Hanging Hannah (14 page)

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

“I'm fine,” she murmured. “Just mad.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No. Can't.”

“Okay.” He returned to his desk.

Didn't people like Ernie realize how lucky they were to have people who loved them? Didn't they see they owed it to these people to honor their trust?

Didn't they see how precious these people who loved them were?

No, they didn't. And they wouldn't . . . until those people who loved them were gone. How did that Joni Mitchell song go? People didn't know what they had till it was gone.

Jane had known what she had in Kenneth, she'd been faithful to him, and now he was gone anyway.

She put her head back in her hands and cried.

Jane got out of the cab and looked up at the unassuming storefront restaurant on Carmine Street in the Village. Aldo, it was called, an Italian place Goddess liked. Goddess had called Jane yesterday and said she wanted to explore “this book thing,” so they'd made a date to meet there for brunch. Goddess couldn't do lunch, because it was Wednesday, and she had to get to the theater by noon to get ready for the matinee.

The maître d' greeted Jane pleasantly. When she told him she was meeting Goddess, he positively lit up. “This way, please,” he said crisply, and led her past the bar, up a few stairs, and along a railed balcony with tables along the side.

Goddess sat at the last table. She barely acknowledged Jane. A waiter came and asked if Jane wanted something to drink. She noticed that Goddess was drinking what looked like a screwdriver, but ordered only Perrier for herself.

“Well,” Jane said brightly, arranging herself in her chair. Then she took a good look at Goddess and did a double take. Goddess was dressed exactly like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
: a blue-and-white-checked dress with attached white bodice and short sleeves. Jane glanced under the table. Goddess's feet, in ruby slippers and little white socks, tapped the floor. Goddess's hair was of course longer than Judy Garland's hair had been in the film, so Goddess's beribboned pigtails were a yard long. It was a bizarre sight.

“Love the outfit,” Jane said. “Is it for your show?”

“Nah.” Goddess played with her napkin, tying it in a knot. “I always dress like this. In different themes, I mean. I like it.”

“Ah,” Jane said, wondering what other themes were in her repertoire.

Jane looked down and noticed something on her plate. She picked it up. It was a bottle of nail polish—Desert Sunrise, the label said.

She frowned. “I wonder what this is doing here?”

Goddess smiled like a little girl. “I put it there.”

“You did?” Jane frowned. “Why?”

“It's for you.”

“I—don't understand.”

Goddess leaned forward. “I
took
it for you. I take things. That came from that Walgreen's down the street.”

She was a shoplifter. Jane didn't know what to say. So she simply set the bottle aside.
What kind of a nutcase am I getting involved with
?

Goddess threw down her knotted napkin, apparently finished with it. She grabbed one of her long pigtails and began wrapping it around her wrist and arm. “I still can't believe what happened to Holly,” she said, not looking at Jane. “I mean, I've known her practically all my life, since I was a little girl. Who would ever have done that to her?”

Jane shook her head. “We're all asking ourselves that. It's something for the police to figure out.”

Goddess made a dismissive gesture and blew out her breath derisively. “The police. Bunch of idiots.”

Not all of them
, Jane thought, but did not respond to this. Instead she said, “It's the most horrible thing I've seen in all my years in publishing.” She smiled grimly. “I guess it's one way for a company to get out of paying severance!”

Goddess looked at her sharply. “Gallows humor,” she said, nodding. “It's because you're upset, and you don't want to admit it. You're acting out.”

“Quite the therapist, aren't you? Have you discussed your little habit”—she touched the tip of the nail-polish bottle—“with your therapist?”

“Who said I'm in therapy?”

“You seem remarkably well educated in psychological matters.”

“Maybe I read a lot. Anyway, that's what you're doing, and if I didn't understand why you're doing it, I would say it was in pretty bad taste.”

Jane blinked, duly chastised. “You're right. Holly wasn't my favorite person, not by a long shot, but I would never have wished this on her.”

A waiter came to the table. Jane ordered a muffin, some fruit, and a Diet Coke. Goddess ordered a bowl of croutons and a glass of water.

“Croutons?” Jane said when the waitress had gone.

“Yeah,” Goddess said, her tone slightly defensive. “I like croutons. Hasn't anybody ever told you it's impolite to talk about what someone else is eating?”

Again Jane just stared at her. Now the young woman just stared off across the restaurant, her thoughts seemingly miles away. Then suddenly she turned back to Jane. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

The waiter brought their drinks. Goddess waited until he was gone before continuing.

“Okay, listen to this.” She leaned forward. “Have you ever dreamed of someone you've never met, then
met
that person?”

Where had this come from? Jane sat nonplussed, then shook her head. “No. Have you?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly Goddess threw the pigtail she'd been playing with over her shoulder and leaned even farther across the table toward Jane. “Know what I think?” she said, smirking, as if she had a dark secret. “I think
you
killed Holly.”

Jane nearly spit out her Diet Coke. Finally, she managed to say, “That's not funny, not funny at all. Talk about gallows humor!”

Goddess shrugged. “Who said I was joking?”

“I think,” Jane said with forced cheerfulness, “that we should talk about your book, and whether you and I will work together.”

“We'll work together,” Goddess said easily. “Holly said you were the agent to go with, so you're it. Yves—Yves Golden, he's my manager—he said I should go with someone at the Morris office, or ICM. He said that if Swifty were still alive, he'd have been perfect. But I choose you.”

“Well, that's very nice,” Jane said, trying to hide her excitement. “I'm honored.”

Goddess shrugged. “I told you, it was up to Holly.”

Once again Jane felt guilty about all the things she'd thought and said about Holly Griffin.

“Very good,” Jane said. “I'll have Daniel, my assistant, draw up an agreement—”

“Which you'll send to Yves. I never look at paper.”

“All right. I'll need his address, phone number . . .”

“You'll get it. Now what about the book. How does this work?”

“Well, first we find you the perfect ghost—a ghostwriter, I mean.”

“I know what a ghost is,” Goddess said, rolling her eyes. “Go on; I'm listening.”

“And the ghost—with your input, of course—puts together a dynamite proposal, which we show to Corsair first, as I promised Holly and Jack.”

Goddess nodded her approval.

Jane continued, “If Corsair doesn't come up with a satisfactory offer—”

“You mean enough money?”

“Yes, partly, but the offer consists of other—”

“Yeah, yeah. Go on.”

“If we don't like what Corsair offers, we auction the project.”

Goddess sat quietly for a moment. Reaching into the neckline of her Dorothy dress, she withdrew a pendant and started to rub it between her fingers. Why did that pendant look familiar to Jane? Had Goddess been wearing it at Carol Freund's publication party?

Finally, Goddess said, “That all sounds fine, except for the part about the ghostwriter.
I'll
write the book.”

“Dear . . .”

“Don't call me dear.”

“In order to produce a top-quality proposal and book, we really need a professional—”

“I said,” Goddess said slowly, her tone threatening, “I'll—write—it. Let's get something straight. You work for me. I call the shots. Got it?”

Jane controlled herself. “Very well. I'm sure your editor will be more than happy to work with you on—um—shaping the book.”

“There's another thing. I want Corsair to have this book. The money doesn't matter.”

Maybe not to you
.

“Corsair
understands
this book,” Goddess went on. “And after all, it was poor Holly who brought me to you. You should want Corsair to have the book. Where's your sense of justice?”

Jane opened her mouth to respond, but decided it was no use and said nothing.

“I want to meet with this Hamilton Kiels guy at Corsair. Jack Layton told me that's who he's assigned my book to, since Holly's . . . gone.” Goddess giggled. “His nickname is Ham. Isn't that a scream?”

Jane frowned. “When did Jack tell you Hamilton was your new editor?”

“This morning. He called me. Why?”

That sleazeball. “I'll be happy to arrange a meeting. I'll need to be there—for your own protection. I should be at all meetings you have with your publisher.”

“Well, I wouldn't go alone,” Goddess said, as if that were obvious. “What time is it?”

Jane glanced at her watch. “Eleven-forty-five.”

Goddess jumped up. “Gotta fly to the theater. Listen, can you come see me this Saturday? I want to prepare for this meeting. You gotta coach me and stuff. I've got a pied-à-terre on the Upper East Side. Write this down,” she said, and gave Jane an address on East Eighty-second Street. “We'll have lunch. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Jane, who in general was trying to stop working on Saturdays but in this case would gladly make an exception.

The waiter arrived with their food.

“What about your croutons?” Jane asked.

“Can't.” Goddess reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a bill, which she flung onto the table. It was a hundred. “See you Saturday!”

“But this is too much money,” Jane called after her.

Goddess was already down the stairs and crossing the front of the restaurant. “Whatever!” she yelled up to Jane, and hurried out the door. Through the window Jane saw her break into a jog and disappear up the street.

“Unusual girl,” Jane muttered.

“She's a genius, an artist. She's brilliant,” the waiter said, setting down Jane's muffin and fruit. “People like that are allowed to be unusual.” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Didn't you know that?”

Jane didn't know what to say. She gathered her things together and rose to leave.

The waiter was still talking. “That part in
Slick Monkey
when she's running around trying to find her brother's baby . . .” He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Funniest thing I ever saw. I'm telling you, she's a genius!”

“Have a nice day!” Jane called, heading down the stairs.

“Wait!”

Jane turned.

The waiter held up a small object. “You forgot your nail polish!”

“Don't want it,” Jane called to him, and hurried out.

 

On arriving in Shady Hills later that afternoon, Jane decided to stop in at the police station to see Greenberg. He looked genuinely delighted to see her.

“Well, this is a surprise. Sit down, sit down.”

She sat in the extra chair in his tiny cinder-block office. “I've just had brunch with Goddess,” she told him.

“And what was that like?”

“Umm, unusual. She's—well—how would one describe her? Blunt? Bratty? Totally unconcerned with what people say about her? A shoplifter.”

“A
shoplifter
?”

“Yup. Brought me a bottle of nail polish. Desert Sunrise.”

Greenberg stared at her. “She must be one of the richest people in America. Why would she shoplift?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Stanley! You know better than that. Shoplifting has nothing to do with money. People who compulsively steal like that are under terrible emotional strain.”

“That's true,” he said. “I took a course on shoplifting, kleptomania, pickpockets, at County College of Morris. Shoplifters aren't as interested in
what
they steal as they are in the
act
of stealing.”

“That's right.”

“And how did
you
become such an expert on the subject?”

She smiled. “I do a lot of reading.”

He nodded, shrugged. “Just before you got here I spoke to an old friend of mine who's a homicide detective in New York. He knows the guys who are investigating Holly Griffin's murder. They've concluded that the killer was someone acquainted with Holly who knew where her office was.”

Jane snorted. Maybe Goddess was right and the New York police
were
idiots. “Not necessarily. Think about it. It could have been someone who got into the building while the party was going on, someone who wandered the corridors looking for handbags. That's quite common, you know. When I worked for Silver and Payne, my bag was stolen right out of my office that way—and I'd only stepped out to go to the ladies' room! Security at these buildings is very lax.

“So . . . the killer could have been someone there ostensibly to attend the party. He or she could have been an employee of Corsair, someone who knew Holly—a ‘friend,' a boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend—or someone working at the party, like a bartender or caterer, or a complete stranger! Which means that in actuality, the police know nothing at all.”

Greenberg looked taken aback. “I guess you're right.”

“I haven't had a chance to ask you about your interview with Arthur. How'd it go?”

Greenberg laughed, looking at her as if she'd been presumptuous. “I wasn't aware you'd joined the Shady Hills Police Department.”

“Oh, no, you don't,” she said. “You're not getting away with that. It's in for a penny, in for a pound; you're not letting me into this case only partway.” She grinned. “You should have known that once you showed me the cave, you were lost. Besides,
I
was the one who convinced Doris to have Arthur talk to you.”