Hanging Hannah (18 page)

Damn! “That's all right, don't even worry about it. I'll do just fine on my own. Good luck. I'll see you when you get back.”

 

Jane was watching TV with Nick and Winky when the phone rang. Florence picked it up in the kitchen and appeared in the family room a moment later. “Missus,” she said, “it is for you. Detective Greenberg.”

Jane took the phone.

“This may not be the most appropriate time to ask you this,” Greenberg said, “considering what happened to poor Mr. Willoughby this afternoon, but since every time I'm with you, someone seems to die, I thought I'd ask anyway: Can I take you to dinner and a movie tonight?”

Jane felt a rush of delight. “I'd love to. Just let me ask Florence if she'll baby-sit. She's officially off on the weekends. Florence,” she called.

“Yes, missus,” Florence replied from the kitchen.

“If you have no plans for tonight, would you be willing to watch Nick? I'll pay you, of course.”

“Yes, missus, it would be my pleasure.”

Jane got back on the phone. “You're on—and let's hope tonight proves the exception.”

“Definitely. What kind of food are you in the mood for, and what kind of movies do you like?”

“Hmm . . . I like every kind of food, as long as it's cooked—so Japanese is iffy. As for movies, I'm game for anything . . . as long as Goddess isn't in it.”

 

Greenberg picked her up at eight and they went to see a movie in Parsippany, a comedy about inept bank robbers.

“I needed a good laugh,” Jane said in the lobby afterward. “Thank you.”

For dinner they went to a storefront Italian restaurant Greenberg liked in Boonton.

“You know,” he said, spearing a piece of fried cali-mari, “when you think about it, it
is
strange that someone has been murdered two out of the three times we've been together. The woman in the woods . . . Holly . . .”

“And the third time someone died! Poor Mr. Willoughby. It is strange,” Jane agreed. “Do you think I'm bad luck?”

He smiled grimly. “Maybe it's me.”

“We shouldn't talk like this. Goddess said she thought I'd killed Holly, and I nearly choked on my soda.” She shrugged. “It's just bad luck—especially for the people who died! Oops, there I go again. I really have to stop with the gallows humor.”

He laughed, his dark brown eyes warm as he looked at her. “That's one of the things I like about you—your sense of humor. There's too little humor in the world today. At least in
my
world. As for this Goddess . . .” He shrugged, at a total loss. “What do you make of her?”

“What do I make of her? She's a spoiled, rich, talented, rude, arrogant brat. She's also, at the moment, my biggest client. So I guess I shouldn't talk that way about her.”

“It's okay, I won't tell anyone.”

“And I won't tell anyone you've let me in on the case of the hanging girl,” she said, and as soon as she'd said it, she thought about Louise and Ernie, and this made her feel depressed. “Stanley . . . You don't really think Ernie could have killed that poor woman . . . do you?”

He looked at her frankly. “I don't know Ernie well enough to answer that.”

“Typical cop answer.”

He ignored this. “I
can
tell you that, strange as it may seem, no signs of violence were found on the woman's body—no sign of rape; no skin under her fingernails to suggest a struggle; no scrapes, scratches, or bruises anywhere on her body—except those left by the rope, of course. If it weren't for the fact that there was no branch she could have jumped from, and that there was nothing under her feet, it would appear that she committed suicide.”

“But how do we know there
wasn't
something under her feet?” Jane asked. “Maybe there was, but someone came along later and removed it.”

Greenberg frowned. “It's possible, I guess, but far-fetched. That means someone wanted a suicide to look like a murder. What reason would anyone have had to do that? Then there's the makeup on her face. Someone
did
that to her, Jane.”

Jane shivered, though the restaurant was warm. “Let's change the subject—to another murder. Have the New York police learned anything more about Holly Griffin?”

“I spoke to my friend again. He says all they know is that Holly passed her assistant, Jilly, on the way out of the party room and told her she was going to her office to get the framed copy of that writer's book jacket.”

“Carol Freund,” Jane put in. “My client.”

“Right. Holly said she wanted to give it to Carol. So that explains what Holly was doing in her office. But that's all they know so far. The letter opener was smeared with fingerprints, but the only ones the police can identify are Holly's.”

“So in other words,” Jane said, “they still know nothing.” She rolled her eyes. “New York's Finest.”

After dinner he drove her home and walked her to the front door, a true gentleman. There they kissed, a longer kiss than their first, and Jane felt a tingle right to her very core. She thanked him for the fun evening, and waved until he'd backed out of the driveway and driven past the holly hedge on his way down Lilac Way.

Jane staggered across the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria.

It had been a long day. Presenting her workshop on the changing face of romance by herself that morning had been exhausting. Around lunchtime, in front of the hotel, two women reporters from rival TV tabloids, both of whom were professional acquaintances of Jane, got into an argument that turned into an outright brawl, complete with hair-pulling; the fracas ended when they both fell down the stairs and had to be taken away in an ambulance.

One bright moment had been the morning's keynote address by the witty Salomé Sutton, the
New York Times
best-selling author whom many called the inventor of the historical romance.

Jane opened her convention folder and checked the schedule. She grimaced. She couldn't leave yet because she had agreed to participate in two hours' worth of ten-minute one-on-one appointments with writers. Those were set to begin in half an hour. In the meantime she could catch her breath. She spied an empty chair, hurried over to it, and sank into its pillowy softness with a grateful sigh.

“Jane! Jane!”

She looked up. Bertha Stumpf bustled toward her.
Oh please, Lord, have mercy
. . .

“Jane, I've been looking for you!” Bertha was breathing heavily from the exertion of running. She gave Jane a stern look, as if Jane somehow should have known Bertha was looking for her.

“Hello, Bertha. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing's wrong. It's just that I was at the registration desk checking on my bill when I happened to see one of the clerks hand a note to a bellhop. The clerk told the bellhop to page Jane Stuart and give her the note.”

Jane sat up, looking around.

“Don't worry!” Bertha squealed. “I told them I knew you and would save them the trouble. So here it is.” She produced a sealed hotel envelope and handed it to Jane.

“Thank you, Bertha, that was very thoughtful.”

Bertha waited. “Aren't you going to open it?”

Jane sighed. “I suppose I should. I can't imagine who would send me a note.” She was aware of Bertha's nosy gaze as she tore open the envelope and unfolded a sheet of hotel stationery. It was a handwritten note:

“Not bad news, I hope,” Bertha said, craning her neck to read it.

You asked for it
. “No, not bad news at all. Look!” Jane handed Bertha the note.

Bertha's eyes widened in amazement. “Jane! You could represent Salomé Sutton. That's fabulous.” But there was a glint of envy in her puffy eyes.

“Hey,” Jane said, rising, “when you're hot, you're hot!” And she
did
feel hot. First Goddess, now Salomé Sutton. . . . A client like that could do wonders for the agency's reputation. She turned to Bertha. “Thanks again.”

“You're welcome,” Bertha said grumpily.

At that moment three women in full costume wandered past. One wore a sweeping green-velvet antebellum gown. Another wore riding clothes—jodhpurs with a black crop. The third was dressed as a harem girl, her midriff bare. On her head was a jeweled tiara, strangely incongruous.

“What the blazes was that?” Jane said.

“Oh,” Bertha said nonchalantly, “they're on their way to the Fashion of Passion Pageant.”

“The
what
?”

“The Fashion of Passion Pageant. You dress up as the heroine of your favorite historical romance. It's great fun.”

Jane looked Bertha up and down. “I see you're not participating.”

Bertha scoffed at this idea. “I think I'm getting a bit on in years for that kind of thing—though in my slimmer days I did participate in the Pageant as Amber St. Clare from
Forever Amber
.” She turned to the three women. “Now that first one, obviously, is Scarlett O'Hara. The second one . . .” She frowned. “My guess is that she's Leonora Hart, from Rona Peters's
Embrace Till Dawn
. And the third—well, Jane, my dear, you'd
better
know who that is.”

“Why?” Oh, no. “Someone from one of your books?”

“No! It's Delilah Dare, the princess abducted by the sheikh in
Arabian Nights
. You know who wrote
that
, don't you?”

“No, who? You?”

“
Salomé Sutton
!” Bertha gave Jane a smug, know-it-all look. “
Arabian Nights
was the inspiration for my
Casbah
. I even
dedicated
the book to Salomé Sutton. Better do your homework,” she scolded.

“Just did!” Jane said, rising. “See you later.”

“Yeah,” Bertha muttered, and wandered away.

Feeling suddenly energized, Jane tucked Salomé Sutton's note into her folder and hurried toward the elevators. She rode alone to the sixth floor and stepped off. A sign directly in front of her said room 610 was to the left, so she headed in that direction.

She felt a thrill of anticipation. What would she say first? “This is such an honor, Miss Sutton. . . .” “I'm such a fan of your work, Miss Sutton, especially
Arabian Nights
. . . .” “Your keynote address this morning was a pure delight, Miss Sutton. . . .”

She followed a turn in the corridor and spotted the door of number 610. Her heart beat faster.

At that moment she felt a sharp, stinging pain on the top of her head . . . heard from somewhere far away the crashing of glass. Strange dark shapes swam before her eyes, a wave of nausea rose in her throat, and then the whole world went black.

 

“Jane . . . Janey . . .”

She felt as if she were fighting her way up through thick dark mud. If only she could get to the top, open her eyes. If only she could stop the pounding pain in her head.

“Jane Stuart . . .”

At last she managed to open her eyes just a crack—and found herself looking into the face of Bertha Stumpf.

“Jane,” Bertha said softly, “it's me, Bertha. Do you know me?”

“Of course I know you, Bertha,” Jane said, and was surprised at her own slurred speech. “What happened? Where are we?” She was aware now that she was lying on a bed. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a woman's voice paging someone over a loudspeaker.

“You're in the hospital, Jane, New York Hospital,” Bertha said, wincing as if she hated telling Jane this.

“Why?” Jane asked.

Suddenly an obese nurse swung into view. “Excuse me,” she said to Bertha, and took Jane's arm firmly and fastened a blood-pressure cuff around it. “You were mugged, dear.”

“Mugged!”

“ 'Fraid so. But you'll be fine. You have a mild concussion. And Doctor had to take some stitches.”

“But why? What happened?”

Bertha appeared on the other side of the bed. “Jane,” she said gently, “someone hit you over the head with a vase. Then he stole your bag.”

It was hard to think straight because of the pain in her head. Then she remembered. “But . . . I was on my way to see Salomé Sutton.”

Bertha shook her head, a pitying expression on her face. “It was all a ruse, Jane. I'm sorry.”

Jane groaned and shut her eyes. “I should have known it was too good to be true. I feel like such a fool.”

The nurse unfastened the cuff. “Not bad. How're you feeling?”

“Fuzzy.”

The nurse nodded. “Doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation. Just a precaution—I'm sure you'll be fine. But you
were
hit pretty hard.”

Gingerly Jane put a hand to the top of her head and felt roughness, stinging to the touch. “Ouch!”

“That wound'll hurt for a while. But you got off lucky, considering.”

Jane gave a little nod.

“Because your bag had been stolen, no one would have known who you were if it hadn't been for your friend here.”

Bertha nodded proudly. “I couldn't believe what I was seeing! I was still down in the lobby and all of a sudden these two gorgeous EMTs were carrying you out of the elevator on a stretcher! Now,” Bertha said kindly, “who can I call for you, Jane?”

“If you'll dial my house for me, I'd like to talk to Florence, my son's nanny.” She recited the number to Bertha, who punched it out for her and handed her the phone.

“Missus! It is dark already and where are you?”

“Is it dark? I had no idea. Florence, I . . . had a little accident. I'm not hurt, not badly, but I am in the hospital and I won't be coming home till tomorrow.”

“Good Lord! In the hospital! Missus!”

“Now, Florence, please. I don't want you to alarm Nick. I'm fine, really. Please just tell him I had to stay overnight in the city on business, okay?”

Just then there was a click on the line. “Mom?”

“Hello, darling,” Jane said, trying as hard as she could to sound normal.

“Mom, you sound really weird. Where are you?”

“I'm still in the city. I have to stay overnight. Late meeting. I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Nick said. “Bye, Mom.”

There was another click as he hung up.

“I'm still on here, missus. What hospital are you at, in case I need you?”

“New York Hospital.”

“Okay, missus, don't you worry about a thing. I'll see you tomorrow. And feel better now.”

Jane handed Bertha the phone.

“Anyone else?” Bertha asked.

Jane thought a moment. “Yes,” she said, and gave Bertha Greenberg's number.

She told him what had happened.

“I'll be right there,” he said, and hung up before she could say another word.

Again she handed Bertha the phone, and as she did, a wave of sleepiness overcame her. “I feel so tired all of a sudden,” she said.

The nurse reappeared. “We've given you something to help you sleep, dear. Just let it work.” She patted Jane's arm.

Vaguely Jane was aware of Bertha saying good night.

Sometime later she felt a hand take hers, a strong male hand that squeezed hers tight. She heard a man's voice, a familiar voice . . . a voice she liked. But she was so very tired....

 

She opened her eyes. The hospital room was bright with sunlight. Suddenly the curtain at the right side of her bed was whipped back and a nurse, a different one from last night, approached her bed.

“And how are we feeling this morning?”

“Better,” Jane said. “The cut hurts a bit, but the headache's gone.”

“Good. You've got company.”

Greenberg appeared at the foot of the bed. Jane's first thought was that she hoped she looked half-decent. He carried a bouquet of flowers, which he started to hand to her; then he appeared to think better of it, and said, “I'll find a vase for these.”

“That was awfully sweet of you. Sweet of you to come see me, too.”

“I was here last night, too, only you don't remember.”

“I do . . . vaguely.”

He shrugged. “Don't worry about it. The important thing is you're okay. You know,” he said with a little laugh, “when I said everybody around you seems to get hurt, I didn't mean you!”

“But I'm alive,” she pointed out. “I broke the rule.”

“There's that gallows humor again. Now I
know
you're all right.”

“What on earth happened?”

“They didn't tell you?”

“They did, but I'm not sure I remember it all.”

“Someone attacked you in the corridor of the sixth floor at the Waldorf. That note supposedly from Salomé Sutton—it was just a trick to get you upstairs.”

She frowned. “All that just to get my handbag?”

“Sure. Welcome to New York. Did you have anything really valuable in it?”

“No, just a little cash. Oh, my credit cards!”

“You won't be liable, but you'd better cancel them as soon as you can.”

Jane shook her head in wonder. “I still can't believe anyone would go to such lengths to mug someone. And why me?”

“Who knows? You're a successful agent. Someone must have known you were attending the convention and picked you out as a target.”

“I've got it!” she said. “It was some disgruntled writer I rejected. I knew one of them would come at me one day.”

Greenberg laughed. “What an imagination!”

At that moment the nurse reappeared. “Doctor says you can go when you feel up to it.”

“Doctor? Who is this doctor? I've never laid eyes on him.”

“He's been here,” the nurse said cheerfully. “Checked you all over. You were sleeping. You feeling up to getting dressed?”

“Yes.”

Greenberg started for the door. “I'll go get my car and meet you out front. They have to take you down in a wheelchair.”

“All right.” A little shakily, she got out of bed and began putting on her clothes, which were folded neatly on a nearby chair. As she dressed, she reflected that although she would have preferred not to be mugged at all, it was nice to have someone, someone like Stanley, to take her home.