Stabbing Stephanie (7 page)

She returned to the manuscript, to Venice . . .

“Hey, Mom.”

Nick burst into the room, still wearing his backpack. It bulged hugely, as if about to explode. He came up to her and she grabbed him tight around his slim waist, pulling him to her and planting a big kiss on his cheek. “We've got to do something about that backpack. What do you say we get you one on wheels, like Aaron has?”

“No, Mom, I told you—that looks like a suitcase. It's stupid.”

“Well, what do you suggest? I don't think a fifth-grader should be forced to carry such a heavy load. You'll dislocate your shoulders. I'm going to have to speak to Mrs. DeSalvo about this.”

“You'd better not, Mom,” Nick said threateningly, and grabbed Winky from Jane's lap. Suddenly his eyes grew wide. “Hey, Mom, did you hear about the bum who's really a billionaire in disguise?”

She slid him a baffled look. “Come again?”

“It's true. There's this dirty old man who hangs out on the green. He's all smelly and yucky and gross. But it's all just a cover. He's really a billionaire! Everyone's talking about him.”

Poor Ivor. Now he was the subject of the town's never-ending flow of gossip and speculation.

“Nicholas, I know about the man you're referring to. I've spoken to him. He's just a man . . . a man who's fallen on hard times. It's really not nice to speculate about him like that—and it's certainly not nice to call him a bum and those other words you used.”

Nick rolled his eyes. Florence appeared behind him in the doorway. “Nicholas, your snack is on the table.”

Nick left the room with Winky in his arms. “You can share with me,” Jane heard him say to the cat.

Florence's eyes were bright. “I couldn't help overhearing what he was saying. About the man down in the village, I mean.”

Jane waited, eyebrows raised.

“My friend Noni,” Florence said, referring to one of several of her friends who were fellow Shady Hills nannies, “she called me just before you came home. I forgot to tell you what she said. Noni, she says the man is a drug lord.”

“A billionaire drug lord?” Jane asked innocently.

Florence opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Jane went on, “Florence, I appreciate the report, but I don't want to speculate about this poor man, and I
must
finish this wonderful manuscript.”

Florence looked troubled and her eyes darted to the stack of pages on Jane's lap. Reluctantly she withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Laughing to herself, Jane sank contentedly into her chair and returned to Venice.

T
hat evening, in the living room of Hydrangea House, the six members of the Defarge Club had just seated themselves to begin the activity for which the club had been formed—knitting. The room felt wonderfully cozy, Jane reflected, admiring the fire Louise and Ernie, the inn's owners, had made in the great stone fireplace in the wall facing Jane.

Jane loved these club meetings, where she could really let down her hair. That was something she needed badly these days—that and her vacation.

Louise had placed the platter of Florence's Toll House cookies on the coffee table in the center of the group, and now removed the aluminum foil covering.

Should I?
Jane thought, recalling her visit to ShopRite this morning for her Stillkin foods.
Oh, screw it!
And she reached for a cookie.

“Are you sure you want to do that, Jane?”

Jane froze, her arm suspended in midair. Across the coffee table, little old Doris Conway peered at Jane over her knitting, her eyebrows raised.

“What do you mean?” Jane asked innocently, sounding to her own ears uncannily like Scarlett O'Hara.

“Aren't you dieting?” Doris asked flatly, and cast her gaze up and down Jane's seated figure.

Jane felt herself blush. Quite deliberately, she resumed her reach to the cookie plate and took not one but two.

Doris shrugged. “Suit yourself. Or should I say ‘Swimsuit yourself'?” And she broke into her characteristic low chuckle.

Jane slumped her shoulders in exasperation. “Is my diet on a billboard or something? Why is everyone in the world making my weight their business?”

“It's my fault.” Ginny, seated next to Jane on the sofa, winced guiltily. “I guess I mentioned it to a few people—but as a
good
thing. You know, how you're so excited about your vacation that you're trying to slim down to look great in your bathing suit.”

“Jane . . .” Penny Powell said in her whispery voice. She sat in an armchair at the end of the grouping, the yellow-and-green-striped scarf she was knitting trailing down onto the Oriental carpet. “Where are you going on your vacation? Have you decided?”

“No. I wanted Neptune's Palace, but apparently I waited too long.”

“Neptune's Palace!” exclaimed Rhoda Kagan, directly opposite Ginny on the second sofa. “I went there with David, damn him, for our fifteenth anniversary. That place is pure heaven!”

“Thanks,” Jane said.

Rhoda shrugged and resumed her knitting. “Sorry. You can always go another time.”

Penny said, eyes downcast, “Alan and I are thinking of going there.”

Everyone looked at Penny, silent. It was no secret that Penny's husband, Alan, was domineering and chauvinistic, and that the only way Penny had succeeded in maintaining harmony in their marriage had been to consistently acquiesce to his wishes.

Finally Doris spoke up. “Whose idea is that?”

“Alan's,” Penny replied.

More silence. Penny raised her head and looked around the group. “I know what you're all thinking. ‘Why would they go on a vacation together when their marriage is so bad?'”

They all quickly refuted this.

“No, no, it's okay,” Penny said. “But I'm happy to report that things are better for Alan and me now. I've”—she let out a nervous giggle—“been standing up to him lately . . . telling him what
I
want.”

“Penny,” Jane breathed. “That's marvelous.”

Penny smiled shyly, tugging back one of the neck-length curtains of brown hair she usually hid behind. “Tonight at dinner he announced he was going bowling in Boonton with his friends. I reminded him that I have my knitting club meetings every Tuesday night. He said that was too bad, because he was going out, and I needed to stay home to watch Rebecca.”

“What did you say?” Louise asked, her birdlike face pursed intensely.

Penny smiled serenely. “I said that if he wanted to run the risk of leaving Rebecca alone, that was his choice, because I was going to this meeting whether he liked it or not. And I told him to mark his calendar so this would never happen again.”

“Whoa!” Rhoda cried. “You go, girl!”

Penny nodded modestly, as if in response to applause.

“Speaking of marriages falling apart,” Doris piped up, turning to Louise, “what's up with you and Ernie?”

Louise turned shocked eyes on her; so did the rest of the women. In the spring, Louise had discovered Ernie was cheating on her—and not with just one woman, but several. Louise had been tense and subdued ever since, though she and Ernie were still together, still running Hydrangea House.

“I appreciate your subtlety, Doris,” Louise said with uncharacteristic sarcasm, and the others snickered. “Actually, things are much better now between Ernie and me. We've been seeing a wonderful marriage counselor, a woman in Livingston, and she's helped us enormously.”

Everyone looked pleased at this announcement. “Glad to hear it,” Doris said firmly, and resumed her knitting. Jane noticed that Doris was knitting faster than ever. She was on some new wonder drug for her arthritis, an expensive medication she had to give herself by injection once a month. Apparently it was working; in general, Doris was more agile lately, and in excellent spirits. As if reading her thoughts, she looked up at Jane. “How's Daniel, Jane?”

Jane knew that Doris was referring to Daniel's having lost Laura, his fiancée, in the spring, and to his seeing Ginny for several months now.

“I'll answer that one myself,” Ginny said, smiling at Doris. “Daniel
and I
are fine, thanks very much.”

Doris looked taken aback, as if that wasn't at all what she'd meant. “Glad to hear it!” she blustered. Then, as if in retaliation, she narrowed her eyes at Ginny and said, “And how's your friend on the green, Ginny?”

“My friend?” Ginny said, pretending not to understand, though Jane knew she did.

“The bum!” Doris said. “I've seen you chatting him up. Last Friday I was coming out of the dry cleaners and the two of you were blabbing away like old friends.”

Jane looked at Ginny, who had blushed deeply. “He's just a sad old man, Doris. I feel sorry for him. He doesn't have anybody. I say hello when I pass him. Is there something wrong with that?”

“No!” Doris said, all innocence again.

Penny looked up, placing both her knitting needles in one hand and pushing the hair on the right side of her face behind her ear. “Know what my neighbor Mr. Mattarazzo says? That that bum is an FBI agent in disguise, that he's on an assignment to bust a drug ring—right here in Shady Hills!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Rhoda muttered, not looking up from her work.

“Can we please stop calling him a bum?” Ginny looked at Penny. “That theory is ridiculous. I think people in this town should stop gossiping and tend to their own business.”

At this point Rhoda looked up, placing her knitting firmly in her lap. “I'll tell you what
is
my business,” she said, a mean look coming over her face. “I don't pay outrageous property taxes to live in this
supposedly
exclusive village, so that I can see some dirty old drunk stumbling around the green every day. He should be removed! Jane, ask your friend Stanley to get rid of him.”

“That's not like you,” Ginny said, looking hurt for Ivor.

Rhoda shrugged and resumed her knitting.

Doris said, “Who cares about some smelly old hobo!” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Today I saw someone really worth talking about.”

“Who?” they all asked.

Doris looked up. “Faith Carson! I was driving along Packer, near that brick office building, when who should step out of a car but the queen herself! In jeans and a sweatshirt, no less! I was so excited I nearly hit a tree.”

Now the women were atwitter. Jane told them about Kenneth's cousin Stephanie coming to Shady Hills the next day to work for Faith and her husband, and about meeting Puffy Chapin, Faith's aunt, at ShopRite.

“Puffy's having a party to welcome them,” Ginny said. “Everyone's invited.”

“Wow . . .” Penny said, now pushing the hair at both sides of her face behind her ears, her eyes dreamy. “So romantic.”

“Like a fairy tale,” Ginny said. “Like . . . Grace Kelly.”

“And look how
she
ended up,” Doris put in.

“That was a car accident, Doris,” Ginny said.

“That's right,” Louise said. “What's important is that she'd found her true love.”

“So did Faith Carson,” Rhoda said. “She married that prince of—what was the name of his country? Sounded like a banana.”

“Ananda,” Jane said.

“That's right. Handsome man. But that ended tragically, too. He died. Skiing accident? Everyone seems to be skiing into trees lately.”

“Assassinated,” Doris said.

Rhoda nodded. “Right. And China took over the little country. Faith and her kids had to get the hell out of there.”

Ginny said, “Yes, a boy and a girl.”

“Grown up now,” Louise reflected. “Can you imagine? Faith Carson coming here. And running a publishing house.”

“I never liked her,” Doris said, and again the ladies just stared at her. Doris went on, without looking up, “Gold-digging slut. She saw her chance to get rich, play queen of the castle. Got what she deserved, if you ask me.”

“I don't think anyone did ask you,” Jane said good-naturedly. “Anyway, she was already rich, Doris. Her grandfather was one of the founders of Carson & Donner, the publishing house.”

“I know what it is, Jane.”

Jane said, “You're such a cynic, Doris. And if that's what you think of her, why were you so excited to see her today?”

“She's still a celebrity!” Doris said.

“If you want to know what
I
think,” Rhoda said, “I say you're all right. Yes, she saw an opportunity—and let's face it, girls, who among us wouldn't have taken it, too? But she was also deeply in love.”

Doris made a sound of disgust.

Jane, knitting madly away—she was by far the fastest knitter of the club—frowned thoughtfully. “Until today, I'd never given Faith Carson's story much thought. I really have no opinion about the woman either way, and I wouldn't have thought twice about her if Kenneth's cousin weren't coming to work for her.”

“Where will she live?” Penny asked.

“She'll be looking for an apartment. Until then she'll be staying with me.”

Louise said, “I wonder why they're coming
here?
I mean, Shady Hills isn't exactly the center of things.”

“Apparently their company isn't doing as well as it might,” Jane said. “They can't afford New York City rent anymore. Puffy offered them an empty suite in the building she and Oren own. Today was moving day, in fact. I'm sure that's why you saw her in jeans and a sweatshirt, Doris. I saw the moving van.”

Penny said, “I wasn't aware anyone had moved out of that building.”

“Penny,” Louise said, “you can hardly expect to know the comings and goings of every business in Shady Hills.”

“But we can try!” Rhoda said with a laugh.

“Try nothing!” Doris burst out. “I'd wager that among the six of us, we know
everything
that goes on in this town. And as it happens, I do know who left that building: a psychiatrist. He'd been in a suite on the second floor for over ten years.”

“Of course!” Ginny said. “It was Dr. Kruger. Tim Kruger. He was a regular customer at Whipped Cream. We chatted all the time. He was a psychiatrist. Adults and children. A woman who was a customer of ours at Whipped Cream used to bring her toddler to Tim for play therapy.”

“I remember him,” Rhoda said, nodding. “He and his wife lived on Oakmont, near me.” Her face grew puzzled. “Whatever happened to them?”

Ginny leaned forward. “I'm surprised you don't know, Rhoda. His wife ran off with a
plumber,
some guy from Wayne, and poor Tim decided to start a new life in Colorado.”

Doris began to laugh. “A plumber, eh? Bet he unclogged
her
pipes.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “You know, Doris, for a woman who was a schoolteacher, supposedly a mature woman who set an example for our youth, you have an especially adolescent sense of humor.”

“Where do you think I got it!” Doris exclaimed, and they all laughed at the irrepressible old woman. “Jane, I imagine you'll be especially interested in Faith and her husband's business, since you're a literary agent. Maybe you could peddle some of your books there—or don't they publish the kind of trash you handle?” she asked with a guffaw.

Jane took mild offense at this remark. “As it happens, they don't publish what I sell. I believe they publish mostly coffee-table books—not what I handle. But trash is in the eye of the beholder, Doris. Yes, I handle
genre fiction,
but it gives a lot of pleasure to a lot of people, and that counts for a lot.

“You're forgetting,” Jane went on, “that I handle all kinds of books, not just genre books, or ‘trash,' as you call it. I don't think anyone would call Carole Freund's
Relevant Gods
—which, I might add, has been on best-seller lists for nearly six months—trash.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Big Shot,” Doris said, and met Jane's gaze. “What about the autobiography of Goddess, that cultural icon? I suppose that will be great literature?”