Stabbing Stephanie (13 page)

Jane stared at Stephanie. “Winky?”

“Sure. Wouldn't that be priceless? I bet Nick would love it.”

“That's true.” Jane turned right onto Grange Road. She smiled. “I guess it would be kind of fun.”

“It would be perfect!” Then Stephanie seemed to have a thought and looked troubled. “I wonder if Winky is the sort of cat Kate has in mind?”

“What do you mean?” Jane asked, as if someone were insulting her child.

“She is kind of . . . funny-looking.”

“Yes, her fur is all those mixed-up colors.”

“She's tortoiseshell. That's how tortoiseshell cats are supposed to look.
Mottled
. Stephanie,” Jane said solemnly, “Winky is a beautiful cat.”

“All right, then.” Stephanie sounded convinced. “I'll speak to Kate about it first thing in the morning.”

“Don't forget to mention to Kate that Winky has been in
People
magazine,” Jane said, referring to an article the magazine had run about Jane's finding her previous nanny, Marlene.

“That's right.” Stephanie threw back her head and laughed. “Winky the star.”

They jogged a bit farther on Grange; then Jane suggested that they turn around, or else they would have to go a considerable distance to get home by way of Packer and Oakmont.

After a brief silence, Jane said, “So, did Faith seem more herself after you got back from lunch?”

Stephanie's face grew troubled. “Actually, just as I was coming in, she was rushing out. She told me she had an appointment in New York. She was in a big hurry. Gavin was standing behind her and he asked where she was going, but Faith was already out the door and didn't answer him.”

“I imagine she has lots of appointments in New York.”

“True. I think Gavin was asking her because of the way she was acting—so hurried and troubled. Something was still not right with her.”

They jogged back to the house in silence. It was completely dark now, the streetlamps casting dim circles of bluish light. Between the lamps there was virtually no light at all, and Jane resolved to buy some reflective gear for her future jogs. She couldn't remember the last time she'd jogged and was becoming out of breath, but she tried hard to hide this from Stephanie, who didn't appear winded in the slightest.

As they approached the hedge in front of Jane's house, Winky appeared on the strip of grass running between the driveway and right edge of Jane's property, where a low juniper hedge grew. She let out a quiet mew to make the women aware of her presence, but Jane had already seen her. She hurried up to the cat and scooped her up in her arms.

“Winky, you're going to be a star!”

Stephanie looked a little uncomfortable. “If Kate says it's okay.”

“Oh, right.” Jane looked back into Winky's eyes. “We need final approval, Wink, but it looks good.” Jane led the way into the house, where they found Nick putting on his coat.

“Where are you going?” Jane asked.

He saw Winky in Jane's arms and grinned broadly. “Nowhere now. I've been calling Winky for ten minutes. Where did you find her?”

“By the driveway,” Jane replied with a shrug. “I'd say she found us. Hey, wait till you hear this.” She glanced mischievously at Stephanie. “It's not a hundred percent final, but Stephanie may get our Miss Winky on the jacket of a book!”

“Wink!” Nick cried, taking the squirming cat from Jane's arms, and he kissed her so hard on the top of her head that she let out a yowl. “My star cat! First
People
magazine, now this. Hey, Mom, maybe Winky could star in a movie!”

Florence appeared from the family room, smiling broadly. “I couldn't help overhearing. Winky,” she said, taking her from Nick's arms, “you are going to be a movie star.” A mirror in a gilt frame hung on the wall of the foyer, and Florence began stepping slowly and dramatically toward it, holding Winky's face up close to her own.

“We're ready for our close-up, Mr. De Mille!” she said in a low Gloria Swanson voice, then threw back her head in joyous laughter.

“W
hy would I take twenty thousand for two books when I wouldn't take ten for one?” Jane barked into the phone, and rolled her eyes. Sometimes she wondered if editors had to take a special idiot test as part of their job applications.

At the other end of the line, Arliss Krauss, executive editor at Millennium House, made a sound of impatience. “Because we're making more of a commitment,
obviously
. Your author will have the security of knowing we believe in her enough to agree to two books now.”

“Bullshit. If the first book doesn't sell well enough for you, you'll find a reason to cancel the second one. If Peg delivers ten minutes late you'll use that as your excuse. Or you'll just say it's due to ‘market conditions.' Stop wasting my time. One book at fifteen thousand or good-bye.”

“Why only one?”

“Because frankly, Arliss, Peg and I aren't sure we want to commit to two books with any publisher.”

“Confident, aren't you,” Arliss observed smugly. “You're that sure you can just find her another publisher? For yet another down-home Southern novel?”

“I'm not sure of anything, not in today's publishing climate. Next week we'll probably be able to read every book ever written on a handheld device receiving signals from satellites.”

“Hmm, not a bad idea,” Arliss said, showing uncharacteristic lightheartedness. “Anyway”—her voice grew serious again—“would we have a deal at fifteen thou?”

“Fifteen thou, North American rights only.”

Arliss was silent for a moment. “Okay,” she said at last. “You got it.”

“Not yet, I haven't. I've got to run it past Peg, remember?”

“Oh, right. Then get back to me. Thanks, Jane.”

“Mm,” Jane said, unable to bring herself to say “You're welcome,” and hung up. The moment she did, her intercom buzzed.

“Jane,” Daniel said, “Florence called about five minutes ago. She asked you to call her, says it's important.”

Jane dialed the house.

“Missus, thank you for getting back to me. I hate to bother you, truly, but I really have to talk to you. Are you busy at lunchtime? Is there any way you could come home?”

“Of course. What is it, Florence? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, missus. But . . . I'd rather explain it to you when you get here.”

“Sure, sure. I'll be there in five.”

She grabbed her bag and went out to the reception area. Daniel looked up, concern on his face. “Everything all right?”

“Don't know,” Jane said, troubled, taking her coat from the closet and putting it on. “Florence is in a tizzy. I'll have lunch at home, shouldn't be gone long.”

 

 

Florence was waiting for Jane in the back hall, just inside the door from the garage. “Thanks for coming home, missus.”

“Of course. Now what's wrong?”

Florence wrung her hands as she walked with her into the kitchen. “Do you want coffee?”

“No, thank you, Florence.” Jane sat down at the kitchen table. “Why don't you just tell me what's wrong.”

“All right.” Florence sat down facing her. “Missus, I need for you to make me a promise.”

“A promise?” Jane frowned.

“What I am about to tell you—you must promise me you won't repeat to Detective Greenberg.”

What could Florence possibly want to tell her? “Now you've got me really scared!” Jane said, trying to sound less concerned than she felt. “What'd you do, Florence, kill someone?”

“No, missus!” Florence cried, taking her quite seriously. “Do you promise?”

“Yes, yes, I promise—against my better judgment. Now out with it.”

“All right. All right. Missus,” Florence said, her large, pretty brown eyes looking directly into Jane's, “have I ever told you about my friend Una, who is also from Trinidad?”

Jane thought. “Una . . . I don't think so.”

Florence shook her head. “I don't think I've ever mentioned her to you. She's kind of a new friend for me. Anyway, Una works as a maid here in Shady Hills.”

“I see. Who does she work for?”

“A Mrs. Strohman.”

“Lillian Strohman?” Jane sat up. “How interesting.”

“Do you know her?”

“I met her at Puffy Chapin's party Wednesday night.”

“A very rich lady. A widow. Her husband owned a chain of supermarkets.”

“So I've heard.”

“Anyway, late this morning I got a phone call from Una. She was hysterical; I've never heard her like that. Something happened earlier today, something awful, and she didn't know who else to tell about it. She told me, and I'm going to tell you, because I don't know what to do about it, but something should definitely be done.”

“What happened?”

“Well.” Florence tried to compose herself. “Quite early this morning, while Mrs. Strohman was out of the house—she goes to her health club every morning—Una was in Mrs. Strohman's bedroom suite, putting away some clothes she'd just ironed. All of a sudden she heard a funny sound, and when she looked up, she saw a man outside the window, getting ready to climb into the room!”

“Good heavens!”

Florence nodded quickly. “He was standing on a roof that runs just outside this window, and he was working very hard prying open the window.”

“Did he see Una?”

“No, thank God. She's sure of that. Very slowly she put down the clothes and hid in one of Mrs. Strohman's closets.”

“Why didn't she just scream or something?”

“I asked her that. She said she was afraid that if he saw her he would shoot her or come after her. She was alone in the house.”

“I see. Go on.”

“The closet Una was hiding in has louvered doors, so she could see into the bedroom, through the slats. So she watched. This man, this burglar, he got the window open and climbed in. Then he crossed the room and went right into Mrs. Strohman's dressing room. Una said it was odd . . .”

“What was odd?”

“The way the man walked right to the dressing room, as if he knew exactly where it was. He also knew exactly where Mrs. Strohman's safe was in the dressing room.”

“He opened her safe?”

Florence's head bobbed up and down, her expression one of horror. “He had a
tool
with him, some kind of drill. From the closet, Una could only see him partially, but she says it was a drill and that it was quite loud. He used it several places—”

“The hinges,” Jane said.

“Yes, I suppose, and then he got it open. Una saw him take out Mrs. Strohman's jewelry box. Then he took a sack, like a big pillowcase, out of his pocket and emptied the whole jewelry box into it.”

“And then what did he do?”

“He hurried back out the window.”

“Did she see his face?”

“Oh, yes. Twice. He had to pass the closet to get to the dressing room. Una says he was young, with black hair. Not thin but not too fat—he had a little roll of fat around his middle, over his belt.

“Una was so scared she thought she would have a heart attack. Now she feels terribly guilty.”

“She certainly shouldn't feel guilty. She's right—he might very well have hurt her. Happens every day. But what I don't understand is why I had to promise not to tell any of this to the police?”

Florence looked down, as if ashamed on Una's behalf. “Because, missus, Una is in the United States illegally. No one knows she's here, that she works for Mrs. Strohman. Una won't even tell Mrs. Strohman what she saw, because Una knows that Mrs. Strohman would tell the police that Una saw the burglar, and that the police would force Una to tell them what she saw. Then the police would do some checking up on Una, and she would be sent home. You know how strict they are about these things nowadays.”

“True.”

“So you see, missus, why we are in such a dilemma? Una asked me what I thought she should do. I said I would speak to you, in confidence. Poor Mrs. Strohman doesn't know yet that her jewelry is missing. Una is even afraid Mrs. Strohman might think
she
took it!”

“Well,
that's
just ridiculous,” Jane said dismissively. “You really think Lillian would believe Una would do such a thing? And if she would, that she would actually take a drill to the hinges of the safe?”

“Perhaps not.”

“I see why you wanted me to promise not to tell Detective Greenberg about this, and now I'm sorry I made that promise.”

“Oh, please, missus, don't tell him. There has to be some other way to help Mrs. Strohman without getting poor Una in trouble. She has family in Trinidad and sends money to them every month. Without her salary they would starve.”

“There's got to be some way—”

“But I haven't told you the whole story,” Florence said.

“There's
more
?”

“I am afraid so, missus. A
lot
more. As soon as the burglar went back out the window, Una hurried downstairs and looked out a window overlooking the back lawn. The man ran into a narrow strip of woods. Una rushed out the back door of the house and went to the edge of these woods. The man had reached the other side of the woods, where there is a road. A dark car pulled right up to where he was standing. A woman got out of the car and spoke to the man. He had the sack tucked into his trousers. He took it and opened it up and let the woman look inside. She rummaged around in it and pulled out something. It must have been a big piece of jewelry, because Una said it flashed very bright in the sun. The woman took her purse out of her bag and handed the man some money. He tucked the sack back into his trousers and ran across the road and into the trees there. The woman got back in her car and drove away.”

Jane sat transfixed, imagining this scene.

Florence's eyes grew immense. “Missus, the woman, the woman in the car. Una knew who she was! She knew who the woman was because she went to Mrs. Strohman's house yesterday for breakfast. But even if she hadn't, anyone would have known her.”

Jane waited. “Who?”

“Faith Carson,” Florence said hollowly, her eyes wide.

“But how can that be?” Jane scoffed. “It's ridiculous! Faith Carson, commissioning burglaries?”

“I know, it does sound ridiculous, but it is true.”

“I can't believe it,” Jane said, dumbfounded.

“What should we do?” Florence asked pleadingly. “What can Una do?”

“She must go to the police.”

“But she can't. I've just told you that, missus; she can't. She would be shipped right back to Port of Spain.”

Jane leaned forward on the table. “Florence, I won't break my promise; don't worry about that. But I want you to reconsider. At the very least, consider this: What if I were to speak to Stanley, tell him
what
was seen, but not who saw it?”

“Well . . .” Florence nibbled the inside of her bottom lip. “He would know it was Una because she was the only person in the house at that time. The cook, Yvette, was out buying groceries. There's a man who does the outdoor work, sort of a gardener. Una doesn't know where he was—outside somewhere. There's another maid, a girl named Britt, but she was out grocery shopping with Yvette.”

Jane thought for a moment. “Florence, I'll speak to Detective Greenberg, but as my friend. I'll make him promise not to do anything about Una if I tell him what she saw. Then he can tell us what he thinks we should do.”

“Do you think you can trust him, missus?”

“Stanley? Absolutely.”

“All right, if you think so. I suppose it's the only thing we can do.”

Rising, Jane patted Florence's hand. “That's some story, Florence. Looks as if publishing isn't the only business Faith Carson has come to Shady Hills to conduct.”

Greenberg paced behind his desk, then leaned against the back wall of his office, cinder blocks painted gray. “Unbelievable.”

“Don't forget your promise.”

“Which I should never have made.”

“But you did, and if you break it I'll never speak to you again.”

“You know I wouldn't.”

“I know,” Jane said, smiling. “So what do we do?”

“Mrs. Strohman reported the burglary about an hour ago. We sent a couple of guys over there. They said it looks like a professional job. We can certainly look for a man fitting the description Una gave Florence, and we sure as hell are going to keep a tight watch on Faith Carson.” He shook his head in wonder. “This woman was a princess!”