Icing Ivy (11 page)

She regarded him through the door, tiny and shrunken in brown corduroy pants and a hooded red sweatshirt. He looked back at her, his thin lips set firmly. She believed he was lying. Why she believed this, she couldn't say.

“Mr. Ives, do you know it's a crime to lie to the police?”

“But you're
not
the police!” he said, and let out an ugly cackle. “Besides, I'm not lying. Why would I lie?”

He narrowed one eye. “Listen, if you're smart, you'll go talk to that vamp Carla. Everyone saw how she and Johnny were carrying on. Carla and Ivy probably had an argument about him, and Carla killed Ivy. Simple. And you know that Carla has a mean temper. You saw how mad she got when Ivy dropped that coffee in her lap.”

Suddenly he turned and looked back into the house. “I hear my great-granddaughter. She's up from her nap. Now leave us alone!”

And he shut the door in her face.

I
t was noon when Jane pulled into the parking lot of the Shady Hills Diner on Route 46. It occurred to her that Florence, who had agreed to watch Nick, might be wondering where she was, so she called home on her cell phone. Nick answered. He and Florence were having lunch. The big news was that Winky, who hadn't ventured much out of the laundry room since giving birth, had just made a brief appearance in the kitchen.

Entering the diner, Jane found herself face-to-face with a glass case of revolving pies—Mississippi mud and lemon meringue and gooey, glistening pecan. It occurred to her that something sickeningly sweet would feel very good right now, after the upset of the past few days; but she fought this urge, knowing that such an indulgence would only succeed in putting back some of the weight she'd recently lost.

“One?” the hostess asked her.

“Yes,” Jane replied, wrenching her gaze from the pies. “Is Carla here?”

“Carla? Sure, she's right over there.” The hostess pointed.

Carla stood at a large table, taking an order. She wore a tight pale blue uniform. Her ash-blond hair, still parted in the middle, was pulled back into a tight bun, accentuating her beak of a nose. At that moment she glanced up and saw Jane; she registered no emotion and immediately returned her gaze to her order pad.

“I need to speak with her,” Jane said.

The woman frowned. “Well, as you can see, she's on duty. I can sit you at one of her tables if you like.”

“Yes, that would work. Thank you.”

The hostess seated Jane at a table for two only a few feet from where Carla stood. Carla was just finishing taking the orders from the occupants of the large table. Turning, she stepped directly over to Jane's table, as if she'd seen her sit down with eyes in the back of her head.

“Why do I get the feeling you're not here for a cheeseburger deluxe?”

“Hello, Carla.”

Carla waited, pad and pen in hand.

“I would like a cheeseburger deluxe, actually. But cheddar, please, not American. With a Diet Coke. I'd also like to talk to you.”

“Can't. I'm on duty.”

“Carla, speak to me or speak to the cops. I'm told I should be speaking to you about Ivy's murder.”

With a sudden smooth movement Carla slipped into the chair facing Jane's and leaned forward. “Listen, Jessica Fletcher, I know exactly what you're thinking. I would have liked nothing better than to kill Ivy when she spilled that coffee on me. But I'm no murderer.” She gave a self-satisfied little smirk. “And I certainly don't need to commit murder to get the guys I want.”

“Quite the mantrap, aren't you?” Jane said, moving her head suavely from side to side, mocking Carla's smug tone.

Carla sat up, embarrassed. “So are you gonna get out of here, or what?”

Jane frowned in shock. “Get out of here? You haven't even brought me my lunch. Now, as I was saying, if you want to avoid getting a visit from a member of the Shady Hills Police Department, you'd better talk to me. It won't take long.”

Carla waited.

Jane said, “All I want to know is what you were doing Thursday night—the night Ivy was killed.”

Carla threw out her hands. “I was doing lots of stuff. I can't give you a minute-by-minute.”

“Let me put it another way, then. Did you see Ivy that night?”

Carla pursed her lips, thought for a moment, then let out an exasperated sigh. “I saw Ivy twice, both times
inside
the lodge.”

Jane waited.

Carla said, “The first time was in the lounge. I was blabbing with Vick Halleran, Tamara Henley, and that gross slob Larry Graham. Did you know he was once a figure skater?”

“Yes,” Jane replied impatiently. “Go on.”

“At the other end of the room, Ivy was talking to Bertha Stumpf—or Rhonda Redmond, I should say—and Jennifer Castaneda. I heard Jennifer say she was going outside for a cigarette, and Ivy said she'd join her. Jennifer was wearing this big thick sweater—you know, like a fisherman's knit—so she didn't need a coat or anything. But she told Ivy she'd freeze in the thin red sweater she was wearing. Ivy gave her a wave of her hand and said it didn't matter, she'd be fine, and they left together. I saw them go outside through the reception room door. Not too long after that, Vick excused himself to me, Tamara, and Larry, and left too.”

Jane nodded encouragingly.

“I realized I was bored out of my mind talking with these people. Tamara is such a snob, and Larry—well, he gives the word
sleazy
new meaning. So I made up a reason to get out of there. Actually, I had a real reason. The room I was sharing with Ellyn had been freezing cold all day, so I went out to the reception room to complain to Adam about it.

“While I was talking to Adam, Ivy and Jennifer came back into the lodge. That was the second time I saw Ivy. Jennifer had been right about Ivy getting cold, because now Ivy was wearing Jennifer's white sweater. They were laughing about how much better the sweater had looked on Jennifer. Which is true—that broad's got some bod, let me tell ya.

“Ivy and Jennifer went into the lounge. I finished telling Adam to fix our heat and followed the two of them in. I was relieved to see that Larry was gone. Unfortunately, Tamara was still there, and Vick had come back.”

“He'd come back?”

“Mm. And I noticed that he looked . . . kind of uncomfortable to see Jennifer come in. Everybody knew they were fighting a lot. Vick must have hoped he'd gotten rid of her for a while. Anyway, I didn't want to get stuck talking to him and Tamara again, so I grabbed some book from one of the shelves and sat down alone to read it. But wouldn't you know, Tamara came right over to me and asked me if I wanted to rejoin her and Vick. She said they were having a very interesting discussion about the public's current taste in literature. Can you imagine? I told her I'd rather read. I think I pissed her off, because she didn't answer and just turned, said good-bye to Vick, and walked out of the room.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Nothing—I kept reading. The book wasn't bad, actually. Ivy and Jennifer had sat down together and were still joking around about how Ivy looked wearing Jennifer's sweater. Ivy took off the sweater and gave it back to Jennifer. Then Ivy said she was tired and was going up to her room. She left the lounge, and that was the last time I ever saw her.”

“What did you do for the rest of the evening?”

Carla rolled her eyes in frustration. “After a while I went to my room, where I was stuck talking to the terminally boring Ellyn. But I didn't want to go out again. I stayed in the room for the rest of the night.”

Carla stood. “Now get out.”

“Probably a good idea,” Jane said, casting a sickly look at a passing tray of food, “but one last question first.”

Carla waited, shifting her weight from one hip to the other.

“Have you seen Johnny since he ran out of the lodge?”

Carla stared at her, poker-faced. “No.”

“You're lying.”

Carla leaned down close to Jane's face. “Listen, Mrs. Smarty Pants Literary Agent, I'm not answering any more of your questions. Now get out of here before I ask the owner to call the police.”

“Call them,” Jane said pleasantly.

“Oh, that's right, that Greenberg guy's your squeeze. Well, I haven't seen Johnny, okay? I don't know what happened to him. Is that so hard to believe ?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of how much you were attracted to each other.”

“It happens.” She shrugged. “You saw the guy with the gun. Johnny may be dead, for all I know.”

“We can only hope,” Jane said, rising, and walked out of the diner.

 

 

As soon as she had shut the car door, she whipped out a pad of paper and a pen and made notes about what Carla had told her. Then she drove home.

She found Florence and Nick in the laundry room, where they seemed to spend most of their time these days, watching Winky and her six kittens.

“Mom, look what Winky's doing,” Nick said, pointing, a look of dismay on his face.

Winky had picked up Crush, the larger of the orange tabbies, by the scruff of his neck. She carried him across the box and set him down. Then she picked up Crush's younger brother, the other orange tabby named Pee Wee, and did the same to him.

“Ouch. Why is she doing that?”

“It doesn't hurt them,” Florence assured him. “Mother cats do it all the time.”

They watched as Winky flopped onto her side to nurse.

Florence turned to Jane. “And how are you doing, missus?” she asked quietly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes . . . just very sad. And curious.”

Florence gave her an inquiring look.

“Thanks for watching Nick,” Jane said, then went to her study, where she took out her notes from her conversation with Carla Santino.

One detail seemed relevant. Larry Graham was gone when Ivy returned to the lounge with Jennifer. What if, instead of going to his room as he'd told Stanley and Jane he'd done, Larry
had
gone down the path to meet Ivy after all? Ivy, obviously, had not gone to
her
room.

Jane stared pensively out the window.

Making a decision, she returned to the laundry room and asked Florence to keep an eye on Nick again. Then she hurried back to her car, pulled out of the garage, and drove quickly down Lilac Way.

“Y
ou back already?” Graham said in surprise. “I'm already workin' on those chapters, but I'll need more time than this.” He laughed, amused by his own joke.

“I'm not here about your book. May I come in, please?”

“Yeah, sure.” He opened the screen door. Alphonse immediately appeared and pressed his cold nose against Jane's knee. She walked into the smelly living room, the dog in close pursuit. She turned to Graham with an imploring look.

“Alphonse,” Graham shouted, “get outta here.”

With a high-pitched whine, the dog turned and walked out of the room.

Jane sat down on the sofa. Graham stood in front of his chair. “Well?”

“Mr. Graham,” she said, readying herself for her bluff, “someone saw you walking down the path to the pond on Thursday night. I know you didn't really go straight to your room. Why did you lie? What really happened?”

He sat down in the chair, watching her appraisingly. “Who says they saw me?”

“I can't tell you that.”

He paused, eyeing her warily, and finally spoke. “I'm not sure I believe you, but I'll tell you the truth anyway. I did go to my room from the lounge, and I stayed there for a little while, but I got to thinking about Ivy and . . . well, you know . . . she started lookin' better and better.”

“Even though she might have been using you to make Johnny jealous?”

“I guess I was willing to take my chances. I was—”

“Horny?”

He looked horrified, embarrassed beyond words. “Anyway, like I was sayin', I decided to go meet her, play along with her weird game about me bein' that bus hijacker. She'd asked me to meet her down the path at nine o'clock, so a few minutes before nine I slipped out of the lodge and went down the path to the end, at the edge of the pond.”

“And?”

“And she wasn't there. I waited a few minutes, no longer than that. Then I decided she wasn't coming. But as I was starting to leave, I saw her lying near the edge of the pond. I went close and saw she'd been stabbed with the ice pick.” He wiped his hand across his glistening forehead. “I totally freaked out. I ran back to the lodge. I went in by the door to the kitchen and hurried up to my room.”

He looked down. “I made a deal with old William. If he would say I was in our room the whole night, I'd do whatever electrical work needed to be done in that dumpy shack of a house he and his granddaughter live in.”

“I see,” Jane said slowly. “Did William want to know why you needed such an alibi?”

“Yeah, he asked. I told him Ivy and I had had a big fight, that Ivy was really upset, and that I didn't want to get in trouble with Johnny. He bought it. The old creep.”

“Why do you call him that?”

Graham sat up straighter, frowning in outrage. “The next day, after they found Ivy's body, he came up to me and said now he knew the real reason why I needed him to say I was in the room all night. He said electrical work wasn't going to be enough, not by a long shot.”

“What did he want?”

“I didn't give him a chance to get to that. I told him I couldn't talk about it then, that I'd be in touch to work things out.”

“Then you intended to give him more?”

He threw out his hands. “Sure I intended to give him more. What else was I supposed to do? How would it look if the police knew I'd left my room the night Ivy was murdered? They'd pin it on me so fast your head would spin.”

“But if you're innocent . . .”

“Are you for real? What does that have to do with it? Lady, in this country, innocent people end up behind bars, and guilty people walk. Happens every day. Ain't you heard about O.J. Simpson, Claus von Bulow . . .”

“Von Bulow was acquitted.”

This information appeared to make no difference to him.

“I wasn't about to be part of that crowd.”

“I see.” She rose.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I'm going to tell Detective Greenberg what you've told me. If you're innocent, as you say you are, then you have nothing to worry about.”

“So who saw me?”

“I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to tell you that.”

 

 

From her car she called Stanley on her cell phone and told him what Graham had said. Stanley said he would be right out to talk with Graham again, adding, “I'm still not sure I believe a word he says.”

Jane drove to the ramshackle little house where William Ives lived with his granddaughter and great-granddaughter. This time it was Ives's granddaughter who answered the door. She was a tired-looking, big-boned blonde. She gave Jane a cautious once-over. “Yes?”

“My name is Jane Stuart. I'd like to speak to your grandfather, please.”

“Gramps,” the woman called back into the darkness of the house. “There's a woman named Jane Stuart here to talk to you.”

For several moments the two women stood staring at each other. Finally Ives appeared, taking hold of the front door and letting out an irritated sigh when he saw her. “You back?”

“Yes. I want to ask you something. I've just been speaking to Larry Graham, and he told me about an interesting arrangement the two of you had.”

The old man's eyes widened, then flashed to his granddaughter. “Roseanne, I'll be fine.”

Roseanne shrugged and walked back into the house.

“What ‘arrangement'?” Ives asked.

“I know about the payment you wanted for not telling anyone Larry Graham wasn't in the room with you all night Thursday. You know that's blackmail.”

He bristled. “What business is this of yours?” “Ivy was my best friend. How she died is my business.”

“We don't know that Larry did it.”

“No, but he's afraid the police will think he did, and you took advantage of that.”

“So what?”

She shook her head. “I just wanted to verify that this ‘arrangement' had taken place. Good-bye.”

She walked back to her car, called Stanley again on her cell phone, and told him the part of Graham's story about the blackmail was true.

“Thank you, Jane. I appreciate your help,” he said, but there was an odd stiffness in his tone. She decided to ignore it.

“Also,” she went on, “I've been meaning to ask you. Is Johnny's car still parked up at the lodge?”

There was a brief silence. “Yes, actually, it is. We're going to impound it. If you must know, the car was stolen. It's been traced to a woman in New York City.”

“Not surprising,” she said. “He grabbed a car and got out of there.”

“Mm,” he said.

“Stanley, what's wrong? Why do you sound so odd?”

She heard him exhale, as if trying to control himself. “Jane, I appreciate your help, but you can stop playing cop now, stop interviewing people. In fact, I want you to stop. The chief said something to me today. Apparently William Ives called and complained about you bothering him.”

Jane heaved a great sigh of impatience. “Look, Stanley. I've been running around getting you information you weren't able to get—information you've been only too happy to follow up on—and all of a sudden you want me to stop ‘playing cop' because someone complains that I paid him a courteous visit. I never even went into his house, for Pete's sake.”

“Jane, I'm only saying—”

“You can tell your chief that I will continue to try to find out who killed my friend Ivy. This is America; you can't control me like that. This is
my personal business
. Besides, judging from the way you and your colleagues have been handling the case, I don't have much confidence you'll solve it.”

He was silent on the line.

“Good-bye, Stanley.”

“Good-bye, Jane.”

She snapped her cell phone shut and shook her head. Then, gazing out the window at Ives's shack of a house, she thought about the path, about the third person who went down to the pond Thursday night. The murderer. She decided that the likeliest suspects, after Johnny, were Larry and Carla.

Larry had wanted Ivy, that was clear. They might very well have fought. In a rage Larry might have stabbed her. But why would he have had the ice pick with him?

Carla had wanted Ivy's man. The two women might also have had a fight that culminated in murder. Jane thought Carla had been lying when she said she hadn't seen Johnny since he fled the lodge. How could Jane check up on Carla?

Of course. Ellyn Bass.

Jane called Adam. Rhoda answered.

“Hi, babe.” Rhoda's tone was deeply sympathetic. “How are you holding up?”

“I'm okay, Rhoda, thanks. I still can't believe it.”

“Has Stanley found out anything? Any leads?”

“No, not yet. Rhoda, is Adam there?”

“No, he had to run some errands. You want me to have him call you?”

“Maybe you can help me. I need Ellyn Bass's address.”

“Sure, hold on.” Rhoda put down the phone and came back on a moment later. “Here it is. Sixty-three McCoy Drive, Lincoln Park.”

Jane thanked her and hung up. She started the car and headed north. Less than ten minutes later she had reached Lincoln Park. She pulled into a gas station and got directions to McCoy Drive.

It was a curving street in an affluent development consisting of large modern homes on smallish, carefully landscaped lots. Ellyn Bass's house was a taupe raised ranch. Jane approached the front door on a paving-stone path that ran between rows of low, bare azaleas. A few feet from the walk, near the front steps, a tricycle lay on its side. Not far from the tricycle was a small orange ball and a naked Barbie doll.

Jane rang the bell. From behind the door came the sound of a child running; then the knob jiggled. Finally the door opened, Ellyn Bass gently pulling away one of her twins, a pretty little girl with an abundance of dark hair.

“Mrs. Stuart!” Ellyn burst into a warm smile. “I can't believe you're here. How are you?”

“I'm fine, thank you, Ellyn. And please call me Jane. I hope you don't mind my stopping by like this.”

“Don't be silly. It's wonderful to see you.” Ellyn frowned sympathetically. “I'm so sorry about your friend.”

“Thank you,” Jane said graciously.

“Come in, come in.” Ellen pulled the door all the way open, and Jane stepped into a spacious two-story foyer with a sweeping, curved staircase. In a corner of the foyer stood a magnificently decorated Christmas tree that reached the ceiling of the second floor.

Jane followed Ellyn into the living room. On a cream-colored carpet sat expensive cinnamon-colored leather furniture and glass-and-iron tables. “What a lovely home you have.”

“Thanks. Coffee?”

“No, thanks. I can't stay long.”

Looking curious, Ellyn sat down on the sectional sofa, and Jane sat too. At that moment the little girl who had come to the door raced into the room, followed by a second, identical little girl. Ellyn regarded them with dismay.

“Alyssa, Breanna, why don't you go back to the TV room and watch your
Little Mermaid
video?”

The girls ran out of the room. Ellyn dropped her shoulders in relief. “Now,” she said, smiling sweetly, “what can I help you with?” She rolled her eyes upward in an expression of modesty. “I'm sure it's not about the romance I'm writing.”

“No, I'm afraid it's not. Ellyn, I want to talk to you about Carla.”

“Carla?” Ellyn's brow creased in puzzlement.

“I need to know if Carla was with you in your room the night Ivy Benson was killed—Thursday night.”

Ellyn's eyes widened. “You think—you think Carla—”

“I don't think anything,” Jane said hastily. “I'm asking this about everyone. I'm . . . helping the police, you might say.”

“I see. Hmmm.” Ellyn nibbled the inside of her lower lip, thinking. Suddenly her face reddened. “To be honest with you, she did kind of slip out at one point.”

“‘Kind of slip out'?”

“She left.”

“When? Do you recall?”

“I'd say a little before nine o'clock. But I know where she went,” Ellyn said quickly. “She went to see Johnny.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The reason I know is that earlier that day, during writing time, Carla and I were in our room when suddenly Johnny knocked on the sliders from the balcony. I nearly had a heart attack.”

“What did you and Carla do?”

“She let him in, of course. They acted as if I wasn't even there.” Ellyn looked down, a hurt expression on her small face. “They arranged to meet that night. I promised Carla to keep their meeting a secret—she didn't want Ivy to find out about it and, you know, make a stink—but of course this was before poor Ivy got murdered. All bets are off, right?”

“Absolutely. Where were they going to meet?”

“They were going to ‘meet' ”—Ellyn made quotation marks in the air—“in Johnny's car. Pretty tacky, huh?”

“I'll say—though I'm not surprised.”

“Me neither,” Ellyn said. “I hate to say this, but Carla is not a nice person. In fact, I'd say she's downright vicious.”

“Vicious?”

“Yes. Do you know, on Wednesday night she was undressing for bed and I happened to see that her thighs were burned from the coffee Ivy accidentally spilled on her. I said something about the burns, that maybe she should get a doctor to look at them. She completely ignored me. Her eyes turned into little slits, as if she was reliving the whole thing, and suddenly she blurted out—please pardon my French—‘I'd like to kill that bitch!' ”