Icing Ivy (20 page)

Read Icing Ivy Online

Authors: Evan Marshall

BOOK: Icing Ivy
10.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“You and your husband still feel no responsibility for what you've done—or not done,” Jane marveled. “Slumlords rarely do. The way you look at it, you and Foss are the victims, am I correct?”
“Yes, for once you are.”
Jane nodded. “You made this attitude quite clear when you said the owner of the house across the street from yours would be blamed for the negligence of his tenants. And when you scoffed when Red Pearson read from his novel based on the club fire: It wasn't to get back at him for criticizing your story; it was because his telling of the club fire tragedy was, to your way of thinking, inaccurate.
“Everyone had it wrong, you thought. Everyone was making you and your husband the culprits. So—in order to protect yourselves—you killed the woman who would make it all public.”
“You bet I did,” Tamara said resentfully. “I wasn't going to let some tacky little slut playing Lois Lane ruin everything Foss and I have built. Cause some huge scandal, turn Foss and me into another Harry and Leona Helmsley. No, thank you.”
Tamara turned down the corners of her mouth disdainfully. “Ivy was an idiot. She started telling me this slob”—she gestured toward Graham's corpse—“was once a figure skater. She said Larry was going to skate for her, and turned around to look at the pond. That's when I stabbed her. She made the funniest little squeaking sound.” She giggled.
Jane winced.
“It was quite easy, really,” Tamara said. “Killing her, I mean.” She held up the ice pick, admiring it. “I liked it so much that as soon as I'd decided I was going to get rid of you, I drove over to Fortunoff in Wayne and picked this up.” She smiled. “Fortunoff. The Source.”
She checked her slimly elegant watch. “Oh, dear, getting late. You've wasted enough of my time.” Suddenly she lunged forward, like a fencer, thrusting the pick at Jane, jabbing her right hand. Hot pain seared the center of Jane's palm. She looked quickly and saw blood seeping from the wound.
She had no sooner looked up again than Tamara rushed forward with a cry, throwing her whole weight at Jane. Jane managed to grab the arm holding the pick and put all her strength into forcing it away. Tamara was surprisingly strong. For a moment, as they pushed at each other, their faces were only inches apart, and Jane saw unadulterated hatred—and madness—in the other woman's eyes.
Jane drew back her right foot and kicked Tamara as hard as she could in the shin. Tamara let out a grunt of pain, the flashlight went flying from her hand, yet the pressure of her arm against Jane's barely lessened, and her hand still clutched the ice pick, its bloody tip now only inches from Jane's face.
With a great mustering of strength, Jane surged forward, and the two women toppled to the floor, Jane on top. The ice pick's handle hit the floor and was knocked out of Tamara's hand, landing a few inches from Larry Graham's inert body. Jane scrambled for it, grabbed it, and swiftly stood. Tamara had also gotten up and stood a few yards away, watching.
Jane clutched the handle of the ice pick with both hands, pointing its tip straight out before her. She waited. Tamara took a step closer.
“Stay back,” Jane warned, but Tamara took another step. Jane broke out in a sweat, wondering if she could stab someone—even Tamara—even if it was to save her own life. Then a great rage overtook her and she realized that of course she could—could and would.
Tamara's foot came flying toward Jane, knocking the ice pick out of her hands. Tamara quickly retrieved it. Jane turned and ran.
She went back out the door through which she and Larry had come, and to the left down the long corridor. She ducked into one of the rooms toward the end on the left, unsure if Tamara had seen her.
Silently she slid behind the door, then stood as still as a statue, waiting, peering into the gloom through the crack of the door, between its hinges.
There was absolute quiet . . . then a crunch, followed by the faint creak of a floorboard not far away. Jane held her breath. She realized her hands were shaking.
And in the next instant Tamara was there, looking straight at her through the crack of the door. With all her might, Jane slammed the door into Tamara's face.
Tamara made an odd choking-gurgling sound, then collapsed.
Slowly Jane walked around the door. Tamara lay in a chinchilla sprawl, on her back, the ice pick having pierced her throat and emerged from the back of her neck. Her eyes were open, still full of gleaming hatred.
Jane gasped, turning quickly away.
Then Tamara moved and Jane returned her gaze to her in horror. Tamara's lips were moving. Cautiously Jane leaned over her, straining to make out what she was trying to say.
“Not . . . our fault,” Tamara whispered. In a flash her hand flew up and grabbed Jane's face. Jane drew back, pulling at Tamara's arm, but couldn't loosen the clawlike grip, the fingernails digging into her cheeks.
And then, in the next moment, the grip was released as Tamara's hand went limp and her arm fell to her side.
Jane began to cry. Stepping over Tamara's body, she walked slowly down the corridor and found the door to the courtyard. There was Graham's pickup at the curb. She made her way toward it. As she reached it, her legs suddenly weakened and she faltered, grabbing at the truck for support.
“Lady, you okay?”
She looked up. A petite young woman came toward her wheeling a wire shopping basket full of groceries.
“I'm fine, thank you,” Jane said, but her legs betrayed her again and she fell to the sidewalk.
The young woman rushed to her and helped her gently lie down.
“Help! Somebody help me!” Jane heard the woman cry.
“What's the problem?” came a young man's voice.
“I don't know what's the matter with her. Maybe drunk.”
Through partially closed eyes Jane saw the young man's dark face—shrewd, serious—come near hers. “Lady,” he said softly, “you okay?” Then she felt him touch her coat.
“Look at this,” she heard him say.
“Oh, Lord. What is that?”
“What do you think it is? It's blood.”
“Blood? Whose? Hers?”
“Hell, I don't know. Get a cop.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
T
hat afternoon, Jane sat at her favorite table at Whipped Cream, staring into a magnificent fire in the brick hearth. Stanley sat beside her, gently holding her bandaged right hand.
“Ivy, my poor old friend, was a tragic figure, really,” Jane said. “She had poor judgment and was of weak moral character—she tried to blackmail Larry Graham, though for something he hadn't done—yet in the end she was killed because, for once in her life, she was trying to do something good—expose a terrible evil.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Ginny, who had been behind the counter preparing hot cocoa for the three of them, appeared carrying a tray holding the three mugs. She, too, was crying. She set down the mugs on the table, then sat down beside Jane and took her other hand. Stanley put his arm around Jane's shoulders, and they all gazed at the holiday decorations surrounding the fireplace. Brilliant lights, like the ones in the café's window. Red and green . . .
“It's not fair,” Jane said.
“No,” Stanley agreed, “it's not fair.” He gave her arm a soft, comforting squeeze. “Not fair at all.”
 
 
“And so you see,” Jane finished, smiling across the dinner table at Nick and Florence, “your comment, Florence, about cats being color-blind was the key to solving this case.”
Nick, to whom Jane had finally revealed the truth about Ivy's death, sat very still, his gaze lowered to the table.
“A wreath of poinsettias and cranberries,” Florence said thoughtfully. “You know, missus, at home in Trinidad, our national flower is the wild poinsettia—the chaconia.”
Jane and Nick looked at her. She went on, “It is a very beautiful, deep-red flower and grows in the forests. To the people of Trinidad and Tobago, it represents the imperishability of life.”
She shook her head, remembering, eyes unfocusing. “When I was a little girl of nine, my older brother Charles died. It was a terrible time. As the months passed, everyone in my family seemed to get back to normal except me. I could not rid myself of my deep sadness. One day my mother took me by the hand to our kitchen. On the table, in a vase, she had placed a glorious long spray of chaconia. It was early September, when this flower starts to bloom. It was so very red and lovely.
“‘Florence,' my mother said to me, ‘look at the flower and think of Charles. And whenever you think of Charles, think of the flower and remember, he is still with us. In our hearts, he is still with us. He never went away. ' ”
“That's sad, Flo,” Nick said, gazing solemnly across the table at her.
“No, Master Nicholas,” Florence said with a laugh, “it is happy! Our friends never leave us, even when we cannot see them. What's important,” she said, looking at Jane, “is that while our friends are still here on earth, we do our best to be kind to them. To be a good friend.”
She gave Jane a reassuring nod.
“Thank you, Florence,” Jane said softly.
“For what?” Nick asked.
Winky leapt onto the table with a joyous rumbling cry.
“Hey, Wink!” Nick cried happily. “You haven't done that in weeks.” He turned to Florence. “I guess she knows life goes on, huh? That even though most of her babies are going away and she'll never see them again, she'll still have them, like you said.”
“Yes, Master Nick,” Florence said, gently removing Winky from the table. “She knows.”
Author's Note
I
hope you enjoyed reading
Icing Ivy
, my fourth Jane Stuart and Winky mystery. By now Jane, Nicholas, Florence, Stanley, Daniel, and all the other residents of Shady Hills are family to me, as I hope they are to you.
One of the reasons this book was such fun to write was that Winky became a mother, an event long in the planning. Though Jane, Nick, and Florence made it their business to find good homes for all of Winky's kittens, this is not always the case.
The Best Thing You Can Do for Your Cat
The fact is, there are too many kittens and too few good homes. Animal shelters are overburdened with unwanted animals. Each day tens of thousands of cats are born in the United States alone. At this rate, there are not enough homes for these animals, and millions of healthy cats and kittens are euthanized. Others are abandoned to fend for themselves against automobiles, cruel humans, the elements, and other animals.
Please spay or neuter your cat. Not only will you be stopping this unnecessary suffering, but you will also be doing something good for you and your pet.
Spayed and neutered cats are better, more affectionate companions because they focus their attention on their human families. They are less likely to bite. Unaltered cats often show more behavior and temperament problems than cats that have been spayed or neutered.
Spayed and neutered cats live longer, healthier lives.
Spaying a female eliminates its heat cycle; females in heat often cry incessantly, urinate frequently (sometimes all over the house), exhibit nervous behavior, and attract unwanted male cats. Spaying females eliminates the chance of uterine or ovarian cancer, and significantly reduces the likelihood of breast cancer and of a disease called pyometra.
Neutered males are less likely to spray and mark territory, and to roam in search of a mate, risking injury in traffic and fights with other males. Neutering males reduces the incidence of hernias, perianal tumors, and prostate disease, and eliminates the possibility of testicular cancer.
If you have reservations about spaying or neutering your cat, it may be because you believe one or more of the myths surrounding this practice. Spaying or neutering will not change your cat's personality. Nor will it make your cat fat and lazy—only a poor diet and lack of exercise will do that. Spaying and neutering are neither dangerous nor painful. These low-cost procedures are the most common surgeries performed on cats. With a minimal amount of home care, your pet will resume normal behavior in a few days.
If your cat gives birth, don't wait too long to have her spayed. Wait until two weeks after her kittens start to be weaned—in other words, six to eight weeks after she gives birth. Remember that a surgery appointment may need to be made several weeks ahead.
Remember also that kittens don't need to wait too long to be spayed or neutered. Veterinary societies and shelters have accepted early sterilization as safe. It can be done on cats as young as eight weeks old.
For more information, visit the Web site of The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals at
http://www.aspca.org
.
The Story of the Ice Pick
Some of the best history is what we don't learn in school. When Jane learns that her friend Ivy has been stabbed with an ice pick, she says, “Like Trotsky . . .” and faints. What's the story behind that?
In 1940, the exiled Bolshevik leader Leon Trotsky was living in Mexico City. His greatest enemy, Joseph Stalin, had pursued him across continents via his murderous agents in an effort to assassinate him, but had thus far been unsuccessful.
Ultimately Trotsky's murder would be accomplished by a man named Ramon Mercader. Though Trotsky was protected by bodyguards, Mercader penetrated his defenses by means of a clever ruse. After ingratiating himself with the members of Trotsky's household and gaining their trust and acceptance, he arranged to meet personally with Trotsky on the pretext of discussing an article he had written. They did meet, and Trotsky dismissed the article as banal and without interest.
On the morning of August 20, Mercader showed up at Trotsky's villa and was again allowed to visit with Trotsky alone to discuss the article Mercader had written. Trotsky's wife, Natalia Sedova, later related: “I was in the room next door. There was a terrible piercing cry . . . Lev Davidovich [Trotsky's birth name] appeared, leaning against the door frame. His face was covered with blood, his blue eyes glistening without spectacles and his arms hung limply by his side. . . .”
Mercader had struck Trotsky in the back of the head with an ice pick he had hidden in the pocket of his khaki raincoat. According to Mercader himself, “I put my raincoat on the table so that I could take out the
piolet
[ice pick] in the pocket. When Trotsky started to read my article, I took the ax and, closing my eyes, gave him a tremendous blow on the head. The man screamed in a way that I will never forget—Aaaaaa! . . . very long, infinitely long. He got up like a madman, threw himself at me, and bit my hand—look, you can still see the marks of his teeth. Then I pushed him, so that he fell to the floor.”
Trotsky's bodyguards rushed into the room and began to beat Mercader, who, having never killed before, was stunned at the sight of Trotsky on the floor. The guards wanted to kill Mercader on the spot, but Trotsky intervened: “He must be forced to talk.”
Trotsky was rushed to the hospital. “The doctor declared that the injury was not very serious,” Natalia said. “Lev Davidovich listened to him without emotion, as one would a conventional message of comfort. Pointing to his heart, he said, ‘I feel . . . here . . . that this is the end . . . this time . . . they've succeeded. ' ”
He underwent surgery and survived more than a day. He died twenty-six hours after being attacked, on August 22, 1940.
On some points of this legendary story, people disagree. Some say it was an ice
ax,
not an ice pick.
I immediately found this story fascinating. What mystery writer wouldn't? For my purposes in icing poor Ivy, an ice pick worked best.
Wheresoever You May Wander . . .
Curious about Florence's Curried Cascadura? The cascadura fish—or cascadoo, as it is commonly called—is about as Trinidadian a creature as one could find. This small, primeval fish from the Silurian age, with a scaly, armor-plated shell resembling that of the catfish, lives embedded in the freshwater mudflats of Trinidad's southern coast, as well as in sluggish rivers, ponds, and swamps. Though this strange fish is served in Caribbean restaurants around the world, most of us do not have access to this delicacy. The following recipe, therefore, substitutes snapper for cascadura.
If you
are
fortunate enough to have real cascadura, remember that it must be washed thoroughly and meticulously in fresh water until all the mud on the fish is removed.
Florence's Curried “Cascadoo”
4 Servings
 
1 large shallot, finely chopped
1 piece of fresh thyme, finely chopped
1 piece of fresh parsley, finely chopped
1 leaf cilantro, finely chopped
½teaspoon vinegar
¼teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
4 fresh snapper (or cascadura) fillets
¼ cup (60 milliliters) lime juice
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 large onion, chopped
3 tomatoes, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
2 tablespoons curry paste
1 cup (250 milliliters) coconut milk
1 whole hot pepper wrapped in cheesecloth and
tied securely
Combine shallot, thyme, parsley, and cilantro in a cup with vinegar. Add salt and pepper. Marinate 4 snapper fillets in herb seasoning and lime juice for at least 2 hours.
Heat oil in a large pot. Add onion, tomatoes, and garlic and sauté for 2 minutes. Add curry paste and cook for another minute. Add coconut milk and simmer for 5 minutes. Add the marinated fish fillets and coat thoroughly with the curry sauce. Add the pepper, cover, and simmer until fillets are flaky—about 10 to 15 minutes.
 
Remove fillets and serve on a platter covered with the curry sauce. Serve with rice and vegetables.
From Havana With Love
Intrigued by the drink after which Jennifer Castaneda named her novel? I was. The
Mojito
(pronounced “moe-HEE-toe”), born in Cuba in the 1910s, is a refreshing rum drink popularized by the patrons of Havana's most famous bar, La Bodeguita del Medio—most notably Ernest Hemingway. It's currently making a big comeback. Great with barbecue. Come to think of it, a
Mojito
would be a nice accompaniment to Florence's Curried Cascadura. Here's how to make one just the way “Papa” liked them.
¡Salud!
Mojito Cocktail
½ teaspoon sugar
½ lime, juiced
1 sprig fresh mint, crushed
½ cup crushed ice (use ice pick? never mind)
2 fluid ounces (60 milliliters) light dry rum
4 fluid ounces (120 milliliters) soda water
1 sprig fresh mint for garnish
In a highball glass, stir together the sugar and lime juice. Bruise the mint leaves and drop them into the glass. Fill glass with crushed ice and pour in rum. Pour in soda water to fill the glass. Garnish with a sprig of mint.
 
I love hearing from readers. If you have a comment about
Icing Ivy
or any of my books, I invite you to e-mail me at [email protected], or write to me at Six Tristam Place, Pine Brook, NJ 07058-9445. I always respond to reader mail. For a free bookmark, please send a self-addressed stamped envelope. Please visit my Web site at
http://www.TheNovelist.com
.
Evan Marshall

Other books

Paper Wishes by Lois Sepahban
Fires of War by Larry Bond, Jim Defelice
Midnight My Love by Anne Marie Novark
Jumping Puddles by Rachael Brownell
This Scepter'd Isle by Mercedes Lackey, Roberta Gellis