Stabbing Stephanie (11 page)

“No, and that's fine by me. The sooner she's out of my house, the better. She was unforgivably rude to poor Florence, and I'm sure Nick will despise her. Besides, she starts her new job tomorrow. She wants to settle her living arrangements as soon as possible.”

“On the way over here I saw Myrtle driving another woman. Black hair, long sharp nose?”

“Right. Mink coat. That's Stephanie.”

A movement at the corner of her eye made her look out her front window at the green. She had expected to see Ivor, but instead saw a young mother holding the hand of a toddler, leading him along one of the paths toward the green's far side. Ivor was nowhere in sight.

She leaned forward, frowning. “Daniel said he saw you speaking to Ivor out front this morning.”

His face darkened. “Yeah,” he said sadly. “Poor old guy slept on the sidewalk right in front of your office all night.”

She shook her head. “I don't think he's as old as you think. Why on earth would he have slept out there? It must have been forty degrees last night.”

“It seems old Kevin forgot to leave the waiting room at the train station unlocked.”

“Forgot? I wonder. Stanley, what can we do to help this poor soul?”

“The best thing for him would be to get into a shelter . . . and to get sober. I've tried several times to talk to him, find out something about him, get him to trust me, but all he'll say is that he came out from New York on the train because he had to get out of the city. I suppose I could take him in for vagrancy, but what good would that do?”

“It would give him a place to sleep, for one thing. A jail cell is better than the sidewalk.”

He lowered his gaze, as if unsure of his thoughts.

She said, “Do you know of any shelters near here, any place he could go?”

“There is a place I've been thinking of, a shelter in Paterson.”

“Then let's drive him over there,” Jane said, sitting up.

“I've already offered and he refused. There's no point in forcing the man, because as soon as we drop him off he'll leave. At least here we can keep an eye on him.”

“I suppose . . . But in that case, we'd better make sure he always has a place to sleep. We've got to speak to Kevin and make sure the station waiting room stays unlocked. The nights are getting colder and colder.”

“Yes, Jane. I'll find Kevin and speak to him. And in time maybe Ivor will trust me enough to let me help him.”

“Yes, that's it. I'll keep trying, too.”

Stanley leaned back in his chair. “Jane . . . this company your Stephanie is going to work for. Are you aware who owns it?”

“Sure am. Faith Carson and her husband, Gavin Hart. I've been getting the story from all sides. Stephanie is Faith's best friend from Wellesley. Stephanie and I went for a walk today—in fact, we must have walked right past that house that got burglarized—and I got a lot of the Faith Carson story.”

He nodded, though he didn't look much interested. “They're taking the space Tim Kruger had.”

“Know that, too.”

There was a knock on her door and Daniel looked in. “Puffy Chapin just called and asked me to remind you about her party tonight in honor of Faith and Gavin.”

“Oh,” Jane moaned, holding her head. “I'd forgotten. Are you going?” she asked Daniel.

“Absolutely! I'm taking Ginny. We wouldn't miss this for anything. This is Faith Carson!” He gave Jane a shrewd look. “Now, Jane, you really can't get out of this one.”

Jane put a splayed hand to her chest, the picture of innocence. “Who said I wanted to get out of it?” She would have given anything not to go. “Stephanie is my late husband's cousin. She's going to work for these people.” She gave one assured nod. “We'll be there.”

“We?” Stanley said.

“Oh, didn't I tell you?” Jane asked pleasantly. “You're taking me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and smiled. “It will be my pleasure.”

 

 

“For tonight's dinner,” Florence announced proudly, “I have prepared not one special surprise, but two!”

Jane, at the head of the dining room table, grinned. Bless Florence. “What marvels have you worked?”

“Yeah,” Nick chimed in at Jane's left. “What's up, Flo?”

Florence gave him an aggrieved look. “Now you know I don't like that name Flo.”

“I know,” Nick said with a silly shrug. “That's why I use it!”

“Naughty little man.” Florence smoothed the bottom of her peach-colored sweater over her brown slacks—fancier clothes than Jane could remember seeing her wear for a long time—and looked at Stephanie. “First, I will be right back with the first of my special treats for our very special guest.”

Stephanie smiled a tight smile, though her brows wrinkled slightly as if she were worried.

“Don't worry, Stephanie,” Nick said. “Florence is a great cook. I'm sure her surprise has something to do with the food.”

Stephanie nodded, her eyes fixed on Florence's retreating figure as she went through the swinging door into the kitchen.

“Here I come!” Florence called, and pushed back through into the dining room carrying a large tray. On it were Jane's best soup tureen, a ladle, and four soup bowls. “I have made my very own favorite Trinidadian meal,” she said, beaming. “Something I want to share with our new family member. I hope you like it, Stephanie.”

Stephanie just continued to smile.
Say something, damn it,
Jane thought, but Stephanie said nothing.

Florence set down the tray and removed the lid from the tureen. Inside was a dark soup of some sort, great puffs of steam rising from it.

“Mm,” Jane said. “Florence, that looks marvelous.”

“Thanks, missus. It's Trinidad black bean soup. This recipe is from my father's grandmother. It's black beans, flavored with corned beef, onions, and lots of garlic. It was always a favorite in our house.” She began to spoon soup into a bowl. “First, Miss Stephanie.” She held out the bowl to her.

Stephanie looked at the bowl's lumpy contents and her mouth opened in dismay. Then she seemed to snap to, and took the bowl, forcing a smile. “Yes. Thanks.” She set it down before her and sat primly, her mouth tightly shut.

Florence filled another bowl and Jane held out her hand, but Florence passed it instead to Nick. “Oh no, missus, for you I have the second surprise! Be right back.”

She disappeared into the kitchen again and reappeared with a plate full of food. “This,” she announced, “is for your special eating plan.” She came around the table and placed the plate before Jane. “I must confess I borrowed your Stillkin book to get the recipes, missus. There you have green beans, Stillkin style—sautéed in a bit of oil and lemon juice and then sprinkled with bran! Also there is Stillkin chicken, made with cabbage and more bran! And then Dr. Stillkin's special rice, cooked in fish broth.”

“Yuck,” Nick said, and gulped a spoonful of black bean soup. “Florence, this is
good.”

“I am so happy you like it,” she said, and indeed she was beaming with pleasure. Then she turned to Stephanie, whose bowl sat before her, untouched.

“You don't like black beans?” Florence hazarded.

“It's . . .” Stephanie began, smiling what she must have thought was a polite smile but which looked just plain snotty to Jane. “It's not my sort of thing. And we do have Puffy's party tonight. I'm sure she'll have lots to eat.”

It was as if the air had been drained from Florence. Her shoulders sank. “I see.” Briskly, smiling her own version of a polite smile, she hurried over to Stephanie's place and quickly took away the bowl. “I'm sorry.”

Jane wanted to die. How could anyone be so incredibly rude? She noticed that even Nick was watching Stephanie; his gaze darted to Florence and then to Jane.

Jane looked again at her plate, so lovingly prepared. “Florence, I can't thank you enough for this. You are a wonder.”

Florence set Stephanie's bowl at her own place and sat down, unfolding her napkin in her lap. She smiled her beautiful smile at Jane. “You are most welcome, missus. It was my pleasure to help you with your program.”

“So!” Jane said, and took a bite of chicken. Like the Stillkin shake, it tasted like a barnyard. Which was not, of course, Florence's fault; Jane was certain she'd followed the recipes meticulously. “Stephanie,” she said briskly, “how did it go today with Myrtle? Find anything that might work?”

“Oh!” Stephanie said, rolling her eyes in delight. “Did I ever! A darling place, in a new complex at the north end of town. Hart Run, I believe it's called.”

“Ooh, fancy-shmancy,” Jane said.

“Exactly. My kind of place, I must admit. Pool, health club, tennis courts, the works. I've already said I want it, but I can't move in till the first of December.” She looked uneasy as she said this, and Jane knew why, because it made her feel uneasy, too, to put it mildly. This meant Stephanie would be their houseguest for several weeks. But what, Jane asked herself, had she expected? Stephanie would never have found a place she could move into any earlier.

“I hope you'll be able to put up with me until then,” Stephanie said with a little laugh.

“Of course,” Jane lied.

But in ten days I'll be somewhere in the Caribbean,
she thought gratefully.

“Then you'll be with us for Thanksgiving,” Florence said brightly. “I was going to make a traditional Trinidadian feast—much grander than this one—but I think I will go American instead. Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, cranberry juice—”

“Sauce,” Nick corrected her. “Cranberry sauce.”

“Yes, sauce. Won't that be nice?” Florence gazed warmly at Stephanie.

“Thanks,” Stephanie said, this time not even bothering to smile, “but I'm not sure yet.”

“Not sure yet?” Florence echoed, her face blank.

“I may be spending the holiday with Faith and Gavin.”

“I see.” Florence shot Jane a look before rising from the table. “I'll go check on the rest of our dinner.”

“What is it, Florence?” Nick asked.

“Trinidad pelau, one of my favorites. It is a chicken and rice dish.”

“Stephanie won't like it,” Nick said casually, and took another spoonful of black bean soup.

Florence darted a look at Stephanie, who had turned to Nick in surprise.

“No, perhaps not,” Florence said, turning toward the kitchen. “Perhaps not.”

“I
hate this party,” Jane whispered fiercely.

Stanley stopped in his tracks and looked at her. “We're not there yet!”

She shrugged. “I still hate it.”

She and Greenberg were making their way up the many steps that climbed Puffy and Oren Chapin's gently sloping lawn to their majestic French château-style manor at the top of the hill. Stephanie was a good ten steps behind, an expectant smile on her face.

“I've never been up here,” Greenberg said softly to Jane. “That's some place up there. How'd they make their money, do you know?”

“They didn't. It's Old Money, the only kind that matters, in Puffy's book.” Jane looked back and saw a veritable parade of people climbing the steps behind Stephanie. “I actually think Puffy invited the whole town.”

They reached the wide front steps and climbed them to the door, which stood open to reveal a welcoming glow from inside.

Jane realized that although she and Kenneth had once explored this area of Shady Hills—Puffy and Oren lived on Fenwyck Road, off Highland, in the oldest part of town—she had never actually been inside this house, either.

There was already quite a crowd inside—people wearing everything from thick sweaters to cocktail dresses, laughing and chattering away. As Jane, Greenberg, and Stephanie stepped farther into the foyer, looking for a place to put their coats, Puffy hurried up to them.

“Darlings!” She took Jane's hands in both of hers and squeezed them (Puffy never kissed), then turned to Stephanie. “Good to see you, dear. Welcome to Shady Hills.”

Stephanie smiled. “Where's Faith?”

Puffy, a bit taken aback, threw a glance backward into the living room, where Jane could see a fire blazing behind the crowd. “In there,” Puffy said with a laugh, “surrounded by admirers. I know she'll be eager to see you.”

Without a word to Jane or Greenberg, Stephanie departed, slipping off her coat.

“See you later . . .” Greenberg said softly after her.

“Now behave,” Jane said with a phony smile. Then, under her breath: “See what I mean about her? Rude as hell. Where
do
we put our coats?”

A woman Jane had never seen before overheard the question and said, “In the sunroom, at the back of the house.”

Jane thanked her, and she and Greenberg found this room and added their coats to an already mammoth heap on a sofa. Jane spotted Stephanie's mink, carelessly tossed.

“Champagne's sure flowing freely,” Stanley commented as they made their way back to the front of the house. He located filled flutes on a table in the dining room and grabbed one for him and one for Jane. They sipped, looking around at this house that must once have been opulent but which now looked in need of some TLC. A frayed lampshade, a threadbare chair . . . Everything was a bit scruffy, as if even Puffy and Oren's Old Money wasn't enough to keep the place in good repair.

“I don't see a soul I know,” Jane said in a low voice. “That means if we leave, no one will care.”

“We can't leave. Stephanie came with us.”

“Exactly,” Jane said wickedly.

Greenberg gave her a scolding look. “Besides, we haven't met the guests of honor.”

“Probably won't, either. Take a look.” She pointed into the living room across the foyer, where a mass of people had gathered around a woman with light brown hair swept back from her face, and a trim, darkly handsome middle-aged man. For a moment the crowd shifted and Jane was able to get a full-length look at Faith Carson. In face and figure she was as beautiful as her photographs, though older, of course. Jane thought her wispy golden cocktail dress must be reminiscent of the garments she had worn as Queen of Ananda. Jane noticed also that Faith Carson's manner seemed reserved, as if she were allowing herself to smile a little, but never actually to laugh. Gavin, on the other hand, laughed uproariously, throwing back his head.

“Hello, you two.” Stephanie had appeared as if from nowhere. She was glowing, as if in her element. “I want to introduce you to Faithie and Gav, but there's a huge crowd around them. I could barely get through myself! Let's wait a little while and try then.”

“Sounds good,” Greenberg said, his face serious.

“Can't wait,” Jane said, watching Stephanie walk away.

She turned and gazed at Puffy still meeting people in the foyer. The older woman's manner was the same with each person who came in; the same squeezing of hands, the same warm yet somehow aloof greeting. It occurred to Jane that perhaps no one really knew Puffy very well. Certainly, average Shady Hills people like Jane and Greenberg whom Puffy had invited would barely know her, if they knew her at all, because Puffy always kept to her “own kind.” Jane would have guessed that so far only Faith, Gavin, and Stephanie fit that category.

Daniel and Ginny appeared at the door, all smiles. Daniel, who always knew the right thing to do or wear, had on a navy blazer, gray flannel trousers, and a white shirt open at the neck. Ginny wore a pretty red cocktail dress Jane had never seen before.

Daniel had had his hand squeezed by Puffy and moved into the foyer. He spotted Jane and Greenberg and waved, then turned to tell Ginny. When Puffy was finished squeezing Ginny's hand, they hurried into the dining room.

“Coats in the sunroom,” Jane told them. “Then you can come back and have as much fun as we're having.”

Daniel gave Jane a stern look. “Now, Jane, make the best of it. You're doing this for Kenneth.”

He was right. Duly abashed, Jane nodded, took a sip of her champagne, and made an effort to look pleasant. In a few moments Daniel and Ginny returned, champagne in hand.

“Isn't this fabulous?” Ginny bubbled. “I don't think I've ever been in a house like this.” She turned to Daniel. “Bet you have.”

Jane knew that Ginny was referring to the fact that to Daniel, son of one of the richest men in America, such homes were quite familiar.

“Actually,” he said, looking around, “it reminds me of a house my father owned in Maine. You know—big old sprawling place, zillions of rooms. My friends and I used to get lost in them—we had to call for the nanny to find us.”

They all laughed and sipped.

“Hello, hello!” It was Rhoda, sweeping in, wearing a fawn skirt and sweater set. She was holding the hand of Adam Forrest, her boyfriend, whom Jane had met only once before. He was a small, quiet man, mild-mannered, a good complement to Rhoda's often raw outspokenness.

“How are you, Adam?” Jane asked.

“Fine, Jane, thank you,” he said, and smiled as he accepted a glass of champagne from Rhoda.

“Hotter'n hell in here, don't you think?” Rhoda said, taking in the thickening crowd around them. “Let's find someplace quieter to talk.” She led the way out the rear door of the dining room, down the hall, and into the library, where only two couples stood chatting with each other.

“Much better,” Rhoda said, and sidled up to Jane. “So what do you think of the house?”

“Uh . . . big.”

“Exactly.” She turned and ran a finger along the front of a bookshelf, then held the finger aloft to display a thick coat of dust.

“Rhoda!” Jane cried, scandalized.

Rhoda giggled.

Ginny said softly, “Maybe the Chapins aren't as rich as everybody thinks.”

“No, no, it isn't that,” Rhoda said. “You don't get it. This isn't ‘look at my gorgeous house' money; this is old goyish money!”

“Old goyish money?” Ginny repeated, looking confused.

“That's not nice, Rhoda,” Jane said. “I've told you I hate that word.”

“Well, it's true.”

“What's
goyish?”
Ginny asked.

“Gentile,” Rhoda said. “Not Jewish. Puffy and Oren,” she explained, “are of a type. Don't let this place fool you. There's plenty of money, more than anyone here will probably ever see. But people like Puffy and Oren don't spend it on new furniture and cars and clothes and vacations, because they don't care about things like that. They're also not interested in showing off their wealth. They invest their money. All very quietly. There's money, all right,” she repeated. “It's just not liquid.”

At that moment Jane saw Faith Carson in the hall, warmly greeting an older woman, taking her hands and moving close to her. The older woman, who appeared to be in her early seventies, was elegantly dressed and coifed. She was also, it occurred to Jane, exactly what one means when referring to a woman as “dripping in diamonds.” Huge glittering stones adorned her ears, an intricate necklace blazed against her eggplant silk blouse, and on her fingers were an emerald and a ruby the size of jelly beans.

“Who's she?” Jane whispered.

Rhoda took in the older woman with a knowing look. “That's Lillian Strohman.”

“Who's she?”

“She lives down the street. A widow. Her husband owned the MegaFood supermarket chain.”

“How do you know her?” Daniel asked.

Rhoda shrugged. “She's a member of my synagogue. The richest member. Always giving money for this and that charity or foundation, and of course to the temple itself.”

Ginny said, “I guess Faith Carson knows lots of people like that—I mean, considering the circles she moves in.”

Rhoda gave her a look of skeptical scorn. “Don't you kid yourself. Sure, they know a lot of people like Lillian, but this party is as much for Faith and Gavin to make new contacts—to meet
more
people like Lillian—as it is to welcome them to Shady Hills.”

Daniel looked baffled. “What do you mean? Why would Faith and Gavin need to make new contacts?”

“Ah,” Rhoda said, casting up her eyes, then looking at Daniel pityingly, “you're so young, so handsome, so rich . . . yet so dumb. Sweetie,” she explained, as if to a child, “society matrons like Lillian are the primary source of Faith and Gavin's income.”

Now everyone looked at Rhoda in confusion.

Rhoda addressed them all. “Just think about what Carson & Hart publishes.”

Jane shrugged. “Come to think of it, I have no clear idea of
what
they publish.”

“Well, I do,” Rhoda said. “Nearly all of their books are written by people like Lillian Strohman. Autobiographies, people's accounts of their safaris, their adventures in Italy and Yugoslavia, the occasional novel. These books are nothing more than glorified vanity jobs!”

“You mean like a vanity press?” Ginny hazarded.

“Now you got it. These ‘authors' underwrite their own publication by contributing to the ‘promotion' budget. Then they buy huge numbers of copies to give to their family and friends. It is
exactly
vanity publishing.” Rhoda winked knowingly. “Lillian is a perfect mark for them. She was a starlet in Hollywood for about fifteen minutes. And then of course she married Sheldon the supermarket king. They traveled extensively, mostly to look for new charities to throw money at. You mark my words. She'll soon be working with Faith and Gavin, writing her memoirs.”

“But I don't get it,” Ginny said. “Why would someone like Faith Carson need to do something so . . . sleazy?”

“Money, what else?”

“But isn't she rich? I mean, she was a
queen!”

“Queen, shmeen. She's just some chick who found herself a great sugar daddy . . . till he got his head blown off.”

“Till he what?” Jane said.

But before Rhoda could respond, Stephanie appeared in the doorway and hurried up to the group. Her cheeks and chin were pink and her demeanor seemed looser, as if she'd had a lot of champagne.

“You naughty antisocial people! What are you all doing in here? I was looking for you,” she said, looking at Jane, “to introduce you to Faithie, but I couldn't find you anywhere.”

“But I've been here all the time!” Jane said innocently, and when Stephanie looked confused by this remark, gave a tiny smile.

“Anyway,” Stephanie said, “now it's too late—Faithie and Gav are positively
mobbed
with admirers. That's good, though. They could use some positive attention. They've been through some rough times.”

“What rough times?” Rhoda asked avidly.

But Stephanie seemed not to have heard. “Anyway, I'll come back for you when Faith and Gavin are ready.”

Jane felt as if Stephanie was preparing to present her to royalty—which, Jane realized, was in effect what was happening. Jane giggled at the thought that she hadn't worn elbow-length gloves, as one must when one is introduced to Queen Elizabeth.

“You do that,” she told Stephanie seriously, and Stephanie hurried away.

Daniel said to Rhoda, “What were you saying about Faith's sugar daddy getting his head blown off?”

“Shhh. You know, the king. He was assassinated.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

“Yeah,” Rhoda went on, “that was the beginning of the end for poor little ‘Faithie.' She had to get the hell out of Dodge with her two brats. Ended up marrying ‘Gav,' who'd been her husband's chief adviser or something like that.”

“Rhoda,” Jane said, “how come you didn't know all this stuff last night at our knitting meeting?”

Rhoda shrugged. “I vaguely remembered—you know, from when it all actually happened. But you got me so interested that I went to Barnes & Noble this morning and bought Faith's autobiography. They had it in paperback.
Queen of Heaven,
it's called. Of course, she puts a certain ‘spin' on everything that happened, but it's not hard to read between the lines.”