Icing Ivy (12 page)

“That certainly qualifies as vicious,” Jane said. “Is there anything else you can remember that might be . . . pertinent?”

“No, I don't think so.” Ellyn leaned forward. “Do you think Carla might actually have killed Ivy?”

“I don't think anything at this point. We're only gathering information.” Jane stood. “Thank you, Ellyn, you've been extremely helpful.”

“My pleasure,” Ellyn said, walking Jane to the door. “I hope you'll think about doing another retreat. I had such a wonderful time. I honestly felt that someday I might achieve something with my writing.”

“You will achieve something if you don't give up,” Jane said sincerely. “As for another retreat, I can't say at this point.”

“Of course you can't. I understand.”

“Mommy, Mommy!” One of the twins appeared in the living room, her tights down around her ankles. “I had a mistake.”

Ellyn threw her a weary look. It wasn't difficult to see why she had enjoyed the retreat.

“I'll let you get on with your day. Thanks again,” Jane said to Ellyn, who was already tending to Alyssa/Breanna's mistake, and went out the door and made her way down the path to her car.

Heading back toward Shady Hills, Jane wondered if Ellyn's sleazy account of Carla and Johnny's tryst was true, or if Ellyn could possibly have been covering for Carla as William Ives had tried to cover for Larry Graham. Ellyn might even have added that last bit about Carla's rage to
appear
to be protecting her. Then Jane decided this was too far-fetched, that this theory didn't fit Ellyn's personality. What reason would she have had to protect Carla?

Ellyn was right: Carla was vicious. Jane was reluctant to approach her again, though of course she had to.

In the meantime, she wished she could find and speak to Johnny, who she now knew hadn't fled Mt. Munsee as early as everyone believed.

A
s Saturday evening approached, Jane wondered if Stanley would call. They almost always went out for dinner and a movie on Saturday night.

But he was no doubt mad at her. Remembering what he'd said to her made her even angrier at him. She wasn't sure she wanted to see him. . . . No, she did want to see him, and decided to call. From her study, she punched out his home number.

He sounded deeply relieved to hear from her. “I'm sorry about what I said.”

“Thank you, Stanley, but I believe I need to apologize to you.”

“For what?”

“For embarrassing you in front of the chief. I'm sorry.”

“So you've decided not to play detective anymore ?”

“I didn't say that. What I mean is, I'm sorry I have to do what I'm doing.”

“
Why
do you have to do this?” he said in a tone of forced patience.

“Because Ivy was my best friend, first of all. And because sometimes I think, well, that the police need some help.”

“Okay, fair enough. So you're going to go on ‘helping' us, but you regret that you have to do it.”

“Yeah, that's about right.”

He laughed. “Well, I know I couldn't stop you anyway. In fact, I don't believe I'd be able to stop you from doing anything you intended to do. But do me one favor?”

“Sure, name it.”

“Keep me out of it.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised. “In the past you've made good use of my help.”

“And gotten in trouble for it.”

“Stanley, you didn't get in trouble for solving cases with my help; you got in trouble for involving me in police business. What a bunch of hypocrites you all are.”

“Yes, that we can be,” he said brightly. “Now, what are our plans tonight?”

She smiled. “I'd love to see that new Russell Crowe movie. And we still haven't tried the new Greek place in Parsippany.”

“It's a date.”

 

 

It was strange to be with Stanley but not discuss Ivy or what Jane had learned that day. But Jane had a good time nevertheless. They talked about their plans for New Year's Eve, which was only two days away, and decided on a quiet evening at Jane's house—dinner with Nick (and Florence, if she didn't have other plans), a rented video, and champagne while they watched the ball drop in Times Square.

She knew for sure that she and Stanley were back on good terms when he kissed her deeply at the door before she went in.

 

 

Late Sunday morning Jane fortified herself and drove to the Shady Hills Diner. The hostess, the same woman who had seated Jane the day before, was puzzled to see her again. Perhaps she had witnessed the unfriendly exchange between the two women.

Carla, she said, was off today. Jane asked for Carla's home address.

“I'm sorry, I can't give you that,” the woman said, no doubt curious as to why, if Jane was her friend, she didn't know it.

“No prob,” Jane said, figuring she could always get it from Adam if she had to.

Then she got an idea. She went to the ladies' room, and on the way, stopped a waitress hurrying in the other direction. “Excuse me, I'm a friend of Carla Santino's from California. I didn't realize she wasn't working today. She doesn't know I'm here—I want to surprise her. I just found out she moved. Do you happen to know her new address?”

The woman, who wore a name tag that read
Jean
, frowned. “Carla didn't move. Hey, Bernie,” she hollered to a man behind the counter. “Carla's still at Heather Gardens, right?”

“Far as I know.”

“Oh, she's still there,” Jane said. “I don't know where I got the idea she'd moved. Would you happen to know the apartment number offhand? I don't think I have it in my book.”

“What number, Bernie?” Jean asked.

Bernie rolled his eyes, then turned and consulted a handwritten list on the wall. “Sixty-seven.”

“Great,” Jane said. “Thank you so much.”

 

 

Heather Gardens was a condominium complex not far down the road from Hillside Gardens, where Larry Graham lived. In fact, the two complexes were practically identical. Jane parked in front of number 67, walked up to the scuffed tan front door, and rang the bell.

After a moment the door opened, and Carla stood there in a skimpy Hawaiian-print wrap, her ashy hair in a ponytail. Jane noticed that she wore no makeup. Her face had a dry, haggard look.

For the briefest moment Carla stared at Jane, her face expressionless. Then she slammed the door.

“Why, that—” Jane moved closer to the door. “Carla, I need to speak with you. Please. I know you met with Johnny on Thursday night. If you won't talk to me about it, I'll have no choice but to ask the police to do it.”

After a moment the door swung slowly open. Carla regarded her furiously. “Well, come in.”

Jane stepped into a tiny vestibule. Carla apparently had no intention of letting her go any farther into her home. “Well, what about it?” she demanded.

“Why didn't you tell me you'd met with Johnny?”

“What are you, stupid? Why do you think? Because I was afraid to.”

“Afraid? Why?”

Carla nervously fingered a gold chain around her neck. “Because if you or the police knew Johnny was still around that night, you might think he killed Ivy—which he didn't. Or, if you knew I wasn't really in my room all night, you might think
I
did it.” Through slitted eyes she gave Jane a sidelong glance. “How'd you find out I saw Johnny?”

Jane had no intention of putting Ellyn on Carla's bad side. “Let's just say you were seen. Are you still in touch with Johnny? Are you going to see him again?”

“I'm . . . in contact with him,” Carla answered cagily. “I have no idea if we'll get together again.” She cast her eyes heavenward, recalling pleasure. “Though I'd sure like to.”

Jane regarded Carla thoughtfully. “Listen. I need to speak to Johnny. I'll make a deal with you. If you tell me how to reach him, I'll keep your meeting on Thursday night a secret.”

“A little blackmail. Okay,” Carla said slowly. “I guess he won't mind my giving you his number. He's a big boy. Wait here.” She disappeared into the apartment for a few moments, then reappeared with a slip of paper on which a phone number was written. She handed the paper to Jane and smirked. “Tell him to call me.”

 

 

It was a New York City number, area code 212. For a brief moment, Jane considered sharing it with Stanley, then remembered their conversation and decided against it. Besides, she always accomplished more on her own.

In her car, she called the number on her cell phone. The phone rang four times and was picked up by an answering machine. “Leave a message,” came Johnny's rough-edged voice.

“Johnny, it's Jane, Jane Stuart. I need to see you. It's urgent.” She left her cell phone number, not wanting him to call her at home.

She was back in her neighborhood, driving along Grange Road, when her cell phone rang. She pulled over and answered it.

“What do you want?” Johnny asked without preamble. He sounded different now—brusque, tougher.

“I know you were still around the lodge when Ivy was murdered.”

“Murdered!”

Was he really surprised? Wouldn't Carla have told him?

“Yes, I'm afraid so,” she replied, playing along. “The police are looking for you as the prime suspect. You can talk to them or me.”

“You. Here in Manhattan. Tomorrow morning.”

“Fine. Where?”

“In the park.”

“Central Park?”

“Yeah. Uh . . . there's this playground. Go into the park at East Seventy-ninth Street.”

“All right. What time?”

“I don't know, ten. And listen to me, Jane. You go to the cops about me, you're gonna be one very sorry lady.”

J
ane got out of the cab at 79th and Madison and checked her watch. It was ten minutes before ten. She started walking the block to Fifth Avenue. The weather had turned fiercely cold—the temperature wasn't expected to rise above twenty-three degrees all day—and a relentless wind whipped between the stolid rows of town houses, blowing back Jane's hair and finding its way up her sleeves and down the throat of her heavy wool coat.

Head lowered against the wind, she crossed Fifth Avenue and entered the park. Ahead lay the playground, deserted, as she'd expected it to be. To her right stood a row of benches, and she sat down on the one nearest to her, crossing her arms in front of her for warmth and surveying the icy gray landscape. At the horizon, black silhouettes of the skeletons of trees shook violently, as if they might break at any moment. As she watched, a dark figure detached itself from them and started down the slope toward her. It was a man, his hands plunged deep into his pockets. She realized it was Johnny. She rose, starting toward him.

The wind played with the glossy waves of his blue-black hair and reddened his smooth skin—succeeding, it occurred to Jane, in making him look even more handsome. A dangerous handsomeness. She felt a loathing for him rise up inside her. Keeping her face expressionless, she walked toward him.

He took her in with a glance, then looked all around, as if checking for observers. Apparently satisfied, he returned his gaze to Jane and said, “So Ivy got herself killed?”

She gave him a look of scornful disbelief. “You know she did. Carla must have told you.” An especially strong gust of wind rattled them both, and she shivered. “Why did we have to meet here?”

“Why not? It's open, healthy . . .”

“Safe for you.”

He shrugged. “So what do you want? Why do you want to talk to me? If it's about Ivy getting killed, I don't know nothin' about it.”

“Johnny, who was the man with the gun?”

He smiled slyly. “Ah, the man with the gun. What's it to you?”

“Would you rather tell the police?”

His smile was gone. “I told you what would happen to you if you called the police. Don't try it, Jane. I mean it.”

She was overwhelmed by a wave of revulsion for him. “What are you going to do, hit me?” She laughed in disgust. “Make sure you do it in a place that doesn't show. Coward. Bully.”

He gave his head an uncaring toss and wet his lips. “That what you came here to say to me? I guess we're done, then.”

“No, we're not. Ivy told me you only came to the retreat to get away from that man. She said you and he had had some ‘business dealings.' ”

“Business dealings,” he repeated with a little laugh, “I like that. That's right.”

“What happened to him?”

His face underwent a chilling change, as if behind those beautiful eyes he was reliving something cold and ugly. “Let's just say we . . . came to an understanding.”

Staring at him, Jane swallowed. Then she shivered, but not from the cold. Pushing a lock of hair back out of her face, she said, “Johnny, why were you interested in Ivy in the first place? You know, good-looking guy like you.”

“Why do you think?”

“I honestly can't imagine. I doubt it was for her looks.”

He looked at her, saying nothing.

Jane said, “Her personality?”

“Oh, did she have one? No, it was because of her job. She worked at
Skyline,
remember? I was using her.”

“In what way?”

“To find out if the newspaper had any information on one of my, uh, ‘dealings.' I'd heard a rumor they did. I'd found out which editor was working on the story, figured out who his secretary was—Ivy—and ‘accidentally' met her at some party I knew she'd be at.”

He laughed, remembering. “She was wild about me. She agreed to help me right away. She kept saying she was trying to help me find out what I wanted to know, but she never did. Now I think she was stringing me along, stalling so I wouldn't dump her.”

Poor Ivy. . . . Jane nodded sadly. “I'm sure that was true.”

“And that's it,” he said simply. “End of story. I got nothin' more to tell you.” He stood waiting, his wind-reddened face nestled into his upturned collar.

She couldn't bear to look at him another minute. She turned and started back toward Fifth Avenue.

 

 

Jane hadn't originally planned to go to the office between Christmas and New Year's—she never did—but as she alighted from the bus in Shady Hills and made her way toward her car, she realized that some time there might lift her spirits, help restore a sense of normalcy.

As she drove around Center Street, she noticed a sign in the window of Whipped Cream that said:
NEW YEAR'S EVE LUNCH SPECIALS.
She'd completely forgotten it was the last day of the year. Stanley was coming over. She would have to find out if Florence would be staying in, plan dinner, pick up what she needed. She wouldn't stay long at the office.

She drove past her agency's front door and turned right into the narrow alley that led to the parking lot behind the building. Pulling into a space, she glanced up at the back door of the office, in the top half of which was a window. The lights were on. She frowned in puzzlement.

Entering the office, she found Daniel at his desk, typing away on his computer. He looked up, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

He shrugged. “Just thought I'd grab the time to do some catching up. Ginny had to work today anyway.”

She went up behind him and gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “We're both nuts, I think. But thanks, Daniel.”

Over his shoulder he gave her a sympathetic smile.

She said, “We'll make it... ‘Work Lite' today, how's that? And I'll take you to lunch at Whipped Cream so we can see Ginny.”

“Sounds great,” he said, and glanced up at the wall clock above his monitor. It was nearly twelve-thirty. “Let me finish this letter and I'm ready.”

She went into her office and smiled affectionately at the immense pile of work in the middle of her desk. She'd given up long ago trying to be organized. She was one of those people who got more done by staying messy. Early in their relationship, Daniel had tried valiantly several times to make sense of “The Heap,” as he called it, but he only made things worse. She could never find anything. To others it looked like a heap, but to her it was comfortable and consistent, and it did have a loose sort of order to it. For instance, Daniel always placed her pink phone slips at the very center of the pile. There was one there now, and she frowned, surprised.

It said “Please call Judy Monk,
Skyline,
” and was followed by a New York City phone number.

“Daniel,” she called, “who's this Judy Monk?”

He appeared in the doorway. “I meant to mention that to you. She called about twenty minutes ago. She said she works with Ivy. I could tell she didn't know about what happened. I didn't feel it was my place to tell her.”

Jane sat down behind her desk and dialed the number.

“Judy Monk.”

“Yes, hello, this is Jane Stuart, returning your call.”

“Oh, yes, thanks so much for getting back to me. I'm not sure you can help me. I work for a newspaper called
Skyline
in New York. One of my coworkers hasn't shown up for work today, and she doesn't answer the phone at her apartment. I'm concerned because she and her boss have an important meeting today. It's not like her to just not show up. Her name is Ivy Benson.”

“Yes, I know,” Jane said. “How did you get my number?”

“It was in Ivy's Rolodex. It was the only number that wasn't a business connection, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I'm—I mean, I was her friend.”

“Was? I . . . don't understand.”

“Ms. Monk, I'm terribly sorry to tell you that Ivy is dead.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Dead?”

“Yes. Were you and she close?”

“Well,” Judy Monk said on an expulsion of breath, “I don't know that I'd say we were close, but we had a friendly relationship. I liked her. My cubicle is right next to hers. How did she die?”

“She . . . fell on some ice, hit her head. It happened last Thursday night. A terrible shock.”

“Oh, my goodness gracious,” Judy said in a low voice. “I can't believe it. Let me ask you—do you know who I should call about picking up Ivy's things? Her brother stopped by here on Friday, but I don't have his telephone number.”

Jane sat very still. Ivy, like Jane, had been an only child. “What did her brother look like?”

“A heavy man, thinnish hair. Why? Don't you know him?”

“Uh—she had several brothers.”

“I see. Well, he said he had her phone number, but not her address, so I gave it to him.” Judy was silent a moment. “Odd that he didn't tell me about what happened to Ivy. He must not have known yet.”

“What did he want?”

“He said Ivy had sent him for something in her desk. I let him look, but he didn't seem to find it.”

Jane's thoughts spun. She realized she didn't have Ivy's address, either. She would need it, though.

“So do you know?” Judy asked.

“Know what?”

“Who can come for Ivy's things.”

Jane reflected. Ivy had had no family. Marlene was gone, and Ivy had been long divorced from Ira. “I'll be happy to come,” she said. “There's really no one else—since I don't know where her brothers are.”

“You don't?”

“No. Ivy and they were . . . estranged.”

“I'm not surprised. Ivy once mentioned to me that she had no one—no family, I mean. Come to think of it, I do remember her mentioning a Jane. She said you were her best friend.”

Jane sat very still, a shiver of sadness moving over her. Her eyes welled with tears. With her free hand she played with the edge of a memo in the heap. “Yes, I was.”

“Then I'm very sorry for you, too,” Judy said. “If you could come, that would be most helpful.”

“Not a problem. Tomorrow is New Year's Day. Would it be all right if I came on Wednesday?”

“Absolutely. Any time convenient for you—I'm here from nine to five. Eight-fifty Third Avenue, between Fifty-first and Fifty-second, west side of the street.”

Jane hung up. Judy Monk was obviously a trusting soul. She'd immediately accepted an impostor as Ivy's brother. Who was he? What was he looking for? Why did he want Ivy's address? On Wednesday Jane would need to get it from Judy, too. It shouldn't be difficult.

 

 

Returning from lunch, Jane and Daniel found a message on the answering machine.

“Yes, Tamara Henley here. Jane, if you could please give me a call as soon as possible, that would be marvelous.” And she left her number.

Daniel frowned down at the machine. “What does
she
want?”

“Darned if I know. Probably wants me to read her manuscript.”

She went into her office and called Tamara back.

“How are you, Jane? What an awful thing up there at that wretched place. And your friend, no less. In all the confusion I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I am.”

“Thank you, Tamara, I appreciate that. Was that why you were calling?”

“Oh, good heavens no,” Tamara said with a laugh. “I'm supremely embarrassed, but I must ask you. Foss and I are having some people over tonight for New Year's, and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be wonderful if you and your policeman friend could come. Around eight. I do hope you don't already have plans.”

“Uh . . . I'm not sure, to be honest with you.”

“Oh,” Tamara said, flustered. “Well, if you'll check and let me know . . . Do come. I've invited Vick Halleran and Jennifer Castaneda from the retreat, and they've accepted. I'm also going to invite Daniel, that adorable assistant of yours, and his girlfriend. As far as I'm concerned, these are the only people at the retreat who had any class—except for you and your friend, of course.”

“Thanks, Tamara.” If she only knew the catty things Jennifer had said about her. “It's very kind of you to think of us. I'll get right back to you.”

“Priceless,” Tamara breathed, and rang off.

Jane called Stanley.

“Oh, I don't know, Jane,” he whined. “I didn't like her much. Snob.”

“Of course she's a snob. But think about it. This is a chance for us—for you, I mean”—oops!—“to chat with her, to find out if she saw or heard anything pertinent to Ivy's murder.”

“We've already ‘chatted' with her, Jane.”

“Only perfunctorily. Come on, Stanley, we don't have any other plans, not really. Don't be such an old poop. I want to see her house,” she blurted out.

He sighed. “All right. Tell her yes. If I'm not mistaken, she lives at the bottom of that new street off Magnolia Place.”

“That's right. Those homes are
huge.
I want to see it. Come for me around a quarter to eight.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Please,” she added. “And pick up a nice bottle of champagne on your way. Not too cheap.”

She had no sooner hung up than Daniel appeared in her doorway. “Are you going?”

“Yup. I'm eager to see her place. Has Tamara called you yet?”