Hanging Hannah (13 page)

A gasp of delight rose from the crowd, which broke into hearty applause. Jane glanced around and realized Goddess was no longer beside her. When Jane looked up again, Goddess was stepping onto the dais and taking the microphone from Holly.

A strange music began to play, loud and electronic, with a fast, driving, primal beat.

Daniel came up beside Jane. “Laura and I saw this show. We even have the CD. This is ‘Alone With Me.' It's my favorite.”

Goddess began to sing. Unlike her speaking voice, her singing voice was deep and throaty. The song began not with words but with a series of sharp “Oohs” in time to the music's beat. Then came the song itself, and Goddess crooned low: “I know a place . . . my darkest world.... Come to this place . . .
alone with me
. . .”

“Isn't she fabulous?” Daniel said.

Jane looked at him. He was truly enthralled. Was she missing something? She didn't find the music much more than just loud, but she'd promised to be polite. “Fabu!” she said, and he gave her a funny look.

At this point in the song there was a pause in the lyrics, which were replaced by high-pitched computerized squeaking. Now Goddess began to dance as Jane had to admit only Goddess danced—the swaying spin she'd made famous in her second film, a film even Jane had seen,
Slick Monkey
. Faster and faster Goddess twirled, bent at the waist, then straightening, her amazing hair flying straight out around her.

“Unbelievable.”

Jane turned. This had come from Laura, who was watching Goddess and shaking her head. Then she turned to Daniel and Jane. “I'm feeling a little woozy,” she said. “I'll be right back.” She edged her way through the crowd.

“Her condition,” Daniel said in Jane's ear, and Jane nodded understandingly.

On the dais, Goddess suddenly stopped dancing. At the moment she did, the screen behind her came to life with projected clips of her in her various movies, the images changing with the rhythm of the music. Goddess stepped off the dais and behind the bookcase at the end of the room. Jane hadn't realized there was space behind it. She figured it must have led to another entrance to the room.

“At this point in the actual show,” Daniel explained in Jane's ear, “she steps behind a waterfall.”

“I see,” Jane said, nodding. Then she was aware that Greenberg was beside her, and she looked up at him. He was staring at the projected film clips, in many of which Goddess was either nude or almost nude, with a look of abject horror. Clearly this wasn't for him.

She leaned close to speak in his ear. “Would you like to step out to the corridor for some air?”

“Good idea!” he said gratefully, and they worked their way to the door through which they had entered the room.

The corridor was mercifully cool and quiet, though they could still faintly hear the thumping of the music. They moved a little farther down the corridor.

“Let me ask you something,” Greenberg said, “and please be honest.”

“Shoot,” Jane said. “Oh, sorry. Guess that's not a good expression to use with a cop.”

He smiled; then his face took on a look of sincere inquisitiveness. “Do you really
like
what she's doing in there?”

Jane laughed. “I have to confess it's growing on me. I find it oddly fascinating—like driving past a car accident.”

“Hmm,” Greenberg murmured, pondering her words.

“And millions of people around the world like what Goddess does, too,” Jane said.

Greenberg shrugged. “Guess it's me, then.”

“Guess so,” Jane said mischievously. “It's fortunate for me that I'm beginning to like what Goddess does, because it looks as if she's going to be my client.”

Greenberg looked truly pleased for her. “Really? That's great, Jane. I don't know much about your business, but I would think a publisher would pay a lot of money for a book by her.”

“Yes, and believe me, I could use a big commission.”

“I hear you.”

She tilted her head in the direction of the party room. “Think you can stand going back in?”

“Sure,” he said good-naturedly.

Goddess was back on the dais, dancing again. Greenberg watched her for a moment and just shook his head.

“I'm going to get something to eat,” Jane said. “Want anything?”

“Why not?” he said, and they squeezed through to the hors d'oeuvres table.

Jane spotted a tray of mushrooms stuffed with what looked like crabmeat. “Ooh, yum.” As she reached for one, she heard a little squeal, and turned toward the sound.

About ten feet away, at the bar, Laura was blotting at her blouse with a thick wad of napkins. Jane hurried over to her. “What happened?”

Laura gave a little laugh. “It's nothing.”

One of the bartenders was hovering solicitously nearby. “I'm so sorry, miss.”

“It's okay, really,” Laura said, and leaned to speak softly to Jane. “He spilled some tomato juice on me. Here I am trying to be so virtuous, drinking only tomato juice instead of my usual martini, and I get it spilled on me.”

“Here, let me see,” Jane said, and Laura lifted the napkins. The tomato juice had left a dark stain on the pale green silk. “Doesn't look so good.”

“It's only a blouse!” Laura said. “Forget about it.” She looked around and said to no one in particular, “Where's Martha Stewart when you need her?”

Jane laughed. “Or Heloise!”

At that moment, from the corridor, there came the sound of a woman's hysterical screams.

The screaming went on and on, like a siren.

Everyone froze, exchanging looks of terror.

Greenberg bolted toward the door to the corridor, and Jane followed, vaguely aware that others were, too.

In the corridor, Greenberg, ever the cop, turned to the crowd. “Everybody wait here.” He ran down the corridor, and Jane unthinkingly ran after him.

There was no one in the corridor, on each side of which were office doors with assistants' cubicles outside them. At the corner of the building, the corridor turned, and following it, they found themselves looking down a similar expanse of office doors and cubicles. Near one of the office doors, a young woman in a short black dress leaned against the wall, screaming.

Greenberg approached her and touched her gently. The woman, who appeared to be in her early twenties, began to cry, her hands shaking violently.

“What is it?” Greenberg asked. “What happened?”

She looked up at him in terror. “I just went in,” she managed to get out. “I went in and saw her.”

“Saw who? Where?”

She pointed to the nearest office. Greenberg dashed in and Jane followed, stopping in the doorway to peer in.

It looked like any office at a publishing house. Bookshelves lined the right wall, a desk protruded sideways from the left wall, and a credenza stood at the wall near the door. The far wall was virtually all window. The desk had a high-backed chair, which was turned away from the desk toward the window, so that if anyone had been sitting in the chair, he or she would have been hidden.

Greenberg turned an inquiring gaze on the young woman, who pointed to the chair. Cautiously, Greenberg spun it slowly around.

Jane gasped at what rotated into view.

Holly Griffin, characteristically, looked as if she was about to say something. But she never would, because she was unquestionably dead, pinned straight through the throat to her chair with what appeared to be a metal letter opener. From where the handle protruded from her skin ran a dark stream of blood.

“Oh my God . . .” Jane whispered.

“What is it!” came a man's voice behind Jane. She turned. It was Jack Layton. Jane stepped aside just as Greenberg emerged from the room. Layton craned his neck to see what was in there, and when he did his eyes widened in horror and he put his hand in front of his mouth. “Holy . . .”

Greenberg turned to the young woman. “What's your name?”

“I'm Jilly. Holly's assistant.” An eruption of tears shook her, and she began shaking again. “Holly told me she was going to her office to get a copy of Carol Freund's jacket to give her. We had it framed for her.” She leaned into the office and with a trembling hand pointed to the jacket, matted and framed, leaning against the wall near Holly's desk. Then she saw Holly again and shrank back.

“Why were you here?” Greenberg asked.

“Mr. Layton was looking for her and asked me to go find her.”

“That's right,” Layton said. He put himself between Greenberg and Jilly and looked up at Greenberg. “Who the hell are you?”

“Stanley Greenberg, Shady Hills Police Department. Just trying to help. You've called the police?”

“Yes, of course,” Layton said impatiently. “I want you all the hell out of here, now!”

Greenberg led Jane and Jilly back down the corridor. Turning the corner, they saw two uniformed police officers emerge from one of the elevators and start toward them. As the officers approached, Greenberg pointed behind him, and the two men hurried on.

Layton ran past Greenberg, Jane, and Jilly to address the crowd that filled the corridor between the elevators and the party room.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” Layton yelled. “People—quiet, please!” When finally the crowd had calmed, he continued. “There's been . . . an unfortunate accident. I'm afraid the party must end. Please leave immediately by the elevators.”

Greenberg hurried up to Layton. “You're sure that's okay?” Greenberg asked.

“Yes, I'm sure,” Layton answered resentfully. “I spoke to the police. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Let's go, Jane.”

“But what about Daniel and Laura?” she asked.

“I see them over there.” Greenberg waved to them and got Daniel's attention. “We'll meet you at the car,” Greenberg called, and Daniel nodded.

Greenberg took Jane's arm and they joined the press of people heading toward the elevators.

 

In Greenberg's car, speeding west along 495, all four were silent. Jane had briefly told Daniel and Laura what had happened to Holly.

“I can't believe it,” Daniel said, breaking the silence. “Who would have done that?”

Laura let out a grim chuckle. “Jane, you seem to be bad luck lately. First that girl at Hydrangea House, now this. . . .”

“Laura!” Daniel said, horrified. “That's not funny.”

“You're right. I'm sorry, Jane. I get like this when I'm upset.”

They rode in silence for a few moments more.

“I'll drop your blouse off at the dry cleaners in the morning,” Daniel murmured to Laura, “see what they can do about that stain.”

Jane turned in her seat and looked at him. Laura was glaring at him in amazement.

“What did I say?” Daniel protested. “I'm just trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy here!”

“Well it didn't work!” Laura snapped at him. “Boy, have you got your priorities screwed up. A woman is murdered tonight, and you're worrying about a fifty-dollar blouse.” She turned away, glared out the window at the Continental Airlines Arena. “In my condition,” she muttered, “this kind of excitement I can do without.” And she looked at Jane, as if blaming her for Holly's murder.

For the remainder of the ride back to Shady Hills, no one spoke again.

 

Jane got to work first the next morning. She heard Daniel come in, and he appeared immediately in her doorway.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He sat down in front of her desk, shaking his head. “I still can't believe what happened last night. Who could have done that? Who would have wanted to kill Holly?”

Jane laughed grimly. “Everyone in publishing has wanted to kill Holly Griffin at one time or another—including me.”

He looked at her and frowned, his expression making it clear he disapproved of her gallows humor. Then, shaking his head, he got up and returned to his desk.

Jane immediately felt guilty about what she'd said. She realized this was her means of coping with shock. She probably should have talked it out with someone—Greenberg, perhaps. But last night she'd been too upset to talk about it. When she'd arrived home, Nick was, of course, asleep, but Florence was awake, and when the shrewd Florence had asked Jane if something was wrong, Jane, not wanting to upset her, had said she must be coming down with a cold.

She gazed down at her desk. On top of her work pile lay the advance reading copy of
Relevant Gods
. Jane decided she had better call Carol Freund and make sure she was all right. She remembered that Carol had given her the number of a friend she would be staying with in New York for a couple of weeks. Jane found the number on a slip of paper in the work pile and dialed it. Carol answered.

“Carol, I'm so sorry we lost you last night. There was just so much confusion.”

“That's okay, Jane, I understand. It was hideous. Who would have done that to Holly?”

“I don't know. Let's hope the police figure that out. You sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine, really.” Carol gave a rueful chuckle. “No one ever told me publishing was like this.”

After Jane hung up, it occurred to her that she should also call Jack Layton and tell him how sorry she was about Holly. She dialed his number, and his assistant put Jane through.

“It's very nice of you to call, Jane. We're all reeling here, I can tell you.”

“Of course you are. Come to think of it, I'm surprised the offices are even open.”

“Well—” Layton blustered, “life must go on, right?”

“Right,” Jane said, shaking her head.

“In fact, Jane, I was going to call you today. Holly told me Goddess plans to do a book and that Holly steered Goddess to you for representation.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Holly also said you promised to give us a first look at the project. I hope that promise still holds. We want this book, Jane. I've already assigned it to a new editor, Hamilton Kiels.”

“Jumping the gun a little, aren't you, Jack? You don't even know exactly what the book is—or how much I want for it.”

“If it's by Goddess, it doesn't really matter what it is. And as for price, I'm sure we can reach an agreement.”

Holly was already virtually forgotten. Jane couldn't believe what she was hearing—or maybe she could.
These people are all pigs
, she told herself. “I keep all my promises, Jack. You'll have first crack at the book. But as for coming to terms, I make no guarantees.”

“Fair enough, Jane. Thank you for calling.”

Jane felt dirty after their conversation, and couldn't get off the phone fast enough. As soon as she hung up, her intercom came to life.

“Jane?”

“Yes, Daniel.”

“Ernie Zabriskie is here to see you.”

Ernie? What on earth did
he
want? “I'll be right there.”

She went out to the reception area. Ernie, in a too-tight sport shirt that accentuated the roll of fat around his middle, stood at Daniel's desk. He looked up at Jane with a wan smile.

“Hello, Ernie,” Jane said, making an effort not to sound too cold. “What can I do for you?”

“May I speak with you, Jane? Privately?”

“Certainly. Come on in.”

She showed him into her office and indicated the visitor's chair while she shut the door.

“Now,” she said, sitting at her desk, “what's up, Ernie?”

“Jane”—he looked her directly in the eyes, as if trying to be assertive—“Dara called me about your little visit to her shop yesterday.”

Jane met his gaze right back. “Did she now?”

He looked down. At least he had the decency to feel ashamed.

“So?”

“You're blackmailing her, Jane. That's not right. Who are you to get involved in this? It's none of your business.”

Jane felt her face growing hot. “Is that what you came to say?”

“I came to say that however you found out about this, it's not your concern, and you certainly have no right to tell Dara not to see me again. I also came to ask you not to say anything about this to Louise.”

A pounding began in Jane's head. Looking at Ernie's simpering fat face, she imagined herself getting up from her desk and slapping him. She leveled a loathing look at him instead.

“Listen, you pathetic coward. Louise already knows you fool around—she just doesn't know with whom. I had no intention of telling Louise that the luscious Dara is the one. But as for this being none of my business, you're wrong. Dead wrong. Louise is my friend, Ernie, can you understand that? In fact, right now I'm far more of a friend to her than you are. And if I choose to tell Dara not to see you again—
for my friend
—or if I choose to tell Louise that Dara is your squeeze—
for my friend
—I will bloody well do so. Because what I do for my friend is none of
your
business.”

He said nothing, just watched her, brows lowered.

Jane shook her head and laughed derisively. “Weak, pathetic men like you make me want to puke, you know that? Men who don't have the courage to just tell their wives it's over, that they want to play the field; men who pretend to honor their marriage vows while making fools of the people who trust them. Who
love
them. Louise
loves
you, Ernie. Do you know how fortunate you are to have a woman like Louise love you?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she swept on.

“So tell me, Ernie, why is it that you haven't just sat Louise down, and said, ‘Louise, I don't want to be married to you anymore because I don't want to be faithful the way I said I would when we exchanged our wedding vows'? What keeps you there? How do you sleep nights?”

She waited, finally willing to let him speak.

“I . . .” he began. “Louise and I . . . we have the inn. We have a life together. Louise—”

“Has money. I see. That's all it is. Your lifestyle. You don't want to give it up, but you don't want to play by the rules either.”

Ernie regarded Jane with something like disbelief, then smiled a pitying little smile. “You're very old-fashioned, Jane.”

She jumped up from her chair, the pounding in her head unbearable. “Get out!”

Alarmed, Ernie jumped up, too, and ran for the door.

Jane remained behind her desk, because she knew that if she went after Ernie, she'd hurt him. “Get the hell out of my office!” she ordered. “That's right, take your two-timing ass back to the inn you bought with Louise's money and live your lie so you can keep your sleazy affair going and not upset your cozy little life!
Get out!
”

But he was practically out anyway. Through the open door of her office she saw him hurry across the reception area and throw open the door. It shut with a bang.

She sat back down at her desk and put her head in her hands, waiting for the pounding to subside. Presently she was aware of Daniel standing in the doorway.