Hanging Hannah (11 page)

A chill ran down Jane's spine. “Louise! Everyone is pretty much in agreement that that woman was murdered. You're not saying that Ernie could have done something like that?”

“No, I'm not, Jane. That's just it! But if the police find out that Ernie was seeing this woman—and they seem to have ways of finding out anything these days, with that awful DNA testing and all that—they'll immediately suspect him.” Louise's eyes pleaded with Jane. “But you're right—he wouldn't do that. He
couldn't
do that. I know Ernie.”

“Would you have thought he'd do
that
?” Jane asked, tilting her head toward the sleeping bag.

“No. But he's not a killer, Jane. And despite what he's been doing, I love Ernie. I don't want him blamed for what happened to that poor girl.”

“But what can I do?” Jane asked. “What does it have to do with me?”

“You're seeing that Detective Greenberg. I want you to tell him Ernie would never do such a thing.”

“Louise,” Jane said, surprised, “you're asking me to influence the police?” She shook her head. “You're giving me far more credit than I deserve. Nothing I say about my opinion of Ernie will change the police's investigation. Besides, I hardly know Detective Greenberg.”

“Then you won't do it?”

“I didn't say that. I agree with you about Ernie; I don't think he could ever kill anyone. I'll say as much to Detective Greenberg, sure. I doubt it'll make much difference, but sure, I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you, Jane,” Louise squeaked, dropped to her knees, and began crawling out through the secret door. While the flashlight in Louise's hand still illuminated the room, Jane took a last look around. She let her gaze linger on the rumpled sleeping bag and grimaced in disgust.

Then she noticed something lying on top of the sleeping bag, nearly concealed by its camouflage pattern. She knelt for a closer look. It was a sweater. It lay rumpled in the middle of the sleeping bag. In the dim light, Jane squinted to see it more clearly. It looked familiar somehow.... She decided to say nothing about it to Louise.

“Jane,” came Louise's whisper through the door, “are you coming?”

“Yes.” Jane pulled her gaze from the sweater and crawled out. Louise led the way back down the servants' staircase, and Jane followed in silence.

Downstairs, the party was in full swing. Only Daniel seemed to have noticed Jane and Louise's absence; he approached Jane as she emerged into the foyer from the kitchen corridor. “Everything all right?” he asked.

“Fine, wonderful,” she said brightly. “I've just got a bit of a headache—all this excitement, I guess. Louise was getting me some aspirin.”

“I see,” Daniel said, though he looked unconvinced.

Over the next hour, during which Jane had to force herself to be pleasant to Ernie, some of the guests departed. Florence, wishing Jane a happy birthday, said she would take Nick home and put him to bed. Finally, only Daniel, Laura, Jane, Greenberg, and of course Louise and Ernie remained. Seizing her moment, Jane excused herself to powder her nose.

She hurried through the corridor to the kitchen and grabbed the flashlight Louise had put back in the drawer. Then she hurried back up the servants' stairs to the third floor, and down the corridor to the room that opened onto the site of Ernie's trysts. Setting down her handbag, she knelt, pushed open the secret panel, and crawled into the tiny space. She made her way over to the sleeping bag, grabbed the sweater, and examined it carefully in the flashlight's glow.

The sweater was a well-knitted Fair Isle, in an especially intricate pattern of cinnamon, amethyst, and gold that looked disturbingly familiar. Jane pondered—and suddenly knew why.

It had been on display for months at the Yarn Basket, the needlework shop on the village green where Jane bought all her knitting supplies. The shop was owned by Dara Nielsen, an odious woman who was jealous of the Defarge Club because she hadn't started it and had never been invited to join. Jane was the only member of the club who bought her supplies at Dara's shop, and she did so only out of convenience. The other women all bought their supplies elsewhere, so strong was their dislike of Dara. Dara herself had knitted this sweater as a store sample.

Ernie and Dara . . . Jane shook her head in something close to horror. It was a difficult image to conjure. But Jane knew there was no accounting for taste, especially in matters like these. She folded the sweater tightly, carried it with her as she crawled back through the secret door, and stuffed the sweater into her bag. Then she hurried back downstairs, replaced the flashlight in the kitchen drawer, and walked back through the corridor to the foyer, all smiles and thanks for a wonderful birthday party.

Greenberg approached Jane. “I'll be happy to give you a ride to your car. That way, Daniel and Laura can go right home.”

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” Jane said, and thanked Louise and Ernie again for the party. As Jane passed the entrance to the living room, her gaze lighted on the sofa on which Louise had once displayed the Irish Chain quilt Jane had seen in the cave. On impulse Jane turned to Louise.

“Louise, what happened to that Mike Vernell, the hiker who was staying here?”

“He checked out Sunday night,” Louise replied. “Why?”

The day the girl was found hanging
. . .

Jane nodded thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Just wondering.” She said good night, thanking Louise again for the wonderful birthday party, and got into Greenberg's car. He started back toward town.

“I was delighted when Ginny invited me to your party,” he said, breaking the silence.

“I'm delighted, too,” Jane said.

When he reached the village center, he drove around Center Street and through the alley to the parking lot behind Jane's building, pulling up beside her car.

“Well,” he said, and for a moment they just sat in the near darkness.

Then he was drawing near her, and she felt herself moving toward him, and they were kissing—a soft, hesitant kiss. His lips were soft. She reached up and touched his face, smooth at the cheek, slightly beard-roughened at the chin. Gently they pulled apart.

“Well,” Jane said this time, and smiled. “Good night.”

“Good night, Jane.”

She hadn't felt this flustered since her first middle-school dance. Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, she got out and gave Greenberg a wave. Then she turned toward her car, knowing he wouldn't leave until she had gotten in and driven away first.

As Jane left the parking lot, it occurred to her that, as it turned out, she'd had a very nice birthday indeed.

The Yarn Basket was everything Dara Nielsen wasn't: fun, warm, and cozy. Entering the shop the next morning, Jane breathed in the familiar smell of the yarns that filled the cubbyholes on two entire walls—row upon row of rich, vibrant scarlets and golds and sapphires and eggplants and goldenrods. Then there were the hand-dyed skeins, carefully hung from pegs on a third wall. The remaining wall displayed supplies of all sorts, from needles to crochet hooks to buttons and zippers, as did the three tables that ran lengthwise down the middle of the store.

At first Dara was nowhere in sight. Then out of the corner of her eye Jane saw movement at the counter and the top of Dara's graying head as she stooped to do something on the shelves under the cash register. She rose and saw Jane, her weaselly face barely breaking a smile. “Hello,” she said coolly.

“Good morning,” Jane said airily, pretending to admire the hand-dyed yarns. In reality, she
did
admire them—in fact, she intended to buy some in silk for a sweater pattern she had in mind to try—but yarn wasn't what she'd come for today, and she certainly had no intention of ever buying yarn here again.

“Anything I can help you with?” Dara asked.

“No, thanks,” Jane called back. She waited a few moments, then approached the counter with feigned nonchalance.

Dara was watching her. Jane could tell she had noticed that Jane hadn't carried any merchandise to the counter.

“How's your husband, Dara?” Jane asked.

Dara looked surprised. She and Jane never exchanged small talk. “Fine,” she replied, staring at Jane. She looked Jane up and down. “Nothing you need today?”

“Me?” Jane smiled. “No, thank you. But I do have something to show you.”

Dara looked baffled.

Jane made a business of digging around in her bag. Then she grabbed the Fair Isle sweater, yanked it out, and tossed it onto the counter. Dara stared at it for a brief second; then her eyes widened, and she positively glared at it as if it were a scorpion ready to strike.

“Where—whose is that?” she said.

Jane put her hands on the counter and leaned forward. “Don't even try it, Dara.”

Dara swallowed. “Where'd you find it?”

Jane gave her a look of pure loathing. “You know where I found it. And so does Louise Zabriskie.”

Dara glared at Jane, saying nothing.

“You're in luck, though, Dara. Louise doesn't know who the sweater belongs to because she's smart enough not to shop here and never saw it on display. But I did.” Jane narrowed her eyes. “Now you listen to me, and listen good. If you ever set foot in Hydrangea House again, or go anywhere near Ernie Zabriskie, I
will
tell Louise—and everyone else in Shady Hills, including your husband—who this sweater belongs to and where I found it. You got me?”

Dara gave one sharp nod, her face the very picture of terror, and gulped.

With a flick of her wrist Jane knocked the sweater off the counter. It landed in a heap at Dara's feet.

Jane then turned on her heel and walked through the shop door, vowing never to enter the Yarn Basket again.

 

Daniel spun around in his chair as soon as she entered the office.

“Florence has been calling,” he said. “She's frantic.”

Jane's heart skipped a beat. “Why? What's wrong?”

“It's something about Winky.”

Jane went to her desk and dialed Florence.

“Oh, missus, thank goodness you called. I don't know what to do!”

“What's the matter, Florence?”

“It's Winky, missus. All morning long she has been shooting around the house like a rocket ship! I think she must be scared of something, but every time I try to pick her up and pat her, she just runs away and ping-pongs some more! She knocked the cookie jar off the counter and it smashed. What a mess! What should I do?”

“I'll be right home,” Jane said, and immediately looked up the number of Winky's veterinarian, Dr. Singh. Jane called her, explained the situation as best she could, and was instructed to bring Winky right over.

Forty-five minutes later, Jane and Dr. Singh, a gentle Indian woman in her forties, stood gazing down at Winky as she roamed around the examining table. Calm and seemingly untroubled, she showed no signs of her morning behavior.

Jane scratched Winky between the ears. Winky rubbed up against Jane, purring like an engine. “What's going on, Wink?” Jane said.

“Now you say she ping-pongs about?” Dr. Singh asked.

“Yes. Florence—she's our nanny—says she does it more and more every day. She won't even let Florence near her.”

Dr. Singh looked thoughtful and reached out to stroke Winky's back. “Hmm . . . I have an idea,” she said. “Excuse me. I will be right back.”

“Certainly,” Jane said, frowning in puzzlement.

Dr. Singh left the room. A few moments later she returned. Jane had expected her to have some medicine for Winky to try, but Dr. Singh's hands were empty.

“Now,” Dr. Singh said, approaching the table. “What do you think of this, Miss Winky?” She reached out to pat Winky's head.

Suddenly Winky leaped to the floor, scampered madly to the corner of the room, then shot like a bullet to the opposite corner.

Dr. Singh began to laugh. “But it is amazing!”

“What's amazing? What just happened?”

Dr. Singh reached into the pocket of her white coat and withdrew a small tube of what appeared to be hand cream.

“You see, Mrs. Stuart, many creams such as this for the hands contain a chemical called methylparaben. Methylparaben smells just like a female cat in heat, and so male cats, when they smell it, go crazy. I put some of this cream on my hands when I left the room. What is amazing is that it affects a
female
cat this way. It is something new to me.”

Jane shook her head. “Leave it to Winky to come up with something new.”

“Yes, leave it to Winky,” Dr. Singh said, nodding. “After all, isn't this the famous Winky who solved the mystery of your missing nanny?”

Not that again
.

“Yes,” Jane admitted.

“You have nothing to worry about. Winky is fine. But when you get home, have a look at the products your Florence is using. I'll bet you'll find methylparaben listed in the ingredients of at least one of them.”

Winky wouldn't come anywhere near Jane until Dr. Singh had left the room. Then Jane was able to scoop her up and place her in the carrier.

Arriving home, Jane told Florence what Dr. Singh had said.

“My goodness!” Florence said with a laugh. “I will go check immediately.” She went to the cabinet under the sink, where she kept her kitchen products, and rummaged among them until she found a white glass jar. She held it up to the light, squinted at the tiny print, and said, “Aha! Wouldn't you know it! It is here—methylparaben.” She turned to Winky, who was eyeing the jar warily. “Winky, I am so terribly sorry. I will never use this again.”

“Well,
that
mystery is solved,” Jane said. “I'm going to work now. I'll be home around five, but then I'm going out again.”

“Oh, yes,” Florence said, eyebrows rising, “the party for your novel writer.” She giggled. “Your date.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “I should never have told you.”

“Oh, no, missus, I'm sorry. I am delighted for you. I can tell that Detective Greenberg is a nice man—I have a good sense of these things. And you need a man, if you'll pardon me for saying it, missus.”

“You're right, Florence, I do.” Now Jane giggled. “And I have to confess I'm really looking forward to this. Having Detective Greenberg with me might even make Holly Griffin bearable.”

“Who is Holly Griffin?”

“Never mind,” Jane said. “See you later.”

She drove back down into town, but instead of taking Packer Road into the village, she took Highland to Cranmore. She passed the Senior Center on the right and, just beyond it, pulled up in front of a black wrought-iron fence that ran along this section of the quiet road. She got out, walked through a gate in the fence, and made her way up a paved path that wound gently across perfectly manicured grass dotted with gravestones in neat rows. The path rose, and at the top of a hill she left the path and crossed the grass to stand before one of the stones.

 

KENNETH ADAM STUART
Beloved Husband and Father

 

“Hello, Kenneth,” she said softly. A bird sang in a nearby tree.

“Kenneth, I need to talk to you. This . . . this is very difficult for me. I've been putting off coming to see you.” She paused, concentrated on what she would say. “Kenneth, I love you very much; you know that. I always will. But I have to let go of you now. I have to get on with my life. I have to try to find someone new.

“I didn't want you to go. If I'd had my way, you'd still be here. But things didn't work out that way, and Kenneth, honey, I'm so lonely.”

The stone stared up at her, mute.

“I may have found someone, Kenneth. He's not you—no one will ever be you. But he's a nice man, different from you, but a nice man. And, well, I need to know that this is okay with you, that you're okay with my . . . going on.”

Again she waited, staring at the stone. It was so quiet here. A squirrel chattered in the nearby woods. Below, on the road, a car whooshed softly by, like a whisper.

Jane shifted her weight to her other leg. “I want you to think about it, Kenneth, that's all I ask.” She took a tissue from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. “Nicholas—who's fine, by the way; you'd be so proud of the little man he's turning into—he needs someone new. He loves you, he always will, too; but he needs to get on, too, Kenneth. Okay?”

She waited, then went on. “I guess I just needed to know you understand. I . . . I think you do.”

She stepped closer to the stone, flicked off a few blades of grass thrown by the caretaker's lawnmower. “By the way, we're fine, darling—I mean with money. You know I've always worried about that. The agency is still going, and though it's not always easy, I'm getting the mortgage paid, buying groceries, paying Florence. Oh, you don't know about Florence—she's our nanny. You'd like her. I'm paying Daniel, too, Kenneth. Yup, Daniel is still with us. I don't know what I'd do without him. He misses you, too.

“Well, I guess that's all I wanted to say. I love you, darling. Please remember that. I love you, and I didn't want you to go.” On the last word her voice broke and she turned quickly, making her way to the path and back down the hill toward her car.

When she was about halfway to the space in the fence, a movement to her right caught her eye. Moving slowly down another of the cemetery's paths was Doris. She saw Jane and came up to her.

“Hello, Doris. What are you doing here?”

“Visiting my son.”

“Your son? Doris, I—I never knew you had a son.”

“Yes. I don't talk about him much. His name was James. He was six when he died. Cancer.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“That was almost fifty years ago,” Doris said, looking as if she could scarcely believe it herself.

“Did you and Frank have any other children?”

“No. We tried, but we never could. Then Frank died.”

Jane recalled that Frank had died of a stroke when Doris was in her forties. “I've never seen you here before. Do you come often?”

“No, not anymore. When I think of it. But when James first died, I used to come here a lot, like you. I've seen you here, talking to Kenneth.”

Jane began to feel embarrassed, then realized that Doris felt this the most natural thing in the world.

“I used to talk to James, too. Now?” Doris shook her head, her eyes distant. “Now, I just tell him I love him. That's the most important thing, you know—that they know you love them.”

Jane took Doris's arm. Silently the two women walked down the path toward the road.