want to keep this working,” Arliss was saying, exasperation in her tone, “you've at least got to
read
them. Just how lazy are you? You should have told her you're not allowed to talk about them.”

What was she talking about, Jane wondered, and to whom was she speaking?

Entering her room, Jane threw herself onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Her thoughts wandered to Ivy and Johnny, and she grew angry as she thought about how they had used and manipulated her. She was also certain that Ivy knew more about the gunman incident than she had let on.

Ivy hadn't gone to Adam and Rhoda's reception and must be in her room. Impulsively, Jane decided to speak to her, to confront her about what she'd done.

She crossed the hall and knocked on Ivy's door. There was no answer. Either Ivy had already gone to bed or she was still downstairs, in which case Jane wouldn't want to speak with her now anyway. The things Jane wanted to say could be said only in private. Besides, Jane had decided not to attend the reception; she didn't want to be spotted and buttonholed.

Deciding to speak to Ivy in the morning, she went to bed.

 

 

She was awakened by a knock on her door. Morning light shone between the curtains. “Who is it?”

“Jane, it's me, Stanley.”

She jumped out of bed, made sure her hair looked all right, and threw open the door. He seemed surprised when she put her arms around him and kissed him. Then she noticed a man in uniform standing behind Stanley, who cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Jane, you remember Officer Raymond.”

“Yes, of course,” Jane said, serious now, grabbing her robe. “How are you?”

“Fine, ma'am, thank you.”

Stanley said, “The road's finally clear, obviously. Now, can you tell me everything you saw relating to this gunman incident?”

“Yes, of course. Let me throw on some clothes.”

She closed the door and quickly brushed her teeth and dressed. Then she asked both men to come in and told them what had happened.

“I'd like to speak to Ivy,” Stanley said.

“Her room's right across the hall,” Jane told him and led the way. Stanley knocked on the door. There was no answer.

“That's odd,” Jane said, a shiver of fear running through her. “Where could she be?”

“In another room?” Stanley ventured.

“No . . .” she said thoughtfully. “There's nowhere else she would have spent the night. Stanley,” she said suddenly, “I want Adam to let us into her room. What if she's done something—something to herself?”

Stanley's eyes widened. “All right.” He turned to Officer Raymond. “Dan, would you please go get Adam?”

Raymond nodded and ran down the stairs. A few moments later he and Adam appeared.

“What's going on?” Adam asked Jane.

“I want you to open Ivy's door. She wasn't in her room last night and she doesn't answer the door now.”

“All right,” Adam said. Taking a ring of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the door and led the way in.

The bed was neatly made, the room empty.

Stanley sighed ominously. “It's clear no one spent the night here.”

“Where could she have gone?” Jane asked, though not expecting an answer.

“Jane, I want you to show me where Johnny and the man with the gun ran.”

She led them along the corridor, down the stairs, and out the door of the building. It was still quite cold, a moistness in the air, the sky overcast and foreboding. Jane showed Stanley and Raymond the footprints leading into the woods. “But they peter out pretty quickly,” she told them.

Stanley was moving slowly among the trees, deeper into the woods. “No, they don't,” he said, taking one careful step after another. Raymond, Jane, and Adam followed him. Soon Stanley had led them onto a wide trail.

“Stay to the extreme right, please,” he said, “so we don't mess up the prints.” He turned to Adam. “Where does this trail lead?”

“To the pond.”

“See this?” Stanley said, pointing to the ground. “The prints come out of the woods and onto the trail. And here,” he said, pointing along the trail back in the direction of the lodge, “are two more sets of prints. They all merge here.”

“But what does that mean?” Jane asked.

Stanley didn't answer, but followed the merged prints, the others close behind. “Ah,” he said suddenly, pointing. “Two sets of prints veer off the trail again into the woods.”

“Could Johnny and the other man have come this way?” Jane wondered aloud.

“It's possible,” Adam said. “Eventually they would have come to another trail. There are so many of them in these woods, and many of them lead all the way down the mountain.”

The remaining two sets of footprints continued along the trail, and Stanley, Raymond, Jane, and Adam followed them to the edge of the pond, which was larger than Jane had expected, its surface completely covered with snow.

Stanley walked to the pond's edge, his hands on his hips. He seemed to be staring at something. Jane walked up beside him.

“What?” she asked.

He pointed to an odd mound of snow about a foot from the shore.

“What is it?” she asked, wondering why he found it so interesting. “A rock?”

Wordlessly, Stanley approached the shape, knelt down, and brushed away some of the snow. To Jane's surprise, a bit of bright red was revealed. Puzzled, she frowned and moved closer. Stanley, intent on what he was doing, brushed away more snow.

Suddenly Ivy's face was looking out at them, her blue eyes open, staring, her cheeks bright red.

Jane gasped, stumbling, and clutched at Stanley with a clawed hand. “It's Ivy. Is she . . .”

“Dead.”

Jane felt her face contorting and she began to cry. “It can't be. It can't.”

Stanley had brushed away more snow. He stood and took Jane in his arms.

Through her tears Jane said, “She must have come down the trail for some reason, not realized she'd reached the pond, and fallen. She must have hit her head on the ice. Poor Ivy.”

Gently, Stanley took Jane by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Jane, Ivy's death was no accident. I'm sorry, I don't want to have to tell you this, but you might as well know now. She's been stabbed.”

Jane's breath caught in her throat. “Stabbed?”

“Yes. With a small, sharp instrument. If I'm not mistaken, an ice pick.”

An ice pick . . .

The world began to spin. “Like Trotsky . . .” she said, and suddenly Adam and Rhoda were reaching out to her and calling her name and Stanley had his arms around her again, trying to hold her up, and everything went mercifully black....

J
ane was aware of something cold and hard beneath her. She opened her eyes and saw Stanley's face against the gray sky. His own eyes grew wider, and he smiled with relief.

“Take it easy. Don't try to get up yet.”

“What happened?”

“You fainted.”

Then it all came rushing back to her—the mound of snow, Ivy's open eyes staring blankly—and she was overcome by a heavy wave of despair.

She felt a drop of water hit her forehead and flinched.

“It's starting to rain,” Stanley said. “Do you think you can stand up?”

“I think so.”

He took her by the arm, Raymond taking her other arm, and they helped her gently to her feet. “Easy does it,” he said. “If you feel faint again, tell me.”

“All right.” She looked around and saw Adam and Rhoda standing nervously off to the side near a large rock. “Stanley,” she said, turning to him imploringly, “what happened to Ivy?”

He paused, clearly reluctant to answer. “I told you, Jane,” he said gently, “it looks as if she's been . . . killed.” He gave her a curious frowning look. “What was it you said about Trotsky?”

The ice pick. She shuddered. “That's how Leon Trotsky was killed. By an assassin in Mexico City.”

Stanley gave her a strange look.

Officer Raymond stepped forward. “Actually, Mrs. Stuart, I believe it was an ice
ax
that was used to kill Trotsky—if you'll forgive my saying so.” He gave a quick nervous smile and stepped back again.

Jane looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. “Who the hell cares how Trotsky was killed? My friend is lying there dead on the ice. Who did this to her?” She realized she was screaming. The three men looked alarmed. Rhoda had her index finger between her teeth, her eyes wet with tears.

Now the rain began coming down in earnest, fat plops of water hitting the crusted snow.

“Jane,” Stanley said softly, stepping forward, “you've had a very bad shock. I'm going to have Dan here take you back up to the lodge, okay?”

Realizing there was nothing she could do there, that Stanley had to take care of his official business, she took Raymond's arm as he stepped up to her, and slowly he walked her back along the path toward the long wooden building looming ahead.

“Now what happens?” she asked him.

“Detective Greenberg will call dispatch for more officers. Also the Morris County medical examiner. They'll carry out the routine procedures— crime scene—and then,” he said, hesitating, “the body will be taken to the autopsy facility.”

Wordlessly, Jane nodded. She and Raymond entered the lodge through the door by which they had exited, at the end of the building. Entering the conference room, they stopped short at the sight of everyone sitting around the table, chatting as they ate. A hush descended on the group, puzzled gazes on Jane and the police officer whose arm she was holding.

Ginny stood up. She looked alarmed. “Jane, is something wrong? Where are Adam and Rhoda?”

“Here,” came Adam's voice from behind Jane and Raymond. Jane turned. He was picking anxiously at the skin of his thumb. Rhoda stood beside him.

Daniel said, “What happened?”

“Bad news, folks,” Raymond said gently, before Jane, Adam, or Rhoda could speak. “There's been a—”

“Ivy's dead, ” Jane said flatly. “Murdered.”

Carla, about to take a bite of buttered poppy-seed bagel, stopped and grinned widely. “I'm loving it.”

Everyone looked at her in horror. “Carla!” said Ellyn Bass, who sat beside her.

“Didn't like her,” Carla said with a careless shrug, her mouth full of bagel. “That's what she gets for dumping that coffee on me.”

“Oh, really,” Tamara said.

Jane was aware of movement behind her and turned. Behind Adam and Rhoda were two more uniformed officers, standing side by side. Officer Raymond took a small step forward, taking charge.

“Sir,” he said, addressing Adam, “is there a room we can use to interview everyone?”

“Certainly. Through there,” Adam replied, pointing toward the lounge.

Raymond stepped to the doorway and took a look into the room. “That'll be fine. If you'll all come in here, please, and take a seat.”

“But I'm still eating,” Carla protested.

At the other end of the table, Bertha stood suddenly and threw down her crumpled napkin. “Oh, for pity's sake, woman, do as the officer says.”

Carla rolled her eyes and flung the rest of her bagel onto her plate. Poppy seeds flew onto the table. “Always so dramatic.” But she stood and joined the others, who had already begun filing into the next room.

Bertha stopped when she reached Jane. “How was she killed?” Bertha asked solemnly.

Before Jane could answer, one of the officers stepped forward. “Ma'am, we'd appreciate it if you wouldn't discuss this amongst yourselves.”

“Yes, of course,” Bertha said with a sharp military nod, and eyed the officer up and down. Jane couldn't help thinking that he was quite handsome—tall, slim, dark-haired, with fine, regular features. Just Bertha's type.

Raymond, who stood close enough to have heard this exchange, spoke to the group. “That's right, folks, no discussion of any sort, please. Officers Bannon and Grady and I are going to take your statements, and then you can get on with your business.”

“Get on with our business !” Arliss cried. “I really don't think so.”

“Nor do I,” Paul Kavanagh said, and there was a chatter of agreement from the others.

“Folks, folks, quiet, please,” Raymond said, and turned to Adam. “We won't take up a lot of your time.”

Adam said, “That's fine, but they're right. The retreat is over. I assume the old road is plowed, since you're here.”

“That's right,” Raymond said.

“Then when you're finished with everyone, they can leave?”

“Yes.”

Tamara Henley shivered violently. “Then let's get this over with.”

The three officers stationed themselves at different spots in the large room, notepads and pens in hand, and began their interviews. It was Officer Grady who spoke with Jane, asking her about her actions and whereabouts since the group reading the previous evening—the last time, it had been ascertained, Ivy had been seen alive. Jane told Grady she had gone directly to her room after the reading. She hadn't attended Adam and Rhoda's reception in the conference room. She had knocked on Ivy's door, wanting to speak to her, but there had been no answer. Then Jane had gone to bed.

When Officer Grady was finished with Jane, most of the others had already given their statements and left the lounge—presumably to pack and leave. Making for the stairway, she passed through the conference room and was suddenly face-to-face with Larry Graham. His skin was shiny with sweat, and there was an odd gleam in his eyes.

“I didn't expect the retreat to end like this.”

She frowned. “No, of course not, none of us did. It's a horrible thing. . . .”

“I mean, we were supposed to go through Sunday. If you count today as lost, that's three days we're missing.”

Anger welled up inside her, and she gave her head a little toss. “Exactly what is it you want, Mr. Graham? A woman has been killed. How can you be so insensitive?”

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, opened his mouth, hesitated. Then he said, “I'm sorry about Ivy, but I just meant that because the retreat's been cut short, maybe you could . . . I mean, if I could be in touch with you later on about my manuscript . . .”

She rolled her eyes. “I'm not taking on any new clients at present. I thought I'd made that clear.”

“But—”

She swept past him. As she reached the stairway, the outside door opened and Stanley entered. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, as all right as can be expected. I'm going upstairs to pack.”

“I'll come with you.”

In her room, she passed him her clothes and other belongings, which he placed in her suitcase on the bed.

“Stanley,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence, “who would have wanted to kill Ivy?”

He shook his head. “That's what we're investigating.”

“It had to be someone here at the retreat.”

“Not necessarily. That fellow with the gun who chased Johnny into the woods managed to get up here.”

“But it was most likely one of us. But who . . . and why?”

“We can rule some people out right away. It couldn't have been Adam or Rhoda, because they were hosting their reception in the conference room until after midnight—and it appears pretty certain Ivy died before then. We can also rule out Tom Brockman, because he was also in the conference room the whole time, helping out with the reception.”

“What about the people who attended?”

“Can't rule them out. People were drifting in and out all evening, apparently.” He took a deep breath. “The prime suspect, obviously, is Johnny.”

“
Johnny ?
Ivy would have been more likely to kill him.” She told him about Johnny and Carla, and about Ivy's reaction. “On the other hand,” she said thoughtfully, “they might have argued. The night before last I heard them screaming at each other in their room. What if they fought about Carla, and Johnny lost his temper and killed Ivy?”

“Possible, I suppose,” Stanley agreed.

“Damn right it's possible. Ivy told me Johnny used to
hit
her. She showed me a black-and-blue mark on her side.”

Stanley looked distressed at this revelation. He looked down, his face reddening, and finally shook his head. “You have to wonder why a woman would stay with a man like that.”

“Because she was scared,” she said simply. “Scared that if she lost Johnny, she'd have no one.”

“And a man who hits you is better than no man at all?”

“To Ivy, yes. She said as much.” Tears came to Jane's eyes. “After what happened to Ivy's daughter, Marlene, I'll never forgive myself if Ivy's killer isn't brought to justice.”

Stanley's gaze met hers. “Now, Jane, don't you start playing detective again. You're a literary agent. This is a matter for us, the police.”

She'd barely heard him. Lost in memories of her long friendship with Ivy Benson, she reached for the last of her clothes and dumped them in her suitcase.