Stabbing Stephanie (3 page)

“Look, Carmela, this book doesn't have to be
Remembrance of Things Past
. It can be short, and it can be fluffy. Most of all, it has to
be
. Ask her pointed questions, get the information you need, and stop showing her pages. She doesn't understand books anyway; I don't know what it is you expected to get from her. You're the ghost. So ghost! January first, I want a finished manuscript on Hamilton Kiels's desk.”

“I don't like the way you're speaking to me, Jane. I'm not one of your little mystery writers. How would you like it if I withdrew from this project altogether? I don't need the money that bad. I could be doing bumper-to-bumper pieces for
McCall's.”

Jane felt a compelling urge to tell her to stuff it, but controlled herself and instead said, “I'm sorry, Carmela. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just saying it's okay for you to take over this project. And I think you're expecting more from Goddess than she's capable of giving. I do think you should show her the manuscript, just as a matter of form, but when it's finished.”

“Okay,” Carmela said in tired resignation, added, “Bye,” and hung up.

The second Jane put down the phone, her intercom buzzed. “Jane,” came Daniel's velvety voice, “Bertha Stumpf's on line two. She wanted to hold for you. She's been waiting for about five minutes.”

Jane rolled her eyes. The whiny Bertha, who wrote steamy, best-selling historical romances as Rhonda Redmond, was the last person Jane needed to speak to right now. “What's so important?”

“She says she's had it with her editor.”

Bertha's editor at Bantam was Harriet Green, a marvelous young woman—bright, sensitive, conscientious, always professional.

“Why? What did Harriet do?”

“She's asking for more revisions on
Shady Lady.”

“And?”

“And Bertha won't do any more. She says the manuscript is perfect the way it is.”

Jane let out a groan of anguish. As she did, she glanced out the front window of her office and saw Ivor, the homeless man, step down from the bandstand and start along the path toward the far side of the green. She drew her gaze from him, told Daniel, “All right, I'll take it,” and pressed line two.

“Jane . . .” Bertha sounded on the verge of tears. “Jane, I just won't put up with this anymore. This—this
child
who calls herself an editor has sent me a revision letter.
Another
revision letter. I'm telling you, Jane, I just won't do any more to this manuscript.”

“Now, Bertha,” Jane said reasonably, “you've been in this game a long time. You know this happens. Sometimes a book needs more than one revision.”

“Not
my
books! I have never been so insulted. Don't try to placate me, Jane. I want you to get me a new editor, and I want you to do it
now
. Do you understand me?”

Jane's temperature was rising again. Her heart beat faster. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth, “I understand you just fine.”

“So you'll do it?”

“I didn't say that.”

“What?
Jane, I've just told you to do it.”

“I know that, Bertha, but I'm not convinced that changing editors would be in your best interest.”

“Never mind what you think!” Bertha screamed.

Jane yanked the receiver away from her ear.

“I told you to do it
. That's all you need to know. I'm not interested in what you think is in my best interest.”

“I am your agent, Bertha Stumpf, and as such I am obliged to advise you in matters of your career. Harriet Green is one of the finest editors I know. Have you considered that she might be right?”

There was a very long silence on the line. Finally Bertha spoke. “I am not going to fire you, Jane. Not yet, anyway. I am going to give you time to think about this situation and what you just said.” And with those final words she hung up.

Jane bounded up from her desk just as Daniel appeared in her door. “I'm out of here!” she sang, grabbing her bag. “Because if I don't leave this office immediately, I am going to have a heart attack. Worse, I might fire every single one of my clients.”

Daniel stood watching her, clearly at a loss as to what to say.

“I'm going to ShopRite for my Stillkin diet foods,” Jane said, sweeping past him and hurrying out to the reception area. “I can't guarantee I'll be back today.”

“All right.”

She went to the closet for her coat, and as she slid open the door the telephone rang. She groaned. Daniel picked it up. “Jane Stuart Literary Agency.”

He was silent for a long time, listening. Jane frowned, curious. Finally he said, “One moment, please,” and put the call on hold. “It's a woman named Stephanie Townsend.”

Why was that name familiar? “Yes?”

“She wants to talk to you. She says she's a relative of yours.”

A relative? Jane, an only child whose parents had both died years ago, had no relatives she was aware of—other than Nick, of course.

She smirked, shaking her head. “What some writers won't do to get through to an agent. Tell her we're not taking on any new clients at present.”

“But that's not true.”

“Daniel,” she said, eyes bulging, “just get rid of her!”

“Okay, okay.” He got back on the line. “I'm terribly sorry, but Mrs. Stuart is not accepting new clients at present.” Then he listened carefully, frowning, as the person at the other end of the line talked—loudly, for Jane could hear her from where she stood.

“One moment,” Daniel told her, and pressed hold again. “She says she's your cousin from Boston.”

She stared at him, baffled. Her cousin from Boston? Stephanie Townsend? Jane had no cousin named Stephanie Townsend—or Stephanie anything, for that matter.

Then, all at once, she remembered. Stephanie was
Kenneth's
cousin. Kenneth's father, Michael, and Stephanie's mother, Mary, both gone now, had been brother and sister. The last time Jane had seen Stephanie was at Kenneth's funeral. Before that she had met her once, at her and Kenneth's wedding. Vaguely she recalled a rather unattractive dark-haired woman of about forty, with a spoiled, aloof air about her. Much more distinctly, Jane recalled not liking her.

Daniel was waiting, the phone in his hand. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“All right. I'll take it here. What on earth could she want?” She took the phone, put on a phony smile. “Stephanie, hello!”

“Jane?” cried a whiny voice, high and nasal, not terribly unlike Bertha Stumpf's. “Cousin Jane? You're not going to believe this.” She spoke as if she and Jane were intimate friends who chatted every day. “I'm moving there.”

“Moving—where?”

“There, to your little village. Me—moving to Shady Hills! Isn't it priceless?”

J
ane was speechless, an unusual occurrence. She barely knew this woman who seemed to expect a gleeful reaction to her announcement.

“How have you been, Stephanie? It's been a long time.”

“I know,” Stephanie said sadly. “Since poor Kenneth. God, I loved that man.”

“So . . . you say you're moving here? You're in Boston now, if I recall?”

“Yes. Well, Cambridge. But I'm moving to your sweet hamlet. Isn't that wild?”

“Yes, wild,” Jane said, trying hard to keep sounding cheerful. “Why?”

“A marvelous new job,” Stephanie drawled. “You remember I've been with Skidder & Phelps, the ad agency in Back Bay. Well, I've given them the heave-ho because I've found my dream job.”

“And what is that?” Jane was growing impatient.

“Well. My best friend—Faithie, from Wellesley?” she said, as if Jane should know this. “She and her husband own a publishing company, and they're moving their offices to Shady Hills! I'm going to work for them as an editor. So, not only am I coming to your adorable little village, but I'll be working with books, like you! You do still work with books, don't you?”

“Yes, I do—I'm still a literary agent.”

“Oh, good.”

“Stephanie,” Jane said, curious, “who are these people, this . . . Faithie and her husband? What's the name of their company. “I'm not aware of any—”

“I'll save all the details for when I see you,” Stephanie interrupted, and suddenly Jane was reminded of a conversation she and Stephanie had had at Jane's house after Kenneth's funeral. Stephanie had asked Jane to tell her all about Nick, but every time Jane tried to say something, Stephanie burst in to share her childhood memories of her and Kenneth. Jane had been unable to get a word in edgewise. Clearly, Stephanie was a person who liked to be in control of her conversations.

“But, Jane,” she went on, “I wonder if I could ask a favor. Faithie and Gav want me to start right away—ASAP—so I'm coming right down there. I'm going to look for an apartment, but I'll need someplace to stay in the meantime. Could I stay with you? We're talking probably a few weeks.”

Ugh. Jane, who cherished her privacy, hated this idea. She began to dream up some reason why that wouldn't be possible—her vacation plans?—when all at once an image of Kenneth appeared before her. There he was, tall, lanky Kenneth, with his pale green eyes and sand-colored hair, standing not four feet from Daniel, who was still watching her.

“Oh, come on, Jane,” Kenneth said. He was smiling at her, but it was a gently reproachful smile. “Give the kid a break. It's only for a short time.”

“Kid!” Jane burst out.

“What?” Stephanie said.

“Sorry. Nothing. Of course, Stephanie,” Jane said graciously, and Kenneth was nodding now, “Nick and I—and Florence, she's our nanny and housekeeper—we'd love to have you. When, exactly, will you be coming down?”

“Tomorrow!”

Double ugh. “I see. And how will you be traveling?”

“By train.” Stephanie did not sound at all happy about this. “I'm told I need to take Amtrak to Penn Station in New York, then a local train to Shady Hills. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Jane said, feeling guilty but still not offering to pick up Stephanie in New York. “What time do you think you'll get here?”

“Around noon,” Stephanie said vaguely.

“Okay. I'll tell you what. When you get here, call me at this number and I'll walk over and meet you. Then I'll take you out for a nice Welcome-to-Shady-Hills lunch.”

“Fine.” Stephanie sounded bored.

“Then I'll take you to the house to get settled. One thing, though, Stephanie. As it happens, I'm planning a vacation. I'm leaving on the eighteenth and will be away over Thanksgiving. You're still welcome to stay with us, of course; I just wanted you to know.”

“Well, see you tomorrow, then,” Stephanie said, as if she hadn't heard a word Jane just said, and hung up.

Jane stared at the phone. “What a strange woman.”

“Company coming?” Daniel asked.

“Mm,” Jane replied grumpily. “My
cousin
Stephanie. Kenneth's cousin, actually.”

“I remember her,” he said, his eyes widening. “Sharpish features, very black hair. Kind of . . . sour?”

“That's her. She's moving here, has some new job with a publishing company that's moving to town.”

“A publishing company here in Shady Hills?”

“That's what she said. I can't have the details till tomorrow, though.”

She found the thought of walking to the station, meeting Stephanie, and taking her to lunch—not to mention having her as a houseguest—utterly depressing. She glanced at the spot where the vision of Kenneth had been. He was gone. Now there was only the window, and through it Jane saw Ivor on Center Street at the far end of the green, strolling along in front of the tiny Tudor-style shops.

“Can't think about any of that now,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “I've got shopping to do, and I've got to make that decision about my vacation or I'll be stuck here with her for the holiday.” She gave him a troubled look. “How can I leave Nick and Florence alone with her?”

“I'm sure they'll get along just fine,” he replied, like a parent to a child. Then he patted the travel brochures protruding from the side pocket of her bag and gave her a confidential wink. “Think fast.”

“Don't you worry,” she assured him, whipping out the brochures, and studying them as she made her way down the little hall that led to the suite's back door and out into the parking lot behind the building.

She parked twelve rows away from the supermarket, even though she'd seen an empty spot in the second row, near the store's entrance. One of the early chapters of Dr. Stillkin's
Melt to Svelte
stressed the importance of getting “incidental exercise”—making a point of executing little everyday tasks the hard way to add calorie-burning activity to one's day: taking the stairs instead of the elevator, walking down the hall to a colleague's office instead of phoning, parking as far away as possible from one's destination.

The morning's insistent wind had disappeared, but the air was colder nevertheless, and by the time she reached the store her face stung and her eyes ran. Entering the bright, cheerful warmth of the store, she grabbed a cart, whipped out the list she'd made of Stillkin foods she needed, and made straight for the cereal aisle. Dr. Stillkin recommended adding raw bran to virtually everything one ate, and Jane intended to stock up.

After placing six jars of bran in her cart, she checked her list and headed toward the back of the store. Next on the list were skinless chicken breasts. Dr. Stillkin allowed only chicken and veal on his diet, and since Jane didn't care much for veal, she would buy several packages of chicken breasts. She wouldn't need many, because Dr. Stillkin allowed only four ounces of either chicken or veal a day.

At the back of the store she made her way along the poultry case. Roasters . . . thighs . . . wings . . . breasts . . . legs . . .

Encountering turkey, she realized she'd gone too far. Simultaneously, her attention was drawn to a pair of legs—human legs—sticking straight up from the freezer case, their owner apparently digging deep enough to have virtually fallen in. These legs were disturbingly familiar. They were skinny, knobby-kneed, in lime-green polyester pedal pushers (originating from the
first
time the style had been popular), and navy-blue Keds sneakers.

All thoughts of chicken breasts were immediately jettisoned. Jane gripped the handle of her shopping cart, did a swift U-turn, and made for the soda aisle.

“Jane? Jane!”

She froze. Could she get away with making believe she hadn't heard? No, she knew she couldn't. Forcing a polite smile, she turned.

Puffy Chapin was making her way rapidly toward Jane, an immense frozen turkey under each arm.

“Hello, Puffy.”

Puffy Chapin, whose real name was Patricia, was the matriarch of one of Shady Hills's oldest families. In her early seventies, she was small and wiry—
stringy
was always the word that came to Jane's mind—with wispy yellowish gray hair that had never in its life experienced a good haircut (“People like Puffy don't concern themselves with flashy things like stylish haircuts,” Stanley had once told Jane), and leathery skin that Jane doubted had ever experienced sunscreen or more makeup than the occasional application of lipstick.

“How are you, Jane dear?” Puffy said, and they exchanged cheek kisses. Jane didn't really dislike Puffy. It was difficult not to find her endearing—it was just that she had so many vehement opinions on so many subjects that it was impossible to have a brief conversation with her.

“I'm well, thank you, Puffy. How have you been?”

Puffy opened her mouth to answer, then seemed to become suddenly aware of the turkeys under her arms. “Oh, for goodness' sake,” she sputtered. “Where is my head?” She bustled back to her cart and threw in the birds. Then she hurried back to Jane, wiping her hands on her pedal pushers.

“We're all marvelous, thank you,” Puffy said in her characteristic Locust Valley lockjaw. Her face grew troubled. “But let me ask you, Jane, and please do be frank with me. What, I mean
what,
do you think of the things that are happening in our town?”

Jane started to respond, then realized she had no idea what Puffy was referring to. “Things?”

“Yes! It's shameful. On our beautiful village green . . . a—a bum!”

“Ah,” Jane said. “Ivor.”

“You what?” Puffy looked confused.

“Ivor. That's the man's name.”

“You
know
him?” Puffy's eyes bugged out.

“No, I don't know him, but my friend Ginny does. She's spoken to him, in fact. Come to think of it, so did I, this morning when he asked me for money.”

“Oh!” Puffy exclaimed, scandalized. “He approached you? Filthy beast. And what did you do?”

“I gave him some money, ” Jane replied simply.

Puffy gasped. “Jane, how could you! That's the worst thing you could have done. I've been after Reg Lewell,” she said, referring to the mayor of Shady Hills, “to do something about getting rid of this . . . creature, and you're—subsidizing him!”

Jane rolled her eyes but had to smile. “Puffy, I'd hardly say I'm ‘subsidizing' him. I gave him fi—some money.”

“And you know what he'll do with that money, don't you.” It was a statement rather than a question.

An image of the bottle neck protruding from Ivor's torn pocket flashed into Jane's mind. “What's that, Puffy?”

“Buy liquor, Jane, you know that. He's an alcoholic, a homeless alcoholic who has been
living
outdoors in our village. In the train station, because old Kevin has kept the building unlocked for him at night. It's unheard of. What next!”

“I don't see the harm in it, Puffy. Just because he's an alcoholic doesn't mean he's a bad person. He needs some help.”

“Which you only too happily gave him.”

“Some help with his problem, I mean,” Jane said, growing impatient. If only she had the nerve to tell Puffy what everyone else in Shady Hills knew—that Puffy's own husband, Oren, was a raging alcoholic. “Why does he bother you so much?”

Puffy let out a burst of air in utter exasperation. “Because,” she said, as if speaking to a cretin, “this sort of thing just doesn't happen in our town, that's why. Do you think they have bums in Mountain Lakes. Or Essex Fells? I assure you they don't.” She regarded Jane thoughtfully. “I suppose it's easy for someone like you to be so liberal.”

Someone like you.
Jane knew that by this, Puffy meant
someone who isn't rich,
and resented the remark but decided not to take Puffy up on it.

“Really, Jane,” Puffy scolded, “you owe it to our town to take this up with that police friend of yours. If you'll do that while I work on Reg, that awful creature will be gone in no time.”

They were getting nowhere. “It's been nice seeing you, Puffy. Have a great Thanksgiving.”

Puffy's face softened. “Thank you, Jane, and the same to you. We're having all the girls and their husbands, and all the grandchildren.” She indicated her shopping cart. “That's why I'm buying two birds.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Loony me, when it comes to the rest of the groceries, I let Jasmine shop,” she said, referring to her housekeeper. “But I
always
select the birds for Thanksgiving. One of my little traditions.”