Icing Ivy (9 page)

“Hmm,” Bertha said, considering, and shrugged. “Then I have no idea.
Unless,
” she burst out suddenly, “it was Carla! She wanted Johnny for herself and had to get Ivy out of the way. Now that would make more sense.”

“Yes,” Jane had to admit, “it would.” Then she had another idea. “You know, I've just remembered something. On Wednesday night Ivy told me Red Pearson had made two passes at her. She wasn't at all interested, of course. Maybe—”

“Maybe Red killed Ivy because she wouldn't have him? No way.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Bertha blushed. “Because,” she said, placing a hand delicately to her bosom, “Red Pearson was interested in
me.
”

“In you? ” Jane faltered.

Bertha stared at her coldly. “Is that so unbelievable ?”

“No, no. It's just that I had no idea.”

“
C'est vrai,
” Bertha said airily, then hunkered down. “I think he's dishy, don't you?”

“Red? Bald Red Pearson in the red flannel lumberjack shirts? Uh, no, I don't.”

“Wait till you're a bit older, Jane. You won't be able to be so choosy.”

“I won't need to be. I'll have Stanley.”

“And if he loses his hair? Will you lose interest?”

“ No.”

“All right then. It may very well be that Red was interested in Ivy at the beginning of the retreat, but that was before he got to know me.” Bertha wiggled her eyebrows. “And boy, did he get to know me.”

“Bertha! There are some things I don't need to know.” But Jane marveled that she hadn't been aware of this particular situation.

“And there
are
things you don't know,” Bertha said, as if reading her mind. “Anyhoo, that's where I was after the police let us leave the lodge this morning—at Red's house. He's got a darling place way up at the north end of town—not terribly far from Mt. Munsee, actually—with the prettiest little yard—”

“You went to Red's?” Jane asked, scandalized.

“For
lunch.
We had a lovely time, and we're going to be getting together again, probably in New York. It was while I was at Red's house that I had the idea of stopping by to see you before I left town. Red wanted to drive me here, but I knew he was eager to start on some project in his house and told him I wouldn't dream of it. He had to get to some store called the Depot, or something like that.”

“Home Depot.”

“That's it. He said he hadn't expected to be home from the retreat so soon, but now that he was, he might as well get started. Your house would have been far out of his way. So he called me a taxi.”

“I see,” Jane said, growing bored. She wanted Bertha to leave now. She set down her coffee cup and stifled a yawn.

“You're exhausted, poor thing. I should go. Lord knows I need to get back to my desk. Lots to do.”

“Oh?” Jane said, and the moment the word was out of her mouth she realized she'd fallen into Bertha's trap.

“Absolutely. Now that Harriet's accepted
Shady Lady
—you're checking on my money, don't forget—I've got to get started on a new proposal. The question is, who is it for?”

“What do you mean, who is it for? It's for Bantam, your publisher.”

Bertha looked directly into Jane's eyes. “I can't stay there, Jane. As I've told you, I can't work with this girl they've assigned to me, and you said there's no one else there to work with.”

“Whoa, hold it, whoa. What I said was that Harriet Green is a fine editor. I never said there's no one else at Bantam you could work with. What I said was that Harriet was as good an editor as any editor there.”

“I find that difficult to believe. She's twelve!”

“Bertha, I've told you how that bothers me. It's ageist and disrespectful. She's a young woman. How would you like it if she called you a senior citizen ? And what difference does it make how old she is? A good editor is a good editor.”

“Jane, you have to understand about my writing, about me. I write romance from a worldly, experienced perspective. I bring my life wisdom to my writing. I can't communicate with a woman barely out of college. She doesn't understand where I'm coming from.”

“Baloney.”

Bertha stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Baloney. Nonsense. Fact is, many of your readers are Harriet's age. If you think you're not getting through to them, you're in trouble.”

“I take it, then, that you are not willing to ask that I be assigned to a new editor.”

“You take it correctly. There would be no point.”

“Then I must leave Bantam.”

“Leave Bantam?” Jane cried. “You've been there most of your career.”

“Exactly. Time for a change. My print runs are declining, and so are my sell-throughs. I don't make the printed
New York Times
list anymore. I don't even get a step-back cover anymore,” she said, referring to a double paperback cover.

“Bertha,” Jane said as gently as possible, “none of these problems have anything to do with Bantam. You won't reverse these trends unless you change what you're writing.”

“Change what I'm writing! Rhonda Redmond?”

“Rhonda Redmond whose print runs and sell-throughs are dropping. We've talked about how the market for historical romances is changing. Why don't you try a Regency historical? That's what's hot right now.”

“Regency,” Bertha repeated distastefully. “So mannered and polite. Hardly a fitting backdrop for a Rhonda Redmond heroine.”

“But that's just the point.” Jane felt a headache coming on. “A Rhonda Redmond heroine would be all the more shocking and scandalous in that society.”

“Mm,” Bertha said, though she was clearly uninterested. She brushed off her dress and rose. “I really should be going, Jane. Now that I know you're all right.”

“And we've discussed your career.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Bertha said with a surprised little laugh. “We have, haven't we.”

“But we've resolved nothing.”

“True, but I do appreciate your thoughts, as always. You want me to write a Regency historical for Harriet at Bantam.”

“Yes.”

“Let me give it some thought.” Bertha started toward the foyer. “Now if you'd be a doll and call me a cab to take me to the bus . . .”

“Don't be silly. I'll drive you,” Jane said, taking their coats from the closet.

“You would? You're a sweetheart. Oh, and Jane . . .” Bertha said, buttoning her coat.

“Yes?”

“Please don't tell anyone about Red and me—not that you would, of course.”

“Right. I wouldn't.”

“Thanks. You know how people are.”

Yes, Jane thought, putting on her scarf, she knew how people were. And as she headed for the kitchen to tell Florence and Nick she'd be right back, it occurred to Jane that she should be grateful to Bertha. She had, at least for a time, managed to take Jane's mind off poor Ivy.

Outside, Bertha paused and gazed up at the house. “Nice place,” she said with a thoughtful frown, and started along the path to Jane's car.

I
t was 9:30
P.M.
Jane, Florence, and Nick had just checked on Winky and her brood—Winky had now taken to vigorously licking her young, which Nick found hilarious—and then Jane had gotten Nick into the shower and tucked into bed. Now, standing at her dresser and removing her earrings, she heard the doorbell ring.

Florence's steps sounded in the hall. “I'll get it, missus. I wonder who . . . ?” After a moment there came the sound of the front door opening, and Florence's voice again, “Why, Mr. Daniel. Are you okay?”

Daniel? Jane went out into the hall and to the edge of the stairs. Daniel, in jeans and coat, gazed up at her, a look of concern on his face, his brows drawn together.

“Hi, Jane. Sorry to bother you so late.”

She descended the stairs. “What's wrong?” Reaching the foyer, she took him by the arm and led him through the living room into her study. It wasn't like him to simply show up, especially late in the evening.

“Jane,” he said, taking the same seat Stanley had occupied earlier in the day, “something's been bothering me, something that happened yesterday at the lodge. I felt I should tell you about it, see if you thought it was worth mentioning to Stanley.”

“Go on.”

He shrugged off his jacket and laid it down on the small table between their chairs. “It was late yesterday morning, about eleven o'clock. Ginny had asked me to help set up for lunch. She realized the supply of napkins in the kitchen had run out, so she sent me to get some in that storage room off the lounge.”

She nodded encouragingly.

He went on, “It took me a minute or two to find the napkins—it's quite a mess in there.” He made a face. Messes always bothered Daniel. “Finally I found them and was about to leave the storage room, but as I was about to open the door, I heard voices in the lounge and realized they belonged to Larry Graham and Ivy.”

Jane gave a bewildered little shrug. “So?”

“It was the
way
they were talking. I sensed something odd right away, and I confess”—he looked down in embarrassment—“I peeked out a crack in the door and watched them. They were sitting extremely close together on the sofa, and their heads were practically touching. Larry was smiling, and Ivy was leaning toward him, pressing her body against him. She said something like, ‘. . . down the path. It's safe there,' and Larry nodded, very serious.”

“‘Down the path'?” Jane sat up straight.

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“At that moment a noise came from the conference room beyond them—it sounded like someone bumping into a chair. Ivy and Larry both looked up sharply, and then Larry ran out to the conference room. He came back a few moments later. He told Ivy he'd heard footsteps on the stairs and had run up to see who it was, but that there was no one in the upstairs corridor, that whoever it was must have gone into his or her room.” He stopped, watching her, waiting for her reaction.

“How positively odd,” she said. “Were Ivy and Larry going to meet on the path? What could she have meant when she said it would be safe there?”

Daniel shook his head, at a loss.

Jane said, “Do you think Ivy and Larry could have been carrying on at the same time as Johnny and Carla?”

“Larry was hardly Ivy's type,” Daniel pointed out.

“True, but she may have been using him to get back at Johnny.” She suddenly remembered Ivy watching Larry so intently during the group reading Thursday evening. Could she have been planning her revenge on Johnny at that moment?

“I see why you thought this was so important,” she told him. “What if Ivy and Larry did meet,” she said thoughtfully, “Larry made clumsy advances toward Ivy—maybe wanted to go further than she wanted to—and she rebuffed him?”

“And he killed her in a rage?”

She shook her head. “Why would he have been carrying the ice pick?” She paused, thinking. “Our Larry theory doesn't really make sense, but I think we'd better tell Stanley about this. Why haven't you said something sooner?”

“I don't know.... In all the uproar, I guess I forgot. Then I remembered it, and it occurred to me that it might very well have significance.”

“It may not, but the police have to know about it.” She rose, picking up Daniel's coat and handing it to him. “Let's go.”

 

 

Stanley lived on the top floor of a house on Christopher Street, not far from Hillmont Elementary, where Nick attended the fifth grade. From his La-Z-Boy in the corner of his small plant-filled living room, he listened to the end of Daniel's story and slowly nodded.

Jane said, “We don't know if it's significant, but we felt you should know about it.”

“Absolutely. I know this Larry Graham character. The town had some trouble with him a couple of years ago.”

“Trouble?” Daniel repeated.

“Mm. He bid on the electrical part of that big library renovation and got the job. But halfway into it, he claimed he'd been lied to about the original electrical work in the building and needed twice the money to do the job right. Not only did the library board feel that this was blackmail, but they couldn't understand why he hadn't inspected the building carefully enough before he started to know this. They weren't even sure they believed him anyway.”

“So what happened?”

“The board refused. They offered him a payment for what he'd done. He took it and stomped off, wouldn't cooperate with the new electrician they brought in. On top of that, it was discovered that he'd been cutting corners, and everything he did had to be ripped out. The board considered suing him, but in the end they decided not to throw good money after bad.” Stanley shook his head. “Totally sleazy character.”

“Are you going to speak to him about him and Ivy?” Jane asked.

“Absolutely. First thing in the morning.” He shot Jane a warning look. “Now don't
you
get any ideas about playing detective and speaking to him.”

Jane placed her fingers to her throat, affronted. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

“Good,” Stanley said, and gave a decisive nod. “I'll let you know what I come up with.”

 

 

The next morning, Saturday, Stanley stopped by to see Jane. She was in the kitchen, making breakfast for Nick, who was in the laundry room watching Winky and her kittens. Stanley sat at the kitchen table and Jane gave him some coffee.

“I've just been to see Larry Graham,” he said.

Jane turned, a bowl of beaten eggs in her hand. “And?”

“What a sleazy jerk.”

She laughed. “Very professional.”

“I'm not speaking as a police officer, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, he was shocked when I asked him about his intimate conversation with Ivy. He wanted to know how I knew about it. I didn't tell him, of course. He admitted to having the conversation and confirmed that Ivy said, ‘. . . down the path. It's safe there.' But guess what he said they were talking about.”

She waited.

“Ice skating.”

“Ice skating?”

“Mm-hm. You're not going to believe this, but fat, pasty-faced Larry is a former professional figure skater. Roughly twenty-five years ago, of course.”

“You're right—I don't believe it.”

“It's true. He says he had told Ivy all about it, and she wanted him to skate for her.”

“How ridiculous. Even if he really was a skater, he wouldn't have had skates with him at the retreat. Besides, the pond was covered with snow.”

“I put both those facts to him. He said they had agreed to borrow a snow shovel from the storage room and clear some of the pond. And he did have skates with him—at least he said he did.”

“Why would he have brought skates?”

“Because he knew there was a pond near the lodge and thought he might skate there.”

She poured the eggs into a hot frying pan and they sizzled. “He's full of it. I hope you didn't believe him.”

“No, I didn't. Though I can't imagine why he wouldn't have just admitted that he and Ivy were planning to meet down the path to fool around.”

“Because of Johnny, of course. He would have been afraid of what Johnny would do to him.”

“Good point,” he said. “I think they were planning to meet down the path because there was nowhere else they could meet—there weren't any rooms available, and they weren't going to use the storage room, after the fuss you said Tom Brockman made. I think Larry wanted more than Ivy was willing to give, and he got angry and killed her.”

“With the ice pick he'd pilfered from the lodge's kitchen.” She gave him a skeptical look. “Why would he have done that?”

He contemplated his coffee mug. “I have no idea,” he said, deflated.

“Are you sure he's telling the truth about this skating stuff?”

“His mantel is lined with trophies and photos. I intend to check on it, of course—a search on the Internet should do it.” He sipped his coffee. “But I'm not really interested in this Graham character. I don't intend to pursue him further at this point. It's Johnny Baglieri I'm after. I've still got men searching Mt. Munsee for signs of him and the guy who was chasing him. The ME says Ivy died between eight
P.M.
and midnight Thursday night. Johnny could have escaped his pursuer—or dealt with him in a worse way—and returned to the woods near the lodge to take care of Ivy.”

“But why? What reason would he have had?”

“Maybe simply that she knew too much about his life, his dealings, his ‘irons in the fire.' Who knows what he's involved in?”

“But why would he have chosen to do it then?” She shook her head vehemently. “It doesn't make sense.”

The eggs were ready. She scraped them from the pan onto a plate, which she placed at Nick's seat, then started making toast. “Nick,” she called. “Breakfast.”

He appeared in the doorway almost instantly, as if he'd been waiting in the next room.

“Mom,” he said excitedly, slipping onto a chair. “I thought of a name for the kitten that looks just like Winky.”

Jane and Stanley waited, watching him.

His face broke into a huge smile. “Twinky.”

Stanley smiled. “
Twinky?”

“Yup,” Nick said solemnly. “It's short for ‘tiny Winky.' Get it?”

Nodding, Jane threw Stanley a conspiratorial look.

“Know what else?” Nick said on a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “She's the one I'm keeping.”

Stanley looked up in surprise. “You're keeping one of the kittens?”

“Yes, just one,” Jane said, and looked at Nick. He was looking down sadly. She walked around the table and put her arm around his small shoulders. “We discussed it and agreed that one was as much as we can handle.”

“Right,” Nick agreed halfheartedly. “I hope Winky doesn't miss her other children too much.”

Stanley gave him a kind smile. “I'm sure she knows your mom will find them good homes. Right, Jane?”

“Right,” Jane said, looking down at her son, and squeezed him tight. “That's a promise.”

 

 

After Stanley left, Jane went to her study to give the proposals another try. She rejected two and was halfway into her third when her thoughts drifted to what Stanley had told her about Larry Graham. She tried to picture him, obese and ungainly, spinning on ice, but the image was just too comical to take seriously. But, of course, as Stanley had pointed out, Graham had looked quite different in his skating years....

The telephone rang. It was Daniel.

“Any news?”

She told him what Stanley had told her about Larry Graham.

“A skater? Him? That's the funniest thing I've ever heard.”

“Mm, ludicrous, isn't it? But apparently it's true. . . .”

“Why do you say it like that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Because there's more there than what Stanley got; I'm sure of it. And I intend to find out what it is.”

“Now, Jane . . . What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to go see Graham myself. And don't you dare tell Stanley. I'm sick of his lectures about not playing detective.”

“I won't. But you don't know where Graham lives.”

“Not a problem. Talk to you later.”

“Jane—”

She hung up. Then she thought for a moment and took the phone off the hook.

She yanked out the telephone directory from the bottom drawer of her desk and checked the Yellow Pages under Electrical Contractors. Larry (not Lawrence) Graham was listed, but there was no street address, just “Shady Hills Area.” His listing in the White Pages was the same.

Adam would know the address. She got his number from her address book and punched it out.