Hanging Hannah (8 page)

He shrugged. “Sure.” He handed it to her, waited.

Jane shined the light onto the floor and crouched again. She held the light close to the blanket and involuntarily drew in her breath. She hoped Greenberg hadn't heard her.

The portion of the blanket within the flashlight's beam displayed a diagonal lattice pattern of small squares of apricot and peach. It was, in fact, not a blanket at all, but a quilt. Louise's missing Irish Chain quilt. She couldn't imagine how it could have gotten there, yet without knowing why, she decided not to mention her discovery to Greenberg.

“What is it?” he asked behind her.

She rose. “Nothing. I thought I saw something else. It was nothing.” She handed back the flashlight.

He turned and started out, and Jane followed. They made their way back through the woods, now deep in cool shadow. They rode in silence back to the village center, where Greenberg drove to the parking lot behind Jane's office building and pulled up alongside her car.

He glanced at his watch. “I'd better get over to my sister's or I'll catch hell.”

She nodded. “Well, thanks for the look.” She felt awkward now, wished she'd never asked him to show her the cave in the first place.

He looked preoccupied, elsewhere. Then he smiled. “Don't forget—”

“I know, don't tell anyone you showed it to me.”

“Right. I guess I'll see you in the morning, with Arthur and Doris.” His face brightened. “And I'll look forward to our next date.”

She gave him a warm smile. “Me too.”

 

“Missus . . . yoo hoo!”

Jane jumped. Across the kitchen table, Florence was looking at her, her smile wide but her eyes concerned. “You don't like my sweet-and-sour pork? My mother made up this recipe. It's one of my favorites.”

“Yeah, Mom.” Nick sat next to Florence, digging into the sauce-drenched meat with gusto. With his free hand he stroked Winky, who sat on the chair next to him—once Kenneth's chair—purring loudly.

“I'm sorry, Florence, it isn't that. It's been a long day.”

Florence shook her head. “All those crazy writers. I don't know how you put up with them.”

Jane laughed. “They're not all crazy. Some of them are actually quite sane. But it's not my writers. I've got something on my mind.”

“What?” Nick asked. “The dead woman?”

Jane had considered asking that they not speak of her again, but then had decided that that wouldn't be wise. She
was
thinking about the dead woman, about the cave deep in the woods with its pathetic litter scraps. About the
People
magazine page . . . About Louise's quilt.

Why had the young woman come to Shady Hills? What had her “wonderful secret” been? Why had she needed to hide until she was ready to approach someone—someone here in town? But who? Someone pictured in the
People
article? If so, it could be anyone: More than a hundred people had appeared in that piece.

“Mom, you
are
thinking about that dead girl,” Nick said, and took another bite of pork. “Who was she, do you think?” He turned to Winky, who sat up straight, no doubt thinking she was about to get a handout. “Wink, you know who she was, don't you?”

“How silly,” Florence said.

Nick turned to her. “She's smarter than you think. Cats know things we can't even imagine.”

“Such foolishness,” Florence scoffed. She shivered violently. “I don't think we should talk about that woman anymore. We should leave all that to the police.”

But mention of the police made Jane think of Greenberg, of visiting the cave, of meeting Doris and Arthur at the station in the morning.

While Nick turned back to Winky, Florence shot Jane a look that said, “Let's change the subject.”

“Yes,” Jane said. “We have many other things to worry about. Like homework.”

Nick slumped in his chair. “Blech.”

“Never mind blech,” Jane said. “You still have to finish that report on Sussex County. Have you finished gathering your information?”

Nick shrugged indifferently. “No. I'll get it tonight off the Internet.”

“All right. I'll help you.”

“And what about the New Jersey cake?” Florence asked. “Aren't we supposed to
bake
Sussex County?”

Nick slammed down his fork. “Have you ever heard of anything so stupid?” he said, his eyes bulging so that he looked the way Kenneth always looked when he was exasperated. “What's the point of baking a cake in the shape of Sussex County? What do we
learn
from that?”

“You learn the counties of New Jersey, obviously,” Jane said. “The cake makes it fun. And when you have fun learning something, you're more likely to really learn it and remember it.”

Nick gave her a distasteful look. “Mom, you sound like some kind of textbook or something. Well,” he said with a sigh, “I'm not baking any counties.”

“No one asked you to,” Florence said. “I will bake Sussex. I have the mix and everything.” She looked slightly embarrassed. “Normally I would not use a mix”—she spoke as if doing so were a sacrilege—“but for this project I think it is okay, and besides we are in a hurry.” Nick hadn't told Florence and Jane he needed a cake in the shape of Sussex County until that morning. “But I'll need that template Mrs. Arnold gave you,” Florence went on.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said. “It's with my stuff in my backpack.” He put down his fork and got up, heading for the green backpack leaning against the kitchen wall near the back hall.

Florence smiled at Jane and shook her head.

In actuality, Jane had wondered more than once why Mrs. Arnold couldn't have simply had the children color a map of New Jersey's counties, but one never undermined the teacher. So she jumped up, full of enthusiasm. “I'll clear the table and load the dishwasher, Florence. You and Nick can start on Sussex.”

“Thanks, missus. This will be fun.” But as soon as Nick had left the kitchen in search of scissors for cutting out the template, Florence's face grew troubled again, and Jane had no doubt as to the subject of her thoughts.

Later that night, as Jane lay in bed, eyes shut as she waited for sleep, the Irish Chain pattern of Louise's quilt appeared before her.
How had the quilt gotten into the cave
? She didn't want to know. In fact, she wished she had never recognized it. But it was her own fault; she'd asked Greenberg to take her to the cave.

She drifted closer to sleep, then remembered something, and her eyes popped open. She'd forgotten to call Doris. She checked her bedside clock. It was a little after eleven. She grabbed the phone and dialed Doris's number. Doris answered on the first ring.

“Doris, I'm sorry to call you so late. I did speak with Greenberg. He said he'd like to ask Arthur some questions. He wants Arthur at the station at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. I'll meet you both there at twenty past.”

“All right,” Doris said.

“Oh, and Doris—” Jane said uneasily. “He said that if Arthur doesn't show up, he'll have to have him picked up and brought in.”

“He'll show up,” Doris said.

At 8:15 the next morning Jane pulled into the parking lot of the Shady Hills Police Station, a one-story glass-and-brick building about a mile from the village center on Packer Road. Doris was already there; Jane recognized her tan Buick. Doris and Arthur got out of the car as soon as they saw Jane arrive. Jane got out and approached them.

Arthur was of medium height and of average build. He was a pleasant-looking man, with dark brown hair neatly trimmed and parted on the side, and large hazel eyes. He wore chinos and an olive-colored nylon windbreaker. Doris introduced him to Jane and she took his hand.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

“My pleasure, Arthur. I'm sure it will be fine.”

Doris looked at her watch. “It's almost time. Should we go in?”

“Yes, all right.” Jane forced a reassuring smile and led the way to the station entrance. Inside she told the desk sergeant that Arthur was there to see Detective Greenberg.

While they waited, Doris turned to Jane. “Thanks, Jane. You don't have to wait with us. We'll be fine.”

“That's all right,” Jane said, but at that moment Greenberg appeared, smiling a small official-looking smile.

Jane introduced Doris and Arthur.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stuart,” Greenberg said. “Arthur, will you come with me, please?”

Arthur shot Doris an apprehensive glance. She smiled and nodded quickly to reassure him, but her smile disappeared as soon as Arthur had turned to follow Greenberg.

Jane took Doris's arm and walked with her out of the building to the parking lot.

“Thank you, Jane.”

“My pleasure, Doris. Would you like to get a cup of coffee or something?”

“No.” Doris glanced at the police station. “I'll wait out here until they're finished. Then I have to drive Arthur to the Senior Center.”

“There's a place to wait inside,” Jane suggested.

“No, I'll wait in my car.”

Jane watched Doris walk slowly to the Buick and get in. Doris raised a hand in a halfhearted wave. Jane waved back, got into her own car, and pulled back onto Packer Road, turning left toward the village center and her office.

When she arrived, Daniel was cursing at the new database again. She dropped some manuscripts she had read last night onto the reject pile on the credenza by the window, then turned to poor Daniel and couldn't help laughing.

“I'm glad
you
think this is funny,” he said. “I'm beginning to think you were right. Maybe we should go back to the way things were.”

She gaped at him. “I wasn't
serious
! We spent thousands of dollars on that program. It will more than—”

“More than pay for itself, I remember.”

“Why don't you let me input some data, or whatever you call what you're doing?”

“I call what I'm doing getting frustrated.”

“Well, please don't. It's not worth it. I can always get the money back.”

He considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “No, we just need to get comfortable with it.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “Any calls?”

He smiled slyly. “Holly Griffin about lunch today.”

Jane groaned. Daniel knew how much Jane disliked Holly, the embodiment of everything Jane hated in an editor. Holly was arrogant yet dumb, far more interested in office politics than in books, completely untrustworthy, and a master brown-noser. But editors weren't what they once were, Jane often had to remind herself, and if she submitted books only to the editors she respected, she'd be out of business fast. So Jane did submit manuscripts to Holly, manuscripts like Carol Freund's
Relevant Gods
. Jane had squeezed a hundred thousand dollars out of Holly—quite a coup for Jane, and for Carol, a former schoolteacher from Northampton, Massachusetts.

Though Holly didn't like to admit it, she was excited about
Relevant Gods
, truly a remarkable novel, and had rushed it for publication in June. That was next month. Corsair was throwing its publication party for Carol this Thursday, in two days. That party, Jane remembered, would be her next date with Stanley Greenberg. Today Jane and Holly were supposed to have lunch so Holly could give Jane the final party details.

Lunch with Holly was the last thing Jane needed now, but she was curious about Corsair's party plans, and she knew that if she canceled, Holly would just doggedly pursue Jane until she agreed to make a new lunch date.

“Please call her and tell her I'll meet her wherever she wants, and to let me know the time.”

“She's already left all that in her message. Twelve-thirty at the Russian Palace.”

Jane groaned again. She should have known Holly would choose that restaurant, which Jane disliked almost as much as she disliked Holly. The Russian Palace was a pretentious, overpriced, overcrowded, noisy tourist trap. But at least Holly would be paying; the editor always paid.

Jane realized she wasn't liking many people or places lately. With a deep sigh, she headed into her office, where she jotted down answers to a list of questions Daniel had left her about a contract he was vetting for one of his own clients. At 10:45, when she could put it off no longer, she rose heavily from her chair and headed out of the office for the bus that would take her into New York City.

 

“Jane! Jane!”

Jane squinted into the crowd of people who filled the narrow red-and-gold expanse of the Russian Palace's dining room. Finally, she spotted Holly at a table near the back and told the maître d' she saw her party and would make her own way.

Holly was half standing at the tiny table, waving furiously and wearing a big grin. Jane forced a grin of her own. The two women exchanged air kisses, and Jane set down her bag and dropped into the empty chair, careful not to bang into the man in the chair just behind her.

“Why don't they just stack us up,” she said dryly, “like a totem pole.”

“Ooh,” Holly said, “in a bad mood today, aren't we?”

Jane stared at Holly. Something was different. A lot was different. Then Jane realized it was her hair, which, the last time Jane had seen it—at their last lunch here, actually—had been curly, shoulder-length, and medium brown. Now it was straight and a shiny darker brown, almost black, cut in a severe sort of sharp pageboy that reminded Jane of Claudette Colbert in
Cleopatra
.

Without realizing it, Jane must have been staring, because Holly stroked one shiny wing. “Like it?” she purred.

“It's very different from last time,” was all Jane could think to say. She wasn't going to lie and say she liked it, because she didn't, any more than she liked Holly. She was here, she reminded herself, for Carol Freund. She simply had to get through it.

“Know who did it?” Holly said, leaning forward.

“No.”

“Hec-tor,” Holly said, with exaggerated pronunciation, “at Snip Snip.”

Jane had to laugh. She tossed back her own shoulder-length auburn mass of hair. “Joanie. At Selma's Cut ‘n Curl.”

Holly frowned, pushing out her lower lip. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Moi? Never. Now,” Jane said, ready to change the subject, “how are things at Corsair?”

“Totally fabu!” Holly cried. Suddenly her head turned as if someone had snapped it with a rubber band. She gasped. “That's Mort Janklow.” She slitted her eyes and made an angry pouting mouth. “He's having lunch with Ham Kiels.”

“So?”

“So,” Holly said, turning back to Jane, “Hamilton Kiels works at Corsair, like me, and he's only a senior editor. I'm
executive
editor.” She looked thoughtful. “I wonder why he wouldn't have lunch with
me
. He said he didn't have anything for me.”

Jane shrugged. “Maybe he was being honest—he doesn't have any projects right for you.”

“Oh, yeah, but he has some that are right for Ham Sandwich over there.” Holly sneered in Ham's direction. “We all work for the same company. What's right for Ham is right for me.” She looked at Jane as if she'd had an epiphany. “He just didn't want to have lunch with
me
! What am I, chopped liver?” She cocked an eyebrow. “That's very shortsighted of Mort. One day I'll be running Corsair. Then he'll be sorry.”

“I'm sure he will, Holly. But in the meantime, you're here with me.”

“Mm, right.” Holly shrugged petulantly, heaved a great sigh, and gazed despondently down at her menu.

“You were telling me that things at Corsair are, um, fabu,” Jane coaxed.

“Right,” Holly said, mustering some of her former enthusiasm. She smiled. “And the reason they're so fabu is the party we're throwing for
your
Carol Freund. Jane, I'm telling you, it's going to be the biggest event of the year. And I take all the credit for that.”

“Thank you, Holly,” Jane said, because she knew that's what she was supposed to say.

“You're welcome. You're gonna love it. My decision to have it at our offices was a touch of genius. The media people think it's brilliant. Did you see Liz Smith? She called it ‘intellectual chic.' ”

“Did she?”
Please, time, pass quickly. This is worse than lunch with Bertha
.

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” Holly said with gusto. “And it will be.” Her eyes grew widely innocent. “I do hope Carol likes what we're doing for her book.”

“She's
thrilled
,” Jane said. “She never dreamed she'd receive such treatment.”

“Have you seen the reviews? I had Jilly send them to you.”

“Yes, they're—fabu!” Jane said. “
Publishers Weekly
gave it—”

“A
starred
review,” Holly finished for her. “Which I like to think is due in large part to my editing. And the
Kirkus
! They weren't nasty at all!” Her face grew pensive. “I wonder if my affair with—Never mind.” Her head snapped to the left again as a tall, thin woman with skunk-striped hair sauntered past their table. Holly fairly jumped out of her seat. “Jana! Jana!” The skunk-striped woman turned to look at Holly, her face registering absolutely nothing. “Holly Griffin!” Holly chirped brightly, and the woman just turned and walked on.

Jane could stand it no more. She'd manufacture a headache in a few minutes, even ask Holly if she had any Tylenol. She waited, taking a sip of her water.

A waitress appeared and asked if they wanted something from the bar. Holly asked for Perrier and lime, and Jane said she'd have the same. When the waitress was gone, Holly turned to Jane, eyes gleaming. She looked like a crazed tiger.

“Holly, what is it?”

“I swear I'll burst if I don't tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“I have a wonderful surprise for you, Jane Stuart.”

Jane waited. The waitress arrived with their Perrier, and Jane took a sip, watching Holly.

“Well,” Holly said, “don't you want to know what it is?”

“Of course! What is it?” It probably had something to do with someone else Holly had slept with to get a good review for Carol's book.

“Okay,” Holly said, wiggling in her chair. “Okay. I'm bringing a very special guest to Carol's party. Someone who wants to do a book and needs an agent. This . . . person asked me who she should consider, and I told her the
only
agent to even consider is Jane Stuart.”

Jane frowned at Holly skeptically.

Holly waited, watching Jane carefully.

“Well?” Holly finally blurted out. “Aren't you going to ask me who it is?”

Jane set down her drink. “All right. Who is it?”

Holly's eyes grew even wider and she leaned closer to Jane. “Goddess!”

A woman at the next table turned at the sound of the name. Jane could only stare at Holly. Jane must have misheard her. “Goddess?” Jane repeated.

Holly's head bobbed up and down. She was positively gleeful.

Jane continued to stare. This couldn't be true.

Goddess was one of America's—indeed, the world's—hottest stars.
Newsweek
had called her “Madonna and then some.”

Everyone knew who Goddess was. Goddess was a phenomenon. No one was exactly sure how old she was, but she couldn't have been more than twenty-five. She had burst into the public consciousness two years ago when she starred in an underground sleeper of a film called
Doing It
, in which she played herself—the daughter of Viveca and Carl Hamner. Carl Hamner was the founder and chairman of Hamner Global, makers of the world's best-selling running shoe, the Hammer. Goddess, whose real name Jane had read was Katherine, had publicly stated that she hated and rejected her parents, and in
Doing It
she ridiculed them by having brutal sex with a man inside a gigantic scale model of the Hammer. Even the movie's title was a parody of Hamner Global's slogan, “Go ahead and do it!”

Since
Doing It
, the multitalented Goddess had starred in several more hit films, recorded a number of international hit songs (and sexually graphic videos to go with them), and appeared on Broadway in a one-woman show called
Goddess of Love
. It was still running, one of the city's most popular shows. Tickets were virtually impossible to get. It seemed anything Goddess did, the world wanted to see.

Holly stared at Jane, waiting for a reaction. Jane didn't know what to say. Could this be true?

“Well?” Holly said at last. “What do you think of
that
?”