Hanging Hannah (6 page)

Doris's hands shook nervously as she fingered the collar of her fluffy white cardigan—a sweater Jane remembered seeing Doris knitting at the club.

“As I told you, Arthur grew up here,” Doris went on. “He knew a place to show her. He walked with her into town, then took her down Plunkett Lane all the way to Hadley Pond. From there he led her into the woods beside the pond to a cave where he used to play when he was a little boy. He said she was delighted. He told her to wait there while he went into town for the map she wanted and some food. He walked back into town and bought a map and some sandwiches and soda, and brought it all back to her. She thanked him, and he asked her if she needed anything else. She said no, so Arthur left her there and returned to work.”

“Didn't he think all this was strange?” Jane asked. “Why didn't he say anything to anyone?”

“Because she had told him it was her ‘secret,' ” Doris reminded Jane. “He wanted to honor that. Arthur's a good boy. He just doesn't . . . question things like that.”

Jane waited, watching the older woman.

“That was the last he saw of her,” Doris said. “He knows she was the same woman we found behind the inn yesterday. He recognized the newspapers' description of her dress and also of the girl herself. Who else could it be?

“Arthur's in a panic. He's terrified. Jane,” Doris said, leaning forward on the desk, her wrinkled face pleading, “Arthur didn't kill that woman. Arthur couldn't hurt another person; it's simply not in his nature. But he's afraid the police will think he did it. And he
was
in the cave with her for a moment, while he showed it to her, and the police—well, these days they seem to have all kinds of ways of knowing who's been where.” She frowned, as if she disapproved of such methods. “Also, Arthur isn't certain he wasn't seen walking with her on Cranmore. A lot of cars do pass by.”

“Doris,” Jane said, remembering Nick's theories, “what makes you think the woman was killed by another person?”

Doris sat up, shocked at this question. “What are you talking about? We
found
her hanging there. Jane, what the devil are you talking about?”

“To me it looked like simple suicide,” Jane said innocently. “She hanged herself.”

Doris gave her a look of amused disdain. “For someone
People
magazine called North Jersey's Miss Marple, you're not very observant. There was nothing under that poor girl's feet—no rock, no nothing. Jane, that girl was strung up! And the sicko who did it smeared that makeup all over her face.”

Jane, taken aback, sat up straight in her chair. “All right. Makeup aside, how do we know she didn't put the noose around her neck and jump from a branch of the tree?”

Doris shook her head firmly. “Something else you didn't look at very closely. There were no branches she could have jumped from—all the other branches were much too high on the tree.”

“Doris,” Jane asked searchingly, “why . . . how could you have studied all of this closely, and in so little time? We couldn't have been there more than half a minute before we got the children out of there.”

Doris was unruffled by this question. “You forget I was a schoolteacher for forty-five years, Jane. When you're a teacher you have to notice everything or you're lost.” She gave a little chuckle. “I think you're the one who has to work on her observation skills.”

Jane forced a smile. “North Jersey's Miss Marple was
People
magazine's name for me, not mine. I have no interest in detective work.”

Doris shrugged indifferently. “Be that as it may, anyone with eyes and half a brain could see that girl was murdered.”

Jane knew Doris too well to be insulted. “Well, here's a question from my half brain: Couldn't the girl have used something to stand on, which someone else later took away?”

Doris stared at her. “
If
she had, why would anyone have taken it away? You mean someone who found her before we did?”

“Possibly.”

“But
why
?” Doris repeated. “To make a suicide look like murder—what reason could anyone have to do such a thing?”

“I don't know. I'm just putting forward all theories.”

Doris waved this all away with a flip of her hand. “I think you
do
have an interest in detective work, Jane. But you're lousy at it. The important point is that it's clear someone killed that girl, and it wasn't my Arthur.”

“So he says.”

“I told you,” Doris blurted out, “he could never do such a thing. Besides, why would he have told me about it in the first place if he'd hurt her?”

“To cover himself!
That
's pretty obvious.” A thought occurred to Jane. “Doris, why have you told me all this?”

Doris looked down at her hands. “Because, believe it or not, Jane, you're the most sensible friend I have.”

Jane bit her tongue at this backhanded compliment.

Doris went on, “I need advice about what to do now—
if
I should do anything. And I have to admit you did a pretty good job of putting two and two together when your Marlene disappeared.”

Jane had to smile. “Despite my being lousy at detective work, eh? But that involved a murder case, Doris, and you've just insisted that Arthur is incapable of hurting anyone.”

Again Doris looked down. She mumbled something.

“Excuse me? I didn't hear you.”

Doris met Jane's gaze. “Maybe . . . maybe I'm not so sure.”

Jane gaped at Doris. “Then you think Arthur
could
have done it?”

“I don't really think that, Jane, not really. I think he's an innocent man who may be blamed for this. But if there's any chance that he might have done it, then he would have to be . . . dealt with, wouldn't he? He would have to be stopped from hurting other people.”

“Yes, he would,” Jane said. Doris had tears in her eyes now, and Jane's heart went out to her. “Doris, whatever really happened, you have to go to the police. They'll want to question Arthur. Especially if someone driving on Cranmore did see him with that girl, wouldn't it be better for Arthur to come forward than for them to find out and go after him? I'm sure that, as you say, he's not capable of hurting anyone, but he can no doubt provide some clues to her identity.”

“You're right, Jane. I'm going to tell Arthur we have to go to the police. I suppose I knew all along that that was what we had to do. I just needed to hear it from someone whose judgment I respect. Jane,” Doris said, her eyes beseeching, “will you go to the police with us? You know that Detective Greenberg. I saw him speaking to you at the inn.”

“Of course I'll go with you. But you must be aware that the police will want to question Arthur alone.”

“I know, but until that moment, he—and I—could use your . . . moral support.”

“Maybe I can give you more than that,” Jane said. “If you like, I'll speak to Detective Greenberg first about Arthur and his story.”

“Oh, yes, I'd like you to do that,” Doris said eagerly.

Jane rose and Doris followed suit, Jane leading the older woman toward the office door. Before opening it, Jane said, “I'll call him this afternoon. And I'll meet you at the police station whenever you and Arthur go.”

“Thank you, Jane. If Detective Greenberg gives you a time, you just let me know and we'll be there.”

“All right. I'll call you right after I speak to him.” She opened the door and Doris preceded her into the reception room. Daniel looked up, his face composed, but Jane saw the consternation in his dark eyes.

“Good-bye, Daniel,” Doris murmured to him, then looked back at Jane. “Good-bye, Jane. Thank you.” And looking older and more frail than Jane had ever seen her look, she walked slowly to the door and let herself out.

Jane watched two of the lights on her phone flash, heard Daniel answer one, put the call on hold, and take the other. Her intercom beeped.

“Bill Haddad on one,” came Daniel's mellow voice, “and Bertha Stumpf on two.”

Though Jane had liked Bill's proposal quite a bit, she just couldn't deal with Bill right now. Extremely insecure despite his considerable talent, he needed a lot of stroking—something Jane was in no mood to do. “I'll call Bill back,” she told Daniel. “What does Bertha want?”

“She says it's about the RAT convention.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Ask her what about it, and tell her we're sending the photos and bios, if that's what she's calling about.”

“Will do,” Daniel replied cheerfully, and the intercom light went out.

She stared at the pile of work on her desk, but it soon blurred, to be replaced by a collage of haunting images.

A pretty young woman walking along a country road, excited about a “wonderful surprise.”

A young woman waiting in a cave for a kind stranger to return with food and drink.

A young woman walking at the edge of the deep woods behind Hydrangea House, peering out at the trees . . . an outsider looking in....

A young woman hanging by her neck from a tree, her face garishly made up.
CLOWN GIRL
. . .

Jane shook herself. It was all too awful to contemplate. She thought about poor Doris, so worried about Arthur, whom she had never mentioned in all the years Jane had known her, in all the meetings of the Defarge Club they had attended together. Surely she couldn't be ashamed of or embarrassed by Arthur because he was retarded. No, Doris was too enlightened to feel that way. Then why
had
she never mentioned him? Was it perhaps because he wasn't at all the kind, easygoing sort Doris had just painted a picture of? Did he have some history of violence that made Doris now think he
could
have hurt that poor girl? As Nick had reminded Jane, it was she herself who had said never to trust the way things appear—a sad way to have to live, but especially necessary nowadays.

There was a soft knock, and Daniel came in with the mail. He walked to Jane's desk, searched for a clear spot, and placed the stack at the extreme right edge. Then he scrutinized Jane, his eyes narrowed.

She looked up and met his gaze. “What?”

“Anything you'd like to talk about?”

Jane smiled. Now that Kenneth was gone, Daniel knew her better than anyone. Or was she simply that transparent? Doris's visit alone would have made Daniel wonder what was going on.

Jane did confide most everything to Daniel, and he never betrayed her confidence. She nodded, and he sat down facing her. Slowly, trying to recall every detail, she told him what Doris had said. When she was finished, he sat looking more shocked than she would have expected.

“Wow,” he said slowly. “Doris's nephew might have done that to that poor girl.”

“Doris doesn't think so,” Jane said. “Or at least she says she doesn't think so. I've never met this Arthur, have you?”

“No, but I've seen him.”

“Really? Where?”

He thought for a moment, rising. “The last time would have been about a year ago. He was at the church bazaar with Doris. That's coming up soon, you know. You going?”

“Of course! Who in Shady Hills misses the church bazaar?”

“Laura loves it,” Daniel said at the door.

“Tell her to buy jewelry from Rob.”

“I've seen his jewelry,” Daniel said with a smile. “Even in friendship, there's a limit.” He was laughing to himself as he went out.

She had to laugh, too. Rob's stuff was pretty awful. She kept to her work, called Bill Haddad, duly stroked him, vetted two contracts, rejected some manuscripts, and when she wasn't thinking about work, she tried to force herself to think about the church bazaar instead of Arthur. But she knew she was just procrastinating, and remembering one of Kenneth's favorite sayings, “Do the worst first!” she picked up the phone, called the police station, and asked to speak to Detective Greenberg.

“Mrs. Stuart,” he said brightly. “What can I do for you?”

“This is very awkward. I don't know quite how to say it. It's about that poor girl we found in the woods on Sunday. I have something to speak to you about, but I'd really rather do it in person. May I come over to your office and see you?”

“I have a better idea. Why don't I meet you at Whipped Cream. That would be more convenient for you, wouldn't it?”

“Yes—it would,” she said, surprised, “but I really don't mind—”

“No, let's meet there. What time is good for you? It's four-thirty now. Shall we say five?”

“Yes, that will be fine. I'll see you there.”

Bewildered, she hung up and then called home.

“Florence, I have to do something on my way home from work, so I'll be about an hour late. Is that all right?”

“Yes, missus, not a problem at all,” Florence replied. “But, missus, I don't know what to do with this crazy cat!”

“Winky? What is she doing?”

“What is she doing! She is still running around this house like a ball in a pinball machine, that's what! And when I go near her to pick her up and pet her, she goes even crazier! I think you really should take her to the veterinarian.”

“All right.” Jane heaved a great sigh. A visit to the veterinarian was the last thing she needed right now. But she did love Winky, who was, after all, a member of their small family, and something was definitely wrong with her. “Florence, let's watch her for one more day. If she's still bouncing around tomorrow, I'll make an appointment at the vet.”

“Okay, missus, you're the boss,” Florence said, but it was clear from the tone of her voice that she disapproved. “We'll see you about six, six-thirty, then?”

“Yes. How's Nick? Doing his homework?”

“Yes, he is right here at the kitchen table. For language arts he must write an ad, and I helped him decide what it will be for.”

“Really?”

“ ‘Trinidad!' ” Florence recited. “ 'Treasure of the blue Caribbean!' ”

Jane heard Nick giggle in the background. “That's very good, Florence. I especially like the alliteration.”

“Exactly!”

“Just make sure
he
writes it, okay?”

“Got it, missus,” Florence said cheerfully, and hung up.

 

Twenty minutes later, Jane was at her table at Whipped Cream. The shop was always quiet at the end of the workday, and since George was always gone by four, Ginny poured them both big mugs of coffee and sat down with Jane.

“Ginny, you don't look so hot today,” Jane said. “Long day?”

“Thanks a lot,” Ginny said.

“Ginny!” Jane chided her. “You know what I mean. Is something bothering you?”

Ginny lowered her gaze. “Actually, I've been crying off and on all day.”

“About that girl?”

“No, though I am sad and creeped out about that. It's Rob. Yesterday we drove to a craft show in Flemington, and on the way back we had a heart-to-heart.”

“Ah. Whose idea was that?”

“Mine, of course.”

“And what came out of his heart that upset you?”

“He doesn't want to get married, doesn't see the point.” Ginny's eyes welled with tears.

“Doesn't see the point! How about love, children . . .”

“That's just it. He doesn't want children. So if we're not going to have children, and we know we love each other, why get married?”

“Says Rob?”

“Says Rob.”

“But you
do
want children, Ginny. And—forgive me—but
do
you love him?”

Ginny was quiet for a long time. Then, “I don't know, Jane,” she said, meeting Jane's gaze. “I don't know.”

“Sweetie, if you don't know, something's wrong.”

“That's true,” Ginny said, gaze lowered. A tear rolled down her cheek and plopped into her coffee. “Ick.” She laughed, wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I know, Jane, it's what you've been telling me for some time now: Something's gotta give. Rob and I, we—have problems. We're always fighting. We want different things. He seems to want only to be left alone. I don't know if he even wants me around anymore. It's not like you and Kenneth—” She caught herself. “Oh, Jane, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be silly, Ginny. That was very sweet of you to say.
You
didn't kill Kenneth. And you're right, what we had was special. I want that for you.”

Ginny gave her a grateful smile and pressed her hand down on top of Jane's.

“Now let's talk about you,” Ginny said. “Since when do you hang around here at a quarter to five?”

Jane couldn't suppress a giggle. “Since I've started meeting with police detectives!”

“What?”

“It's the oddest thing. I needed to speak to Detective Greenberg about—about what happened at Louise's on Sunday, and when I asked if I could come see him, he suggested we meet here instead.”

“Oh, Jane!” Ginny said, her eyes aglow.

“Oh, Jane, what?” Jane said, feigning innocence.

“This is so romantic. I know all about him.”

“You do?”

Ginny nodded eagerly. “He's never been married. He lives here in town. He had a girlfriend he used to bring by here once in a while—that was maybe two years ago. It was that woman who used to work as a hostess at Eleanor's. But they must have broken up. One day they just stopped coming. And she must have moved away, because around that time she left her job at Eleanor's, too.”

Eleanor's was the nicest restaurant in town, a converted gristmill on the Morris River, not far from the village center. Jane remembered the woman Ginny was talking about, a lovely woman about Jane's age who had always been friendly and gracious to Jane when she'd gone there for lunch or dinner.

“Very promising,” Ginny said, neatening the table.

“Why?”

Ginny leaned forward. “Why do you
think
, Jane? Why do you think he wants to meet you here?”

“Because it's so romantic?” Jane said in a deadpan voice.

Ginny frowned defensively. “It's more romantic than the police station. What time is he coming?”

“Five.”

Ginny checked her watch. “That's in five minutes. Fix your hair.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“It's”—Ginny fumbled for words—”squashed. Fluff it up or something.”

“For goodness' sake!” Jane said, but she did throw back her head and fluff her hair by running her fingers up through it. “Such foolishness. Is that better? How's my lipstick?”

“Fine. Yipes, here he is!” Ginny shot up from the table and stood to one side like a soldier with a coffeepot.

Jane looked up just as Greenberg entered the shop. He really was quite attractive. He looked around the shop and when he saw Jane he broke into a smile. It occurred to Jane that he was like a little boy, knowing he shouldn't smile because this was serious business, but unable to stop himself.

“Mrs. Stuart,” he said, shaking her hand, and dropped into the chair Ginny had just vacated. Ginny, with a wink at Jane over Greenberg's head, approached the table. “Can I get you something?” she asked sweetly.

“Uh, tea, please,” he said, and with a nod Ginny went off to get it.

Jane didn't know quite how to begin, but she didn't have to, because he looked at her with a devilish grin and said, “You're probably wondering why I've called you here today.”

She laughed. “Well . . . yes.”

“I know it's not very professional. I don't even know what it is you want to tell me. But I have a confession to make—a personal one.”

She waited, frowning slightly in surprise.

“When you came to see me last October, I was . . . very impressed with you. I didn't know if you—I want to—”

Jane, delighted, burst into her own big smile. “You wanted to ask me out?”

He blushed. “Well, yeah.”

“Then why didn't you?”

“Because this big bad old police detective is a coward!” He laughed.

She shook her head. “Consider this our first date.”

He actually blushed, looking as happy as a child with a new toy. Jane realized that Ginny had emerged from the kitchen just in time to hear what Jane had said. Ginny's mouth was open, her eyes wide, in an expression of amazed delight.

“Here we are,” Ginny said, now the total professional, and set down Greenberg's tea. “Would you like anything with that? A piece of cake? Some cookies? We also have salads and sandwiches if you like.”

“No, thanks,” he said, smiling up at her. “I'm having dinner at my sister's tonight.”

Ginny left them alone.

Greenberg turned to Jane. “You may remember I mentioned my sister to you last fall. You spoke to her reading group.”

“I most certainly do remember. I also recall that you had a novel you wanted me to look at. Well?”

“Well . . . what?”

“Where is it?”

He blushed again. “It's in my desk drawer in my apartment.” He shook his head. “It's no good, not good enough to show.”

“Have you finished it?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Well, I guarantee you'll never get anywhere with it unless you finish it. Publishers—at least the ones I sell to—aren't interested in half-finished books. Unless, of course, you're Jane Austen or Louisa May Alcott or Charles Dickens.”