Icing Ivy (8 page)

“M
issus, what are you doing here? We weren't expecting you and Ivy until Sunday.”

Florence stood in the doorway between the foyer and the kitchen, a large bowl of chocolate-chip cookie dough in one arm.

“Hey, Mom—” Nick burst from the family room, his hands full of the miniature soldiers Jane had given him for Christmas. He rushed forward and gave her a tight hug.

She ruffled his clean brown hair, knelt, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “It's good to be home.”

He gave her a shrewd look. “But you weren't supposed to be home yet. What's wrong?”

Jane's gaze shifted briefly to Florence, who must also have sensed something amiss and wrinkled her brow. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Yes, fine,” Jane said brightly. “We ended early, that's all.”

Florence was watching her. “Have you had your lunch, missus?”

“I'm not hungry, thanks, Florence. Maybe just some coffee.”

“Of course,” Florence said, and went into the kitchen.

Jane hung up her coat and followed her. Nick had returned to the family room, from which came the sounds of
Home Alone
, one of his favorite videos.

Florence came up close to Jane. “What happened ?” she whispered. “Where's Ivy?”

“Florence . . .” Jane began, and burst into tears.

“Missus! What is it?”

“Ivy is dead.”

Florence's jaw dropped. She set down the bowl on the counter. “Dead?”

“Yes,” Jane said, and sniffed.

Florence put a hand to her chest and drew in her breath. “Lord help us, no.”

“Yes. Florence,” Jane said, her voice breaking, “she was
murdered.”
She burst into fresh tears, and the two women embraced tightly.

“But who?” Florence said, patting her back. “Who would want to do that to her?”

“We don't know.”

“Poor Ivy,” Florence said softly. “I didn't know her very well, but it seems she never had much of a life.”

 

 

From the center of the laundry room Jane, Florence, and Nick watched Winky care for her six three-day-old kittens.

“Mom, why can't I play with them?” Nick asked, his gaze fixed on the box in the corner.

“Dr. Singh says we should avoid handling the kittens for the first two weeks,” Jane said. “Though I agree it's hard not to at least pet them,” she admitted. “They are so cute.”

“That they are, missus,” Florence said. “But we can name them while we're waiting.”

“I've already started on that,” Nick said. “Now let's see . . . there are three that look like Winky.”

“Right,” Florence said. “Brown tortoiseshells. All females.”

“Right. But they don't look exactly alike. One has funny dark marks above her eyes that look like another pair of eyes. So I've decided to call her . . . Four Eyes.”

“Sounds good, ” Jane said, and she and Florence exchanged a smile.

“Then there's one with dark paws. I'm calling her Muddy, because it looks like she stepped in mud. And there's one that looks exactly like Winky. I haven't figured out what to call her yet.”

“We'll work on that one,” Florence said. “What about the other three?”

“There's that gorgeous one with the grayish white markings,” Jane said.

“Also a tortoiseshell,” Florence said. “I believe it's called a blue-cream.”

“How do you know so much about cats?”

“I told you, missus, in Trinidad I saw a lot of kittens being born. Now this blue-cream tortoiseshell, it is also a girl.”

“Let's call her Blue,” Nick said.

“Okay,” Jane said. “Now what about the other two?”

“Ah, the boys,” Florence said. “And both orange tabbies.”

“They're beautiful,” Jane said, looking at the tiny orange-and-cream striped bodies. “What about these guys, Nick?”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “one is more orange than the other, and I've noticed he keeps stomping on his brother and sisters. So I think we should call him Crush. Get it? Orange Crush.”

“Love it. And the other one?”

“He's the smallest of the litter. He's Pee Wee.”

“Very good, Master Nick,” Florence said, and tossed back her head and laughed. “You still have to give some thought to the one that looks just like her mother.”

“I will.” Nick frowned in puzzlement. “Why are they all different?”

“Genetics,” Jane said. “Not that I can explain it, but nature dictates that a certain mother and father will produce certain types of kittens.”

“You know,” Florence said thoughtfully, watching Winky, “I have read that a litter of kittens can have more than one father.”

Jane looked at Florence in shock.

“It's true. While you were at the retreat, I thought about who the father might be—you know, tomcats in this neighborhood. And there are
two
I can think of who might be responsible for this bunch. I even called Dr. Singh, and she told me what this is called.” Florence glanced upward, thinking. “Yes, I know. Superfecundation.”

“Wow. You're smart, Flo.”

Florence patted Nick's head. “No, just curious.”

“Look what she's doing now.”

Winky moved around the box, rubbing heads with each of her kittens in turn. Then she walked to a corner of the box and flopped onto her back. Immediately the kittens made their way over to her and began to nurse.

“You're a good mother, Miss Winky,” Florence called softly, and she and Jane and Nick filed quietly out of the room.

“Hey, Mom,” Nick said in the hallway. “Do you think Ivy would like to have one of the kittens?”

Jane's and Florence's smiles disappeared. Jane opened her mouth but was at a loss for words. Finally she said, “Nicholas, honey, I have something to tell you about Ivy. During the retreat”—she glanced quickly at Florence—“she had an accident.”

“An accident? Is she all right?”

Jane put her hand on the back of Nick's head. “No, darling, she's not. I'm afraid she died.”

Nick's face grew pale. “What happened?”

“She . . . fell on some ice and . . . hurt herself. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this news.”

“Dead,” Nick said hollowly, and caught his lower lip between his teeth, contemplating this idea. “And she was just here, having Christmas with us.”

“Yes,” Florence said, “that's right. And we had a lovely Christmas, didn't we? I'm sure Ivy left this world with happy thoughts in her head.”

The two women watched Nick walk slowly down the hallway to the foyer and enter the family room; then they exchanged a sorrowful look. A tear rolled down Florence's cheek and she wiped it away, forcing a little smile.

 

 

Early that afternoon, Stanley called before dropping by. Jane made hot cocoa and served it with some of Florence's chocolate-chip cookies in her study off the living room.

“Are you sure you're all right?” he asked.

“I'm fine, really. It's just a terrible shock. She was my oldest friend.”

“I know.” He placed his hand on top of hers. “I want you to know we're working very hard on this, Jane. I'm sure we'll have some answers soon.”

“Why do you say that? Have you got any leads?”

He looked uncomfortable. “No, not exactly. There were no fingerprints of any use at the crime scene, as you would probably have guessed. The ME says Ivy didn't put up a struggle. That means the killer sneaked up on her.”

“No, not necessarily,” Jane said impatiently. “She and the killer could have been chatting, and the killer could have whipped out that awful thing and stabbed her.”

“I suppose,” Stanley said, “but not very likely, in my opinion.”

She shrugged. “Could the medical examiner tell from the wound whether the killer was right-or left-handed?”

He gave her an appraising look, lifting one brow. “Quite the detective, aren't you? Actually, I was going to tell you about that next. Unfortunately, in this case he wasn't able to tell.”

She let out a sigh of discouragement. “Then I don't see why you're so confident about having answers soon. It looks as if this case may never be solved.”

“Of course you're feeling negative about everything now. . . .”

“Someone needs to,” she cried. “Poor Ivy, without a friend in the world.”

“You were her friend,” he pointed out softly.

“Not a very good friend. After Marlene died, I was happy to let the friendship be over. I should have gotten back in touch with her, tried to patch things up. It shouldn't have had to be Ivy who put our friendship back together. I feel so guilty about it all.”

He sat silently for a moment, sipping his cocoa.

“I'm sorry,” she said, smiling at him. “I don't mean to dump all this on you. What else can you tell me?”

“The footprints were pretty quickly washed away by the rain, but we did ascertain that there were
five
sets of prints, not four as we originally thought.”

“Five?”

“Mm. Here's how we think it went down. Two people—presumably Johnny and his pursuer, the man with the gun—ran through the woods, onto the path for a short distance, then back into the woods.
Three
people, not two, followed the path from the lodge to the pond. Only two of these people, obviously, came back: the murderer and . . . someone else.”

“Who could this other person have been?”

“Unfortunately, the prints were obliterated enough that trying to match them with the shoes of the people staying at the lodge was impossible.” He set down his cup. “In the meantime, I've got some men searching the woods for signs of Johnny and the gunman.”

Jane set down her cocoa and sat staring into the middle distance, contemplating this information. At this moment she felt that Johnny was the likeliest suspect in Ivy's murder, yet he himself had been another's quarry. Why had that man wanted Johnny? Where was Johnny now?

Aware of Stanley rising from his chair, she came out of her reverie.

“I should go,” he said.

“I'm sorry, I haven't been very good company.”

He bent and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Don't worry about it. Try to get some rest. I'll be back tomorrow.”

She saw him to the door and watched him back out of the driveway and head down Lilac Way.

A
fter seeing Stanley off, Jane had returned to her study and tried to get through a stack of book proposals that had been submitted to the agency before Christmas. But it was hopeless. She couldn't concentrate. Letting a handful of pages drop to her lap, she gazed aimlessly out the window, which looked out on the left side of her smallish front yard, the high holly hedge that enclosed it, and Lilac Way beyond.

As she watched, a car pulled slowly up the street and slowed when it reached Jane's house. The car was white, with familiar lettering on the side. It pulled into Jane's driveway, and she realized it was a Shady Hills Taxi.

Frowning in bewilderment, she went to the front door, opened it, and looked out. Behind the wheel of the cab, eighty-something Erol, who had been driving for Shady Hills Taxi for more than thirty years, saw Jane, grinned, and saluted. She smiled and waved back, then squinted, straining to see who his passenger was. All she could make out were moving shadows as whoever it was in the back paid Erol, he handed back change, and the passenger handed back some money, presumably a tip. Erol looked at the bills he'd been handed and scowled.

The right rear door of the taxi opened, and an immense bouquet—no, two bouquets—of red and yellow roses emerged first.

What on earth . . . ?

After the roses came a pair of pudgy legs.

No. It couldn't be.

It was.

With difficulty, Bertha Stumpf extricated herself from the cab. She pulled down her tight dress with a shimmying movement, then slammed the car door shut. Erol backed out and drove away up the street.

Bertha looked appraisingly up at the house, eyes narrowed. Then she saw Jane, her face bloomed into a solicitous smile, and she started up the path to the front door.

What was she doing here?

“Surprise!” Bertha cried, clip-clopping up the steps in her heels. “Bet I'm the last person you expected to see, huh?”

“That's for sure.” Jane made herself smile. It occurred to her that she should have seen this visit coming. Over the course of their working together, Bertha had made several references to the possibility of their getting together sometime “in Jane's neck of the woods.” Jane had found the idea repugnant. Not only did she find Bertha tiresome at the best of times, but she never socialized with the writers she represented. Even if she did, the last thing she would ever do would be to invite one to her home.

Years ago, when Jane and Kenneth had both worked at Silver and Payne, the large old literary agency where they had met, Beryl Patrice, the agency's president, had given Jane a piece of advice : “Don't ever wear your mink to lunch with a client, and whatever you do, don't ever let a client see where you live. Either the client will feel you live too lavishly and have achieved this affluence off her back, or else the client will feel you live shabbily and will decide you're a loser. Either way, it causes resentment. It's a no-win situation.”

It was the only thing of any value Beryl had ever said to Jane. She wondered which category Bertha would fall into.

“Jane, darling!” Bertha cried dramatically, bearing the vivid bouquets up the steps like an Olympic torch, and threw her arms around Jane. “Please forgive my dropping in like this, but how could I leave town without knowing you were all right?”

“How did you know where I live?”

“You're in the book, Jane.” Bertha trotted past Jane into the foyer. “What a fabulous house. So old-fashioned and cozy. And so big! What do you call this style?”

“Chalet, mock Tudor.” Jane shrugged. Was this really happening?

“Well, it's adorable. Here,” Bertha said, practically shoving the flowers in Jane's face. “These are for you, darling. I figured you could use some cheering up after what happened this morning. I'm so sorry.” Jane took the flowers, and Bertha shrugged out of her coat.

Florence and Nick appeared from the kitchen and stood staring. “Bertha—oh, sorry,” Jane said.

“No, my real name is fine here, silly,” Bertha said with a wave of her hand. “This is family.”

Family. Hanging up Bertha's coat, Jane felt as if she were going to be sick. “Bertha Stumpf, I'd like you to meet my son, Nicholas, and this is Florence.”

Nick said a quick hi. Florence looked bewildered at this unexpected guest but stepped forward graciously and shook Bertha's hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said.

Bertha gasped. “
Love
the accent,” she said, as if it were something Florence had selected and purchased. She gave Florence and Nick an arch smile. “I've heard a lot about you two.”

Still they both stood there, staring. Jane gave Florence a quick wave of her head that meant
Beat it.

Florence relieved Jane of the roses, then took Nick by the hand and led him back toward the kitchen.

“My word,” Bertha said, watching Nick nostalgically. “Such a handsome young man. The spitting image of Kenneth.”

Bertha had known Kenneth in the early years when she and Jane worked together, but she was wrong about Nick's looks. In actuality, Nick looked mostly like Jane. But Jane felt no desire to point this out to Bertha, who now stood in the center of the foyer, looking around. “Well.”

“Well is right,” Jane said, able to bear it no longer. “Bertha, what are you doing here?”

Bertha turned to her, shock on her face. “I just told you. I wanted to make sure you were all right before I left town. How could I leave without seeing you?”

Easily, Jane thought.

“I mean,” Bertha went on, “what's the difference whether I take a later bus? You matter most. So,” she said, and turned a piercing look on Jane, “how're you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.” Anger welled in Jane and though she tried, she couldn't keep it tamped down. “Bertha, this really is the height of insensitivity. My oldest friend died last night—was murdered—and you use her death as an excuse to stop by here, at my home, to talk about your career.”

Bertha opened her mouth as wide as it would go. “My
career?
What are you talking about? I've just told you twice—”

“Yeah, yeah, you told me twice. And you're full of it twice. I know you better than that.”

“What are you saying? That I'm not a thoughtful person? Who was it who saved your life that time at the Waldorf when you were hurt so badly? Who told the police and the EMTs who you were? Who came to the hospital to make sure you were all right?” Bertha's eyes were moist with tears. “Really, Jane, I'm very hurt.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “All right, I'm sorry. You want some coffee?”

“I'd love some,” Bertha said, immediately back to business, and roamed into the family room. “Fabulous house,” she mar veled. “Fabulous.”

“This way,” Jane said, and led her into the living room.

“Even more beautiful,” Bertha pronounced as she arranged herself comfortably on a sofa.

“I'll be right back,” Jane said, and went to the kitchen.

“Missus,” Florence whispered as soon as she saw Jane, “who is that woman?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Nick said from the kitchen table. “She's so fat.”

“Nicholas! That's a terrible, unkind thing to say.”

Nick shrugged. “I can tell you don't like her.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“I can tell, that's all. I can always tell. I think it's called body language.”

“Oh, really?” Jane said, unable to suppress a smirk. “And what kind of body language was I using with her?”

“The kind that says, ‘I don't like you, but I'm going to pretend I do.'”

Florence giggled. “Missus, can I make you and your friend some coffee?”

“Thank you, Florence, that would be lovely. And some of those cookies if there are any left.” Jane glanced at Nick's crumb-covered plate. “And by the way, she's one of my clients. She writes romance novels under the pseudonym Rhonda Redmond.”

“Ah,” Florence said, her face lighting up, “the very successful Rhonda Redmond.”

“Right,” Jane said, “so behave yourselves, both of you.”

Nick let out an evil little snicker, and Florence gave one solemn nod. Jane returned to the living room, where Bertha sat with her legs crossed. “Jane, I feel I'm intruding.”

Very perceptive. “No, don't be silly, Bertha. It's a surprise, that's all. Perhaps if you had called first . . .”
I would have had a chance to tell you not to come.

“You're right, I should have. But I didn't have your home number.”

“Yes, you did. You just said I'm in the book.”

“Oh, yes, right.” Bertha shifted uneasily. “Anyway, I'm here now, and as soon as I'm sure you're all right and that there's nothing I can do for you, I'll be on my merry way.”

“Very thoughtful,” Jane said, sitting on the sofa perpendicular to Bertha's. “I'm fine, really.”

“It's all such a shame. Not only about your friend, but about the retreat. It was going so well, don't you think?”

Jane frowned. “No, as a matter of fact, I don't. No one got along. Everyone was constantly sniping at one another. And the students' work itself was extremely disappointing—except, maybe, for William Ives's novel. I thought that was remarkably well written.”

Bertha rolled her eyes and gave a lazy wave. “Please. Do you really think he wrote that? Gimme a break. Arliss wrote it for him.”

“I know that's what Brad Franklin said, but do you really think so?”

“Absolutely. It was of publishable quality. How could that dried-up little raisin of a man have written that himself?”

“What does his appearance have to do with how he writes? You're not exactly—forgive me—Marilyn Monroe.”
On the other hand, you're a lousy writer, so maybe you've got something there.

“No, no, that's not what I meant. It's just that he came out of nowhere.”

“You came out of nowhere once.”

Bertha made an exasperated
tsk
ing sound. “Anyway, he wasn't the only student whose work had merit. My own Ellyn Bass is a lovely writer.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. She writes with genuine passion. That's all that really matters. When you write with passion, your readers know it. Why do you think I'm so successful?”

“I don't know, why are you?”

Bertha placed the palms of her hands to each side of her on the sofa. “Jane, you are angry at me for coming here. Don't deny it. Instead of making these passive-aggressive little quips, why don't you speak your mind? I'll be happy to leave if you like. I'm not staying long anyway.”

Jane lowered her gaze, duly abashed. “I apologize, Bertha. You're right. I was annoyed to see you. I never have clients in my home, and I'm not exactly in a visiting mood.”

“All right, then. Thank you. Let's start again, shall we?”

Florence came in with the coffee and cookies. “Here we are,” she said, and set them down on the cocktail table.

Bertha put milk and Equal in her coffee and grabbed two cookies, munching on one as she watched Florence leave the room. “She's a treasure, isn't she?”

“Yes, she is. She's like family.”

“Like I said,” Bertha cried in a high-pitched voice. “Me too. And what kind of relative would I be if I hadn't stopped by? So we were talking about the retreat and that sweet Ellyn Bass. You keep an eye on her, Jane. She may very well be the next me.”

Heaven forbid. “Thanks for the tip. She is a member of the writers' group here in town, the Midnight Writers, so I can keep tabs on her.”

“Good.” Bertha started on her second cookie. “Have you heard from your friend Stanley?” she said with her mouth full. “Does he have any idea who did that awful thing to Ivy?”

“No. It's soon yet.”

“True. But we all know who did it, don't we?”

“Who?”

“That Johnny, of course. I can imagine exactly what happened. I'm not a novelist for nothing, you know.” Bertha closed her eyes and threw back her head theatrically. “Ivy was mad for the man,” she began in a husky voice that reminded Jane of Norma Desmond in
Sunset Boulevard
. “And what happens? He and Carla take one look at each other and a fiery passion rages.” She shook her head sadly. “Ivy had no hope of keeping him, poor little thing. But love doesn't die without a fight. On the path down by the pond, she confronted him, told him she loved him, demanded that he forget Carla . . .”

Jane remembered the sounds of shouting that came from Ivy and Johnny's room.

Bertha swept on, “But he would have none of it! He told her they were through. She slapped him. He hit her back. He has a furious temper—men like that always do. Enraged, she slapped him again. They struggled. She wouldn't let him go. And Johnny knew that the only way he could ever have Carla was to get Ivy out of the picture. So he whipped out the ice pick and—” She let her head fall. “Well. You know the rest.”

Jane stared at her in amazement. “‘He whipped out the ice pick'? What would he be doing carrying around an ice pick?”

“I don't know.” Clearly Bertha felt this was a triviality. “He'd put it in his pocket earlier—you know, without thinking.”

“Oh, Bertha,” Jane said, “that's ridiculous. Whoever killed Ivy stole that ice pick with the express intention of using it on her later. This was no crime of passion.”